Page 23 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
He blinks, confusion flickering before realization dawns. "You saw the broadcast."
The casual way he says it, like I might have missed it, like it's no big deal, makes my anger burn hotter. This isn't some minor miscommunication or scheduling conflict. This is a fundamental breach of trust, and he doesn't even seem to understand why I'm upset.
"Yes, I saw the broadcast." My hands are fists at my sides. "You put my orchard on the news. You paraded our trees in front of cameras without asking me. Without even warning me."
His brows draw together. "It wasn't like that. My boss pushed the timeline?—"
"Don't you dare," I snap. "Don't you dare make this about deadlines and bosses. You had a choice. You could have said no. You could have protected this land. Protected me."
Protected me.
The words hang between us, heavy with all the promises he made in the darkness of the barn and all the ways he swore he'd take care of me, look out for me, be the man I could lean on inthe future. And at the first real test of that promise, he chose his career over my trust.
Silence. His jaw tightens.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" My voice rises, fueled by anger and betrayal. "Reporters will swarm. Strangers will trespass. This isn't just some research plot, Brett! It's my home. My family's legacy."
I can already picture it, strangers trampling through my family cemetery, demanding to see the "extinct" apples like we're some sort of botanical zoo. The peaceful sanctuary where I learned to love the land will become a circus, and I'll be the reluctant ringmaster.
He sets his notebook down carefully, like he's afraid of breaking something. "Monica, listen. This discovery, it's huge. It's funding, preservation, recognition. It could secure the orchard's future. It could also cause real change in underdeveloped nations."
Funding. Preservation. Recognition.
All the things that matter to academics and administrators, all the boxes that need to be checked for grant applications and tenure reviews. But what about the future I want? What about preserving the quiet magic of harvest mornings and the satisfaction of work done with my own hands? We are very intentional with the orchard. There’s only so much of it that is open to the public. The rest of it is off limits.
"At what cost?" My throat aches. "You say 'preservation,' but all I see is exploitation. All I see is you using me."
His face flinches, like I struck him. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" My eyes sting, but I don't let the tears fall. "You walked into my life with your clipboard and your Latin, and you've been taking ever since. My time. My patience. My heart. And now this."
Heart.
The word slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest and more revealing than I intended. Because that's what this really comes down to. It’s not just the orchard or the trees or the publicity, but the fact that I gave him my heart and he's treating it like just another specimen to be catalogued and displayed.
The word heart hangs between us like a curse. His expression softens, pained. "Monica…"
"No." I turn away, crossing my arms like armor. "We're done."
The words feel like swallowing glass, sharp and painful and final. But I force them out because I have to protect what's left of my dignity, what's left of my sanctuary. If I don't end this now, if I let him sweet-talk his way back into my good graces, what's to stop him from betraying me again the next time his career demands it?
The words nearly shatter me, but I force them out. "Take your notes, take your samples, take your rare apple, and go. Just… go."
For a long, agonizing moment, he doesn't move. Then I hear his footsteps retreating, each one a crack across my chest. And with each step he takes away from me, I feel something precious dying. He takes with him the belief that I could have both independence and partnership, both strength and softness, both the orchard and the man.
The orchard feels wrong without him.
Everything that once brought me comfort now feels hollow. The morning routine of checking the trees, the satisfaction of a successful harvest day, even the cozy warmth of the farmhouse kitchen, it all feels flat, colorless, like I'm going through the motions of a life that no longer fits.
The next two days blur together: festival crowds, school tours, apple pressing. I move through it all like a ghost, smiling when I must, snapping when I can't hold the mask.
The irony isn't lost on me that this should be the magical peak of fall season. There are families making memories, couples stealing kisses behind the cider barn, children shrieking with joy as they discover perfect pumpkins. I should be smiling at the shenanigans going on around me. Instead, I feel like an actress in a play I no longer want to perform, going through the motions while my heart slowly breaks.
At night, I curl up in bed with my phone, watching the Naughty Girls' Book Club light up with texts.
Christine: Heard about your apple-gate on the news. You okay, babe?
Lily: Forget him. If Daddy can't protect his girl's orchard, he doesn't deserve her peaches.
