My Billionaire Fiancé Sweeps Pigpens

The moment the real Hayden heiress returned, I packed my bags and retreated to the quiet, dusty farm upstate.

My exfiancé, currently a world away in England, sent me a message: "It’s snowing in London. I miss you.

What are you doing?" I typed back: "Feeding chickens." Elliot: "Are you bringing one of those chickens to see me before Christmas?" I shut him down: "No way.

My grandmother would skin me alive." "And stop texting me, Elliot. Your fiancée has changed." ...

When Elliot's message popped up on my screen, I was standing in a muddy yard, scattering feed. "It’s snowing in London.

I miss you." "What are you doing?" I tossed another handful of corn to the ground, wiped my palms on my jeans, and typed back: "Feeding chickens." He was never one to ruin a moment. "The UK just switched to Greenwich Mean Time," he replied. "Are you bringing one of those chickens to see me before Christmas?" I looked down at the freerange hens pecking at my boots, then glanced up at my grandmother, who was busy shoveling manure nearby.

I felt a pang of regret as I typed: "No way. My grandmother would skin me alive." "And stop texting me, Elliot.

Your fiancée has changed." The screen showed "Elliot is typing..." for several agonizing minutes. Then, my phone buzzed with an incoming voice call.

The reception out here in the hills was terrible, and his voice cut through the static, sounding faintly metallic. "What do you mean, 'changed'?" Before I could find the words, he added, "Is that thunder over there?

I remember how terrified you are of storms." "No thunder," I murmured, staring at the dirt road. "Just a tractor rolling past." I forced myself to speak clearly, pronouncing each syllable so he wouldn't miss it. "I’m not a Hayden, Elliot.

I’m currently standing in the mud feeding poultry. Our families arranged a marriage between the Hayden daughter and a Belmont. That isn't me anymore.

I assume they’ll be swapping me out." There was a heavy, suffocating silence on the other end. Before he could say another word, I hung up.

Then, with a numb finger, I blocked his number. Our engagement had always been a calculated transaction between two powerful dynasties.

Now that our social standings were worlds apart, there was no future for us. Better a clean break than a slow, agonizing bleed. I covered my face with my hands, my chest tightening.

Just as the first tear threatened to spill over, I remembered I had to go gather the eggs. "I'll cry next time," I told myself.

When I left the Hayden estate, I didn't take a single thing with me.

My adoptive parents had begged me to keep my clothes, my jewelry, my designer bags, but I politely declined every offer.

Their biological daughter, Daisy, had stood nearby, watching the exchange.

Having grown up in this small rural town, she was vibrant, unreserved, and entirely unbothered by the sudden shift in her reality.

She had looked at me with clear, earnest eyes and said, "The mixup was an accident, Daphne. It’s not your fault.

You really don't have to leave." "But I lived your life for twentytwo years," I had replied, my throat dry. "The least I can do is go back and live the life you were supposed to have." The irony of it felt heavy on my tongue.

Daisy had scratched her head, looking slightly bewildered. "Well... alright then." Before I left, the only contact I saved from my old life was Daisy’s WeChat.

She promised to send me a PDF of "Postpartum Care for Sows", telling me I could text her anytime if I had questions about farming.

So, armed with nothing but a fragile sense of courage and Daisy’s practical advice, I boarded the dusty longdistance bus back to the country.

My new life began: cutting sweetgrass on the steep hillsides and feeding chickens in the valley.

Elliot used to tell me, "When London enters winter time, it means our time difference becomes eight hours.

That’s one extra hour for us to love each other." But after just half a day on the farm, I had reached a new level of enlightenment. Who cared about love?

I was currently preoccupied with whether my hens were going to lay any eggs. I turned toward the coop. A plump hen was sitting stubbornly on her nest, puffing her feathers.

I had no idea how to get her to move without getting pecked.

After staring at her for a few minutes, I pulled out my phone and messaged Daisy: "How do I get the eggs when the hen is sitting right on top of them?" She sent back a cheerful voice note: "Oh, hon, you've got to scatter some corn first to distract her.

We call that the Archimedes Principle of Poultry!" I grabbed a handful of feed, let the hen peck it from my palm, and carefully slipped my hand under her warm feathers.

My fingers closed around a smooth, warm egg.

I set it gently in the basket, washed my hands at the outdoor pump, and texted back: "Thank you, Daisy." "Oh, don't mention it, sis—" The voice message cut off abruptly.

In the background, I heard my adoptive mother’s sharp, refined voice: "Daisy, must you speak with such a terrible accent?" I let out a soft laugh.

Then, feeling a twinge of guilt, I decided I would practice some silent selfcare mantras later to restore my karma. That evening, we gathered around a worn wooden table for dinner.

Feeling out of place, I kept my head down, only reaching for the plate of steamed vegetables directly in front of me.

My grandmother tugged nervously at her apron, her voice thick with a heavy local accent. "What's wrong, Daphne? Is the food not to your liking?

I can roast a chicken tomorrow." "No, no, it's wonderful," I insisted, shaking my head. She gave a hesitant, relieved nod. "Good, good.

Just let me know if you need anything." "I will," I promised. It really was a beautiful place. It was just going to take some time to get used to the quiet.

Late that night, Daisy FaceTime'd me.

She was lying flat on her stomach in her massive new bedroom, chin resting in her hands. "How are you holding up, sis?" "I'm adjusting," I said softly. "Step by step." She sighed. "I swear, I need to learn how to give those graceful, diplomatic answers of yours." I smiled. "You're smart, Daisy.

You'll catch on in no time." "You always know just what to say. We should go clear some sweetgrass together sometime." "I'd like that," I replied.

As we chatted about our swapped lives, Daisy suddenly shifted gears. "By the way, why did you block my brotherinlaw?" "Brotherinlaw?" I hesitated. "Who?" "Elliot, obviously." At that moment, all my training in "graceful diplomacy" failed me.

Daisy had just arrived at the Hayden estate; I hadn't expected her to know about him so soon. "Why are we talking about him?" I murmured. "He asked me to pass a message along to you," she said. "Honestly, my English accent is terrible, so I'll just take a picture of what he wrote." She sent a photo.

It was a quote from "The Lord of the Rings": "I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone." "So, sis," Daisy's voice bubbled through the speaker. "Any thoughts?" I stared at the text on my screen, my chest aching. "Tell him...

I'm having warm steelcut oatmeal with maple syrup and a side of crispy bacon for breakfast tomorrow." Daisy grinned, her eyes crinkling. "You certainly appreciate the finer things." The next morning, the rooster's crow woke me at dawn.

I got up, ate a steaming bowl of steelcut oatmeal topped with brown sugar, along with my desired side of perfectly crispy, salty bacon.

Then, I set off up the mountain with a woven basket on my back. My grandmother had tried to stop me. "You don't need to do hard labor, sweetheart.

Just rest." But I had been stubborn. "If Daisy did it, I should too." She had looked at me, utterly perplexed.

Armed with my basket and a small handscythe, I followed the trail Daisy had mapped out for me. The mountain was dense with thick pines and overgrown brush.

The canopy was so thick that the morning sun barely filtered through, and there wasn't another soul in sight. Only the low, hollow whistling of the wind through the leaves.

After half an hour of hacking at the sweetgrass, the silence began to feel heavy, almost suffocating.

Growing up, my adoptive mother had always warned me never to wander into isolated places alone. "If something happens to you out there, no one will ever find you." The thought spiraled, morphing into a cold, sudden panic.

I threw the halfempty basket over my shoulders and bolted down the trail. I ran so fast that I tripped over a root, scraping my knee and tumbling into the dirt.

By the time I reached the house, I was a mess—disheveled, covered in dust and dried leaves. But the physical sting was nothing compared to the guilt.

This was the life Daisy had lived for over two decades while I sat in airconditioned parlors.

As soon as my phone caught a bar of signal, I sent her a message: "I'm so sorry." Daisy: "?" "What's wrong, sis?" My throat tightened, a sob catching in my chest. "I didn't realize how hard your life was out here..." Daisy: "It wasn't hard at all!

What on earth did you do?" I replied: "I tried to harvest sweetgrass." She messaged back instantly: "Ah, see, that's where you went wrong.

I was practically born with a scythe in my hand. Send the tool back to me!" I couldn't help but laugh out loud. The heavy weight in my chest lifted slightly.

I had assumed I would spend every waking hour pining for Elliot. But as it turned out, when you're busy wrangling poultry, you don't have the luxury of wallowing.

I felt incredibly fragile. When the DNA results first came out, I felt like a piece of delicate glass that had shattered into a million pieces.

But the manual labor was slowly gluing me back together. When you're physically exhausted, your brain doesn't have the energy to overthink.

For over a month, Daisy and I traded farming tips. Meanwhile, Elliot tried every backdoor channel imaginable to get messages to me.

I was caught in a painful tugofwar within myself. Part of me was drowning in melancholy, while the other part remained stubbornly unyielding.

By midDecember, London was gearing up for the Christmas holidays. In previous years, I would have been boarding a firstclass flight to Heathrow to spend the winter break with him.

But now, the disparity between us was too vast. We were living in different universes.

The first snow of the season fell on our small town, blanketing the hills in a quiet, pristine white. I recorded a short video of the snow and sent it to Daisy.

She got so excited that she announced she was coming up for a visit; she missed the fresh air and her grandmother.

During our chat, she casually dropped a bomb: "Elliot is back in the States." My heart skipped a beat. "He is?" "Yeah," Daisy replied. "And he's heading your way."