Ding dong.
Ding dong.
The doorbell sliced through the quiet air, jarring Patricia from her sleep.
Her eyes fluttered open, only to be greeted by the thick blanket of darkness. She groaned, reaching beneath her pillow for her phone. Turned it on to look at the time.
4:20 a.m.
"What the hell…" she muttered.
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
The bell rang again. More urgent. More persistent.
Patricia let out an audible groan, rolling to face the door. She flicked on the bedside lamp, then lay flat on her back, blinking at the ceiling as sleep fog clung to her thoughts. Rubbing her eyes gently, she sighed, then sat up slowly and kicked off the blanket.
She slipped into her slippers, stretched with a soft yawn, and trudged toward the door, mumbling to herself.
Ding dong.
"Ughhh… I'm coming! I'm coming!" she snapped, voice laced with frustration.
Who the hell is it at this hour?
She reached the door and peered through the peephole. A lone figure stood in the darkness, obscured by the moonlight and the swirl of night. No defining features—just shadows.
She took a deep breath, reached for the pepper spray on the nearby shelf, and tucked it behind her back. Her finger hovered over the trigger just in case.
Then, she cracked the door open—ready to unleash a storm of groggy fury at the person who disturbed her beauty sleep.
But her words died on her tongue as her gaze landed on the figure at the other side of the door.
Standing under the porch light was a man—not the type of guy she expected to see.
A handsome hunk, with short golden-blonde hair, styled just so. A sharp nose and golden-brown eyes that shimmered like smelted copper in the moonlight. Plush pink lips. Sculpted physique poured into a crisp white shirt and fitted black corduroy slacks. Boots polished. Gloves black and pristine.
He wasn't just handsome.
He was a walking Greek tragedy with better fashion sense.
Patricia gaped. Her agent was handsome, sure—but this?
This was some serious competition.
Seeing the way that Patricia was gaping at him with obvious attraction written across her face, the man slightly smirked with amusement. He knew his looks always gained him favors with the ladies, but he was used to it.
Although he had seen his fair share of beautiful women and also had wild adventures with them, this one in front of him was an exception. Her beauty is exceptional and with a natural radiant that glowed with subtle allure and charm unlike the ones he had seen with added necessities, some even to the extreme. But this woman, this beauty, was one of a kind, even in her ragged appearance, with messy tousled hair, crampled pyjamas and flip flop slippers with bunny ears, she couldn't look more sexy.
A memory flickered.
"If you ever cross the line with my Patricia, I swear you will end up being horse dung and believe me when I say that I do mean it 'literally'. So don't ever cross me boy or you are finished. You hear me, FINISHED!"
He winced slightly, remembering Saccoth's thunderous warning still echoing between his ears.
'Sheesh. The old man could've at least warned me his niece was a one-woman femme fatale.
This is like throwing me into the pit of temptation and my nightmare at the same time. And knowing that old man, he must have done this on purpose, to toucher me. That sadistic old far—'
"Excuse me…"
The soft voice snapped him back to reality.
Patricia stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring directly at him—no longer stunned, but guarded.
"Who are you? Can I help you with something?"
The man straightened awkwardly, cleared his throat, and offered a respectful nod.
"Good morning, Ms. Milton. I am Bernard Crisby—but you're welcome to call me Benny if you like. Mr. Saccoth assigned me to train you for the speed and marathon races for the derby. So… tally-ho! Let's get started."
Her brows shot up.
"At 4:30 a.m.? Are you insane?"
Benny chuckled lightly, unfazed.
"Well, earlier's better, Miss. We've got less than two weeks until the big debut at the derby and you need to dazzle that crowd right out of their boots. So let's save the chit-chat and get to racing."
He paused, eyes trailing over her bunny slippers with a teasing glint.
"But first—you might want to dress in something less… bedtime chic. Wouldn't want your beautiful fingers to freeze up and ruin your steering. I'll be down by the stables prepping the horses. Ten minutes. See you there."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and strode off into the darkness.
Patricia blinked.
"'You have ten minutes to meet me there,'" she muttered, mimicking him with mock grandeur.
"The nerve of that guy... Shows up before sunrise, wakes me up, throws around orders like a royal decree—and acts like I'm just gonna obey!"
She stomped up the stairs, already rummaging mentally through her gear.
"If he wasn't so stupidly good-looking, I'd have slapped that smug grin clean off his face."
Her feet thudded against the floorboards.
"Ten minutes, huh? We'll see who's steering what today."
Twenty minutes later, Patricia arrived at the stables—dressed in a loose black blouse tucked into matching slacks, sturdy boots planted firmly on the ground, her hair pulled into a high ponytail. Thick black gloves covered her hands, ready for battle… or whatever madness this early morning would bring.
She spotted Ben beside a light brown horse with a cream-colored tail and mane, whispering into its ear like a trainer confiding in a prized champion.
"Do you two need some privacy?" Patricia said dryly.
Ben turned to glance at her, amusement flickering in his eyes, then returned his attention to the horse.
"It's okay. I can leave you to enjoy your little love story," Patricia continued, crossing her arms. "Because frankly, I can still hear my bed calling me to come back to sleep. Who trains at 4:40 a.m.? We're not in boot camp for Petes sake and this isn't a drill."
Ben said nothing at first—just clicked the reins gently and led his horse out of the stable with graceful ease.
"Get Speed ready. We start in five," he instructed.
Patricia threw her hands up. "Sheesh! Bossy much!" she muttered, stalking toward Speed's stall and readying him with practiced hands.
Five minutes later
Patricia guided Speed to the ranch's race track and found Ben already waiting—his horse poised like royalty at the starting line.
She rolled her eyes, lined up beside him, and nodded toward the track.
"I'm here now, Sir. Are we starting this crazy early morning stampede or what?" she said in a bored tone.
Ben turned to her, lips curling into a knowing smirk.
"Of course, Ms. Milton."
He took a slow step toward her… then another.
Patricia held her ground.
Her breath hitched ever so slightly. Up close, he was even worse—handsome, muscled, and dripping with quiet intensity. He had that cocky aura that made most women blush—and Patricia want to punch something in order not to be allured by his sheer dominance. Only one man is allowed to do that and it definitely wasn't him. But she wouldn't be intimidated. Not by this walking billboard of testosterone. No ma'am!
She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and locked eyes—challenging.
Ben almost laughed. She was tempting and terrifying, like a dare wrapped in velvet.
Some primal instinct screamed to pull her close, kiss away her defiance, and claim victory with her lips.
But then…
"If you cross the line, I will personally turn you into horse dung."
Saccoth's words echoed in his head like a war drum.
Remembering the old man's warning, he could feel the back of his neck being prickled by fear of what that old devil might do to him if he crossed the line. Nothing good that's for sure.
Ben sighed inwardly. "Since you are so eager to start, Ms Milton. I will gladly grant you your wish. Hyaah!"
He turned slightly, reached over—
And smacked Speed's rear and shouted without warning. The horse leapt forward, galloping ahead like an arrow.
"Hey! What the hell! Why'd you do that for?!" Patricia shouted in disbelief.
Ben called back with smug calm.
"You have exactly 12 minutes to catch him and mount up. If you don't, you'll hear the sound of a blowhorn and have to start again."
He smiled.
"Your time begins now."
Patricia stood frozen in disbelief.
'Forget about being bossy! This guy is absolutely insane!! With a lot of nuts and bolts loose! How does he expect me to catch a running horse! A horse! It's almost like trying to catch a car!' Her thoughts raced.
"You've got eleven minutes, Ms. Milton. If you want to catch that horse, I'd get moving," Ben called out.
Patricia stared at him intently to find the slightest of evidence that he was joking. But she was met with an expressionless face clothed with seriousness.
"You're actually serious? Are you crazy?!"
"No, ma'am. Just focused," he replied smoothly. "The longer you stand there debating reality, the less of it you'll have left. Nine minutes."
Patricia blinked, her mind still refusing to accept this madness.
"Eight minutes! Time is running out, Miss. You better catch him fast!" Ben barked.
She let out a frustrated groan and launched herself into motion.
'This man is insane! How does he expect me to catch a running horse. Philip is going to hear a piece of my mind after this. For assigning a maniac as my trainer! Huh!' She thought as she ran after Speed.
She sprinted across the open track, the wind tugging at her ponytail, her boots crunching into the dirt. After a couple of minutes of determined running, Speed finally came into view—galloping more gently now, giving her just enough hope.
Patricia pushed harder. You want war, Benny? Then war it is.
She reached out—only a few strides away now. Her fingers were inches from the reins.
However as she was about to taste victory, suddenly, another horse burst across her path.
She staggered. Tripped. Fell.
Dust exploded around her as she hit the ground hard.
"AAAHH! What the hell!" she screamed, coughing violently.
POOOM!!
The blowhorn echoed across the track.
Through the swirling dust, she saw Ben—astride the horse that cut her off. One hand gripped the reins. The other held the blowhorn.
He stopped just in front of her, tone cool.
"I am sorry to say this, Ms Milton. But you failed your task. Tsk....you had a good record of time but too bad, you missed your chance."
Patricia scoffed, sitting up, fury flooding her chest.
"Missed my chance?! You made me fall! You raced in front of me like some lunatic stunt double! I could've gotten seriously hurt!"
Ben tilted his head. "Damn right you could've. Honestly? I would've been thrilled if you broke a limb and couldn't race."
Patricia's jaw dropped in disbelief to what he just said. "What?!"
"But since you didn't…" he said calmly, "you're going to get up. Head back to the starting line. And try again. We're not leaving this track until you catch that horse. So brace yourself, Ms Milton, this is just the beginning."
He turned without another word and rode back down the track, leaving her stunned.
Patricia remained seated, dust coating her gloves, face heated from anger and impact. She looked toward the horizon—light breaking faintly through the sky.
She let out a dry chuckle.
This is just the beginning.
Ben's words echoed in her mind. Slowly, she clenched her fists, grinding into the gravel beneath her.
The sun peeked through the clouds, golden-orange like a promise.
And then—her eyes flared.
She stood.
Smile growing. Jaw set.
Ben turned, looking back toward her from the starting line.
She met his gaze. Fire in hers.
"Bring it on," Patricia said.