The first week in her small apartment was nothing short of torment. Aurora had never known hunger, yet now she counted coins before every meal. She had never scrubbed a floor, yet her once-soft hands were raw from the rag. The heiress who once commanded chefs and maids now survived on instant noodles and stale bread.

Her pride kept her locked away behind curtains drawn tight, refusing to face the world. But the stack of unpaid bills on the rickety table whispered cruelly: she could not live on arrogance forever.

On Saturday morning, Aurora slipped into an old shirt and jeans—borrowed from her cousin. The cheap fabric itched against her skin. For the first time in her life, she looked… ordinary.

She hated it. But it was the only armor she had left.

Scrolling through her cracked phone screen, she skimmed job postings. Waitress. Cashier. Receptionist. Words she had never associated with herself. The thought of bowing to strangers made her chest tighten. But survival screamed louder than pride.

Then one listing caught her eye:
“Seasonal workers needed – Strawberry farm, outskirts of the city.”

A farm. Dirt, sweat, sunburn. Aurora almost laughed. She had never touched soil in her life. But the word strawberries tugged at her memory—sweet, innocent, a reminder of simpler days. Before the scandal. Before Damien. Before her name became a headline of disgrace.

Her finger hesitated, then tapped call.

The bus ride to the countryside was long and jarring. Aurora sat by the window, watching skyscrapers give way to fields and open skies. The air grew fresher, greener. She clutched her leather purse—the last remnant of her old world, scuffed yet still elegant.

When the bus stopped, Aurora stepped out into a sea of green. Neat rows of strawberry plants stretched endlessly, dotted with bright red fruit glistening under the sun. Workers in wide hats laughed and called to one another.

She froze. Her heels sank into the dirt road, her crisp white shirt already catching dust. She felt like a porcelain doll dropped in the mud.

“Excuse me, miss…?”

The voice was warm. Steady. Familiar.

Aurora turned—and went still.

A tall man stood before her, sleeves rolled up, skin bronzed from the sun. His chestnut eyes held a calm depth that pierced right through her. For a heartbeat, time folded back on itself.

“…Ethan?” The name escaped her lips like a forgotten song.

His brows furrowed, then recognition lit his gaze. “Aurora Williams?”

They stared at each other, memories flooding in—the shy boy who once offered her half a box of strawberries on the schoolyard bench, the haughty girl with ribbons in her hair who had laughed at his muddy shoes.

But that was then. Now she was a fallen heiress, and he was…

“You… own this place?” Aurora asked, her voice trembling.

Ethan nodded. “Carter Strawberry Farm. Been running it for a few years.”

Aurora blinked. The quiet boy she’d once overlooked now stood confident, rooted like the land itself. He seemed… solid. Real. Everything she no longer was.

“And you? Why are you here?” His voice was gentle.

Her pride stung. She couldn’t admit she was jobless, abandoned. Yet his eyes—steady, kind—made lying impossible. “I… saw the job posting. I need work.”

Ethan studied her for a moment. There was no pity in his gaze, no mockery. Just a small, genuine smile. “Alright then. We can always use an extra hand.”

Aurora’s chest eased with relief.

The day swept by in a blur. Ethan showed her around the farm: the rows of plants, the greenhouse, the wooden office cottage. Workers greeted him with respect, and he answered each one by name.

So different from the false smiles of her old world.

She tried picking strawberries. Her delicate hands trembled, her manicured nails breaking as she grasped the stems. “Careful,” Ethan teased lightly. “They bruise easily. You’ve got to be gentle with them.”

“I can be gentle,” she snapped, though her hands quivered.

He reached out, guiding her wrist with his warm, steady hand. “Like this.”

Her heartbeat faltered. His touch wasn’t demanding, nor indifferent—just sure. She pulled away quickly, hiding her fluster beneath a mask of arrogance.

“I’ll learn,” she muttered.

“I know you will,” he said softly.

The simple faith in his words unsettled her more than any doubt.

By sunset, Aurora collapsed onto a wooden crate, her body aching. Her palms stung, her jeans were smeared with mud, sweat plastered her hair.

But when she bit into a strawberry she’d picked herself, its sweetness burst across her tongue. A small victory, but hers alone.

Ethan approached, handing her a bottle of water. “The first day’s always the hardest. But you did better than I expected.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You thought I’d quit?”

He grinned, sunlight in his smile. “Maybe. But you didn’t.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her lips curved upward. For the first time in weeks, her heart felt lighter.

That night, lying on the narrow bed of her shabby apartment, Aurora’s body throbbed with pain. Yet her mind replayed only Ethan Carter.

The boy she once dismissed as ordinary had grown into a man extraordinary in his simplicity. He had built something she never possessed—stability, honesty, permanence.

For the first time since her world collapsed, Aurora wondered: perhaps losing everything was the only way to find what truly mattered.

And maybe fate had brought her back to the boy from the past—the one who once shared with her half a box of strawberries under the sunlit schoolyard.

This time, she would not laugh.