I’ve been able to hear inanimate objects talk for as long as I can remember.

My house slippers were always complaining about my cold feet, the refrigerator constantly whined about needing a vacation, and the living room television grumbled that it wanted to be upgraded to a sleeker model.

For twenty years, my ears were filled with this endless, mundane chatter. That was until my wealthy biological parents tracked me down, announcing I was their longlost daughter.

Right away, they arranged a blind date for me and my adopted sister, Pamela—offering us two potential matches. One was a polished, foreigneducated finance elite.

The other was a hulking, sunbaked, heavily weathered man. Pamela didn't hesitate.

She grabbed the elite finance guy for herself and tossed the roughlooking man to me with a sneer. "A hideous freak for a penniless nobody," she mocked. "You two are made for each other." Before I could even respond, a hysterical voice shrieked directly from the charcoal powder smeared on the man's face: "What is wrong with this billionaire heir?

He’s worth tens of billions, yet he forced three thick layers of me onto his skin just to cover up his pale complexion!" The silicone body suit under his shirt chimed in with an agonizing sob: "Tell me about it!

The man has a chiseled eightpack, but he insisted on using me to fake three rolls of belly fat!

I’m getting squished into a pancake here!" Meanwhile, the sleek watch on the finance guy’s wrist offered a bitter snort: "I’m a tendollar knockoff from a street market, and this clown is using me to flex!

He’s running a pigbutchering scam!" I paused for a second, then smiled warmly as I wrapped my arm around the heavyset man’s bicep. "Mom, Dad," I said softly, "I’ll take him." … The man went completely rigid beside me.

The silicone suit’s scream nearly deafened me. "His heart rate just hit 160! Girl, let go of his arm!

When he gets nervous, his core tightens up—I’m being crushed!" My mother almost dropped her teacup. "Callie... are you serious?" My father frowned, eyeing the man’s stretchedtothelimit black shirt and faded flipflops.

He swallowed hard before asking, "Mr... Hank, was it?

What did you say your family does again?" The man rubbed the back of his neck, offering a clumsy, timid smile. "Just call me Hank, sir.

My family... well, we raise pigs down in the country." Pamela looked at my hand on Hank's arm, her face twisted in pure disgust. "Callie, you must be truly desperate to stomach someone like that.

But then again, a trashy loser with an ugly brute—it really is a match made in heaven." A dark, sharp glint flickered in Hank’s eyes for a fraction of a second.

He turned to look at me, his gaze hiding a cautious, fragile uncertainty. "Um... Miss Callie, I know I’m not much to look at.

You really don't mind?" I looked straight into his eyes, keeping my expression entirely sincere. "I think you’re incredible," I said softly. "You're different from every other man I've met.

You give off this quiet, distant vibe... a profound sort of loneliness. It feels like deep down, you've been carrying everything alone, hiding who you truly are.

No matter where you are, my eyes are drawn to you. Looking at you right now... you seem so fragile, like you might break." Hank's breathing hitched completely.

He stared at me, his throat working through several heavy swallows before he managed a muffled response: "...You can take all the time you need to get to know me." Beneath the dark charcoal powder, the tips of his ears flushed a deep, burning crimson.

Keeping my gentle smile in place, I quietly celebrated inside. The relationship advice on social media really didn't lie—no man could resist that kind of emotional validation.

Brandon, the finance elite, observed us with a look of utter perplexity.

He leaned down toward Pamela’s ear, whispering in a dramatic, gravelly tone, "Is your sister... into tragic fixeruppers?" Pamela flushed, covering her mouth as she giggled softly. "She’s just completely blind.

A hideously fat pig farmer—only someone like her would fall for that." Brandon stood up, cleared his throat, and elegantly buttoned his tailored suit jacket. "Allow me to introduce myself properly," he announced smoothly. "I hold a Master's degree in Financial Engineering from Cambridge.

Returned home last year to launch my own firm, which pulled in over fifteen million in revenue this past year alone.

I’ve secured three properties in the city center and picked up a modest vehicle for daily commutes." With practiced subtlety, he adjusted his wrist—showing off his fake Patek Philippe—and tossed a Porsche key onto the marble coffee table.

His eyes flicked toward me, waiting for an impression. I remained focused on Hank's flustered expression, holding back a smirk with great difficulty.

Because right at that moment, Brandon’s watch was wildly venting in my ear: "Look at this peacock strutting around! Who is he trying to fool?

He was crammed into the subway doors two days ago—I literally watched him get stuck in the sliding doors for thirty seconds before he squeezed out!" "And to think a tendollar cheap piece like me gets to pretend to be high luxury.

What a joke." The Porsche key quietly chimed in with a verbal dagger: "I’ve been rented out by a hundred guys, but this one is easily the biggest poser of them all." Pamela didn't notice where Brandon's gaze had strayed.

Her eyes sparkled with admiration as she cupped her cheeks. "Brandon, you're amazing!

So young and already running your own empire!" My mother nodded approvingly. "A truly accomplished young man." My father pondered for a moment before finally making the call. "Since both of you girls have made your choices, spend some time getting to know them." Brandon chimed in immediately, offering a charming, polished smile. "Don't worry, sir.

I’ll take wonderful care of Pamela. Coincidentally, there’s an exclusive charity gala hosted by top industry leaders tomorrow night.

I’d love to bring Pamela as my date." He paused, his eyes straying back toward me once more. "Callie, would you like to join us?

It would be a great opportunity for you to network—" The cheap watch cut him off ruthlessly: "Your invitation pass is literally a cropped, Photoshopped screenshot!

What are you taking her for—to stand by the velvet ropes and take photos for social media?" Hank interrupted him with a booming, nervous tone as he looked at me. "Miss Callie, I...

I wanted to take you to see my farm tomorrow.

Would that be okay?" The charcoal powder whispered: "Whether it’s a farm or a multibilliondollar industrial park, our boss will let her decide." My eyes lit up, and I gripped his hand tightly. "I’d love to.

I'm definitely coming!" Early the next morning, both Hank and Brandon arrived at the front gates at almost the exact same time.

Pamela stood by Brandon’s rented Porsche in a floorlength designer gown, radiating artificial glamour.

I wore a pair of loose, practical canvas overalls, stepping toward Hank’s battered, rusted van.

Pamela covered her mouth, making no effort to hide the sneer in her voice. "Sister, everyone else is attending premier galas to build highlevel connections, and here you are, insists on wallowing in the mud with a hideous butcher." Hank looked noticeably darker than he had yesterday—likely because he had applied an extra layer of charcoal powder.

He rubbed his hands together awkwardly, looking fidgety. "Callie, I use this van for hauling cargo... it might smell a little rough.

Do you mind?" Without a word, I pulled open the passenger door and hopped in. "Let's go.

Take me to the farm." The van chugged and sputtered its way toward the outer outskirts of the city. The moment we stepped out, the pungent scent of livestock filled the air.

I walked into the barn without flinching.

Hank followed closely behind me, offering a selfdeprecating smile, but the silicone suit under his clothes couldn't keep quiet. "Girl, don't just look at the livestock!

Look at the commercial development behind it! That entire industrial zone!

Every square inch belongs to him!" Hank stared at the pens, his voice dipped in practiced insecurity. "I’ve been working with livestock my whole life.

I’m ugly, and people always made fun of me.

Growing up, whenever I went on blind dates, girls would take one look at me and run." He paused, looking at me with gentle confusion. "You... you’re so beautiful.

I really can't figure out why you picked me." I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I pointed toward a solid, wellfed hog in the corner. "Can I have this one?" Hank blinked in surprise. "Sure... absolutely.

Take ten if you want..." I rolled up my sleeves, pulled a sharp butcher's blade from the rack, and tested the weight in my hand. "It’s been a while since I did this.

Let me show you what I can do." Hank panicked for a second, quickly calling over a couple of farmhands to help pin the animal down.

With swift, practiced precision, I made the cut—clean, efficient, and methodical.

Half an hour later, I washed my hands clean and turned to offer a soft smile to a stunned Hank. "Growing up, the annual harvest feast was what I looked forward to most," I said quietly. "Freshly prepared roast was the ultimate comfort." I dried my hands on a towel. "My adoptive parents were disabled.

My mother had severe facial scars from an accident, and my father suffered from partial paralysis. Neither of them looked like the people in your family's glossy photo albums.

But they always saved the best cuts of meat for me, and they never once made me feel lesser just because I was a girl." Hank crouched down, looking up at me without blinking. "When I was brought back to this wealthy family," I continued, my voice steady and neutral, "everyone looked polished and perfect.

But my biological parents showed blatant favoritism, people whispered behind my back, and sometimes... hands were raised against me." I met his gaze directly. "So tell me, Hank... do looks really matter that much?

I only care about what’s genuine." Hank stood up abruptly, his posture shifting subtly as a cold, dark intensity flickered in his eyes. "Who laid a hand on you?" I pretended not to hear him, pulling up my phone to show him Pamela’s latest social media post.

A ninephoto grid featuring champagne pyramids, crystal chandeliers, and Brandon holding her waist.

The caption read: "Some people are born for the penthouse; others belong in the gutter." "See?" I said quietly. "They look effortless and refined.

But to me, all of that isn't worth a real, homecooked meal." Hank’s expression turned complex. "You... you don't care for high society?" Instead of answering, I offered him a small smile. "Thank you, Hank.

I had a really good time today. Honestly, I haven't felt this relaxed in a long time." At that exact moment, the charcoal powder on his cheeks practically shrieked: "Oh no, oh no!

The boss is blushing! He's burning me up!" Hank remained silent for the entire drive back.

When we arrived at the gates of the Caldwell estate, we happened to run right into Pamela and Brandon returning from the gala.

The moment Pamela saw me, she covered her nose and mouth, her face twisted in utter revulsion. "Ugh—Callie, did you actually go out to a pig sty with that disgusting brute?

That’s revolting!" she scoffed. "I guess you really can't wash off the dirt.

Go ahead, marry that hideous loser and spend the rest of your life in the mud!" Even Brandon, who had been trying so hard to project a suave demeanor yesterday, pinched his nose in distaste.

I heard his cheap watch wailing in despair: "Guys, it’s over! This scammer actually convinced her to buy him a sixtythousanddollar watch tomorrow!

Am I getting thrown into the trash bin?!" I smiled faintly, looking at Pamela with a quiet, knowing look. "Who's actually getting slaughtered here... remains to be seen." Pamela and Brandon swept into a whirlwind romance over the next few weeks.

She drained her personal savings to throw into Brandon’s private investment fund, constantly pressuring our parents to jump in as well.

My parents ended up committing over seven million dollars.

To push his venture further, Pamela even organized an exclusive networking banquet, inviting highnetworth individuals from across the city to invest in his firm.

Meanwhile, Hank and I spent our days wandering through lowkey local spots, grabbing street food, and occasionally visiting the farm. Life felt remarkably peaceful.

On the night of the investment banquet, Pamela arrived on Brandon’s arm, wearing an exquisite couture gown and radiating arrogance.

Brandon took the stage with effortless composure, delivering a smooth pitch.

Impressed by the Caldwell family's apparent backing, several prominent figures agreed to write checks on the spot.

Hank and I found a quiet, outoftheway corner table and quietly enjoyed the spread.

Halfway through the evening, Pamela marched over to our table and slammed a glass of red wine straight into my face. "Callie, do you have no sense of shame?" she hissed, her voice cutting through the ambient room noise. "Tonight is an elite capital gathering, a room most ordinary people couldn't buy their way into if they tried!

How dare you bring a filthy, unrefined brute into a space like this?!" The cold wine soaked through my dress, clinging heavily to my skin.

Every eye in the room instantly snapped toward us.

In a flash, Hank stepped directly in front of me, his eyes cold and menacing. "Apologize." Brandon stepped up to shield Pamela, releasing a mocking laugh. "A nobody who handles livestock thinks he can talk to Pamela like that?

Everyone in this room commands millions.

You getting through those doors is a privilege you should be thanking us for on your knees!" Hank glanced down at Brandon’s wrist, his voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous tone. "A man wearing a tendollar fake has no place talking about millions." He paused, staring straight into Brandon's panicked eyes. "You put on a convincing show, Brandon.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work on me." The cheap watch on Brandon's wrist nearly broke into tears: "Friends, I’m back from the garbage bin!

This cheapskate couldn't bring himself to wear the real luxury piece he bought, so he resold it and strapped me right back on!" Brandon’s face turned pale as he instinctively pulled his left hand behind his back.

Pamela, however, flared up with instant outrage. "That watch cost me sixty thousand dollars out of my own pocket!

What would a penniless loser who spends his days in the dirt know about luxury brands?!" She sneered, gesturing wildly. "If you sold yourself and everything you owned, you wouldn't be worth a fraction of the leather on Brandon's wrist!" I gently tugged at Hank’s sleeve, keeping my voice low. "Let it go... if my parents see this, they’ll only punish me again." Hank looked down at my winestained lashes, his voice raspy with suppressed rage. "As long as I’m standing here, no one touches you." Pamela scoffed. "Who do you think you are to protect her?!" She turned toward the hall security, raising her voice to a sharp command. "Security!

Throw these two disruptive freeloaders out immediately!" Three heavyset guards lunged forward, grabbing my arms to haul me toward the exit.

Hank surged forward. "Get your hands off her!" Before he could reach me, two of the guards tackled him, pinning him firmly to the marble floor.

As he was forced down, he caught sight of my dress tearing at the shoulder from the rough handling. His eyes turned bloodshot. "Pamela!

Do you have any idea who the hell you’re putting your hands on?!" he roared, his voice shaking the room. "I order you to let her go right now!" Pamela stepped forward, raising her high heel and digging the sharp tip firmly into his chest. "You think you can address me by my name?

I can ruin whoever I want!

What are you going to do about it, you useless piece of trash?" Right at that moment, the heavy double doors of the ballroom were slammed open with a deafening crash.

A furious roar echoed across the hall: "I’d like to see who dares lay a hand on a member of the Kingsley family!" A quiet gasp rippled through the crowd as people recognized the newcomer. "That’s... that’s Kieran Kingsley!

The secondincommand of the Kingsley Syndicate!" "If Kieran Kingsley is here in person, does that mean Brandon’s project has the backing of the main Kingsley estate?!" Brandon’s eyes lit up with wild ambition, and he frantically gestured for the security guards to release us.

Hank immediately stripped off his heavy jacket, rushing over to wrap it tightly around my shoulders.

Kieran strode into the room, but the moment his eyes landed on Hank's disguised appearance, his expression visibly twitched.

Pamela, eager to seize the moment, rushed toward Kieran with an apologetic smile. "Mr. Kingsley, I’ve already looked into this man.

This Hank is just a distant, forgotten relative from an obscure branch of your family tree. He’s already married with a child, yet my sister was foolish enough to fall for his act.

I was merely stepping in to maintain order—please don't take offense." Disdainful glares rained down on me from every corner of the room like sharp slaps to the face.

My mother rushed over, digging her finger forcefully into my temple. "You’ve completely humiliated the Caldwell family name!" I shook my head helplessly, my voice barely audible. "Mom, it’s not what she’s saying..." Hank clenched his fists, taking a firm step forward. "Ma'am, let me explain.

I’m actually not—" "SMACK." My mother delivered a harsh, echoing slap across Hank's face. Kieran drew in a sharp breath, his jaw dropping in utter shock.

My mother glared at Hank with absolute revulsion. "I am correcting my daughter.

It is not the place of an outsider to speak." I broke away and threw myself in front of Hank, screaming until my voice went raw. "Why do you always believe Pamela without question?!" "Why is it that no matter what I say, you never listen?!" Driven by sheer desperation, I pulled back the hem of my gown, exposing the long, jagged scars running up my legs.

Tears spilled over uncontrollably. "Ever since I was brought back to your home, Pamela set dogs on me, burned me with candles, and neither of you cared!" "Now, all I wanted was to have one genuine friend who actually cares about me!

What right do you have to judge me?!" My father stepped up, his hand swinging down with heavy force across my cheek. "You ungrateful girl!

How dare you speak to your mother like that?!" A deafening ring echoed in my ears as my balance gave out.

I fell backward, plunging directly toward the heavy, ninetier crystal champagne tower behind me.

Panels of glass shattered violently as hundreds of filled flutes tumbled down around us. "Callie!" Hank’s pupils contracted in pure terror.

He lunged forward without hesitation, throwing his body over mine and wrapping me in a tight, protective embrace. A deafening cascade of shattering glass echoed through the hall.

The torrent of spilled wine washed away the thick layer of charcoal powder clinging to his face. Sharp shards of glass sliced through the hidden seams of the silicone suit.

Beneath the soaked, torn white shirt, the firm, defined contours of a natural eightpack were unmistakably visible.

A mixture of red wine and crimson blood trickled down from his temple. When he raised his head, he revealed a face of breathtaking refinement—cold, noble, and strikingly handsome.

Someone in the crowd caught sight of his features and gasped, unable to believe their own eyes. "Greg Kingsley?!

The main heir to the Kingsley empire?!" "How... how could he be that rough country butcher?!" Pamela and Brandon’s faces drained of every drop of color instantly.