The third week at the strawberry farm should have felt easier, but for Aurora, it was the hardest yet. Not because of the physical labor—though her arms were sore, and her hands had grown rougher than she’d ever imagined—but because of the voices.

They followed her everywhere.

“She’s the Williams heiress, isn’t she?” whispered one worker when she passed.

“The one whose family collapsed in that scandal?” another added, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Why’s she here, of all places? Trying to play poor?”

The comments stung more than the sunburn peeling across her shoulders. Aurora kept her chin high, pretending she didn’t hear. Pretending she was still untouchable. But every word burrowed under her skin, carving into the parts of her she had once called pride.

Ethan noticed, of course. He always did.

“You don’t have to listen to them,” he said one evening as they worked side by side, stacking crates of fruit.

“I’m not listening,” she replied curtly.

He didn’t call out the lie. Instead, he handed her another crate and spoke gently. “They don’t know you. Not really.”

Aurora’s laugh was sharp. “No one knows me. Not even myself, apparently. My whole life was built on the Williams name. Without it, I’m just… no one.”

“You’re not no one.”

She glanced at him, startled by the firmness in his voice. He met her gaze steadily, his eyes as dark and grounding as the earth beneath their feet.

“You’re Aurora,” he said simply. “That’s enough.”

The words lingered long after he walked away.

But the whispers only grew.

On the fourth morning, Aurora entered the greenhouse to find Marla and two other women huddled together, murmuring. When they noticed her, they fell silent.

Aurora’s stomach clenched. “What?” she demanded.

Marla crossed her arms. “Nothing. Just wondering how long you’ll last. Girls like you don’t stay in the dirt for long.”

Aurora’s temper flared. “Girls like me?”

“You were born with silver spoons and marble floors. You think sweating a few weeks makes you one of us? It’s a game to you. When you get bored, you’ll leave. And when you do, some of us will still be here, trying to feed our kids.”

Aurora froze, her anger splintering into something sharper—shame.

Before she could answer, Ethan stepped into the greenhouse. “Enough, Marla.”

“She should hear the truth,” Marla muttered.

“The truth is,” Ethan said, his voice calm but firm, “she’s working as hard as anyone else here. If you can’t respect that, maybe look at yourself first.”

Marla flushed, muttering under her breath as she stalked away.

Aurora swallowed hard. The confrontation left her trembling, not from anger, but from something she didn’t want to name. Gratitude.

“Stop defending me,” she said when Ethan turned to her.

“I’m not defending you. I’m reminding them who you are now.”

“And who is that?”

His smile was faint but unwavering. “Someone who gets back up, even when everyone expects her to fall.”

Her chest tightened painfully. She turned away before he could see her eyes glisten.

That night, Aurora walked home slower than usual, her feet dragging along the dusty road. The workers’ words replayed in her mind, echoing louder than she wanted to admit.

They’re right, she thought bitterly. I don’t belong here. I’ll never belong anywhere again.

She reached the small apartment and collapsed onto the narrow bed. The silence pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. For the first time since her fall, she allowed herself to cry—not out of anger, not out of pride, but out of sheer exhaustion.

And yet, even as the tears came, so did the memory. A boy with strawberry-stained fingers, smiling shyly as he pushed half a box into her hands. You can have the bigger ones. I don’t mind.

Aurora pressed her palms over her eyes. She hadn’t understood then. She barely understood now. But she knew this: Ethan Carter had always seen her—not the Williams heiress, not the scandal, not the mask. Just her.

The realization scared her more than the whispers ever could.

Two days later, fate tested her resolve again.

The farm received a surprise visitor—a local journalist, camera in hand, sniffing for a story about “the disgraced heiress turned farmhand.” He prowled the fields, snapping photos, asking invasive questions.

Aurora’s blood ran cold. If he printed her face, the whispers would explode into headlines.

When he cornered her near the greenhouse, she bristled. “I’m not answering your questions.”

“Come on,” he coaxed. “The public loves a fall-from-grace story. Rich princess in the dirt. It’s gold.”

Before she could retort, Ethan stepped in front of her, blocking the lens with his body. His voice was calm, but iron-clad. “You’re trespassing. Leave.”

The journalist sneered. “Who are you to stop me?”

“The owner of this land,” Ethan replied. “And I said, leave.”

Something in his stance made even the arrogant man hesitate. After a tense moment, the journalist cursed under his breath and stalked off.

Aurora exhaled shakily. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did.” Ethan turned to her, his gaze fierce. “No one gets to define you by your past. Not the workers. Not the papers. Not even you.”

Aurora’s throat tightened. For a long moment, she couldn’t speak. Then, softer than a whisper: “Why do you care so much?”

Ethan’s answer was quiet, but it reached her anyway. “Because I always have.”

The silence that followed was thick, charged with something unspoken. Aurora turned away quickly, pretending to fuss with her gloves. But her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

That night, lying awake, Aurora replayed the day again and again. Ethan’s unwavering shield. His steady voice. His words.

Because I always have.

She clutched the thin blanket to her chest, eyes wide in the dark. For years, she had been surrounded by glittering crowds, wealthy suitors, people who only loved the name Williams. But none of them had ever spoken like that. None of them had ever looked at her like she mattered, stripped of everything else.

For the first time, Aurora wondered if her fall from grace had not been an ending at all, but a beginning.