The moment he heard that surname, Elian's head buzzed. He blankly accepted the business card, its cursive letters spelling out Heaton Company.

  He thought of a pair of piercing blue eyes, cold and unapproachable as ice.

  He thought of the scent of summer grass, of a hoarse voice in a darkened room, and sweat trickled cold down his temple.

  "Mr. Heaton?" Elian murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  "Yes. Our boss, Mr. Heaton, is very optimistic about you." The man smiled faintly. "We sincerely hope you'll consider becoming one of our contracted riders."

  Elian unconsciously tightened his grip on the card. The sharp edge grazed his fingertip and pulled his mind back to reality.

  Heaton Company was the most renowned name in the equestrian world in the United States, the dream contract of countless riders. Elian had imagined many companies that might one day sign him, but never Heaton. Vance Heaton, that aloof, untouchable figure, was the last person he expected to extend an invitation.

  "But I can't afford advanced training, and I've already sold my horse."

  "I know." The man's polite smile didn't waver. "The contract includes training expenses. As for the horse, Heaton Stables has that arranged."

  The assistant pulled a folder from his briefcase and handed him a contract.

  Such generous terms. If it had been any other company, Elian would have agreed on the spot. But the thought of the Heaton family's brooding, unfathomable presence, and those icy blue eyes, sent a suffocating chill through him. He needed time.

  "Give me some time to think," he said, mind in turmoil.

  The assistant could see his hesitation and wasn't surprised. Even though terms like these required no second thought, the boss had given strict instructions: the rider must never be pressured or forced into a decision.

  "Of course. Our boss doesn't want you to feel any pressure. It's entirely your choice. When you've made up your mind, you can call me at the number on the card. Forgive me, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Simon Sloane—please, just call me Simon."

  At the same time, Simon studied the mixed-race youth before him, wondering what it was about that still slightly boyish face that had caught his boss's attention so completely.

  "Nice to meet you, Simon," Elian replied.

  "This is only a draft contract for you to review. Every clause can be negotiated, so please take your time."

  After making sure there were no further questions, Simon prepared to leave, but hesitated for a moment.

  "Mr. Lien."

  "Yes?" Elian looked up to see Simon holding out a small packet of wet wipes.

  "There's still quite a bit of blood on your face. Please use this."

  Simon recalled how someone in the stands had leapt to his feet, face dark with a stormy, terrifying expression. He muttered under his breath, "I suppose he couldn't bear to watch."

  Elian accepted the wipes with embarrassment and wiped at his face haphazardly.

  After thanking the assistant, he left the racecourse and returned to the dormitories at a small suburban stable where he worked part-time.

  Now he sat on a low stool, staring absently at the card in his hand, his legs swinging idly.

  The white card was printed on heavy stock, the embossed gold letters flashing under the light. The elegant design bore the name "Heaton Company," perfectly matching the impression they gave off: expensive, stylish, refined.

  The company had begun with saddlemaking. Every discerning horse owner knew Heaton saddles were the most comfortable and beautiful. Later, they expanded into luxury leather goods, gradually transforming into the fashion empire they were today.

  These days, when most people thought of Heaton, they pictured branded handbags on runways or coveted limited-edition pieces in glass displays, not saddles. Yet despite this, Heaton had never abandoned its equestrian roots. Under the third generation's leadership, the company had thrown itself back into the sport, even establishing a professional equestrian team.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Elian's hesitation lay here: he hated the second generation, Old Heaton. And the third generation, Vance Heaton, hated him.

  Old Heaton was like a coiled serpent. Just meeting his gaze made Elian's skin crawl. As a child, he had once trained at Heaton Stables. Even when Old Heaton beckoned him over with a friendly gesture, Elian had never liked being near him.

  And his son, Vance Heaton, had been explicit in his disdain for someone like Elian.

  Elian had been sitting there for nearly an hour, lifting the card, setting it down, crumpling and smoothing it again.

  In truth, he had been thinking about it all day: whether to spend the rest of his life buried in mediocrity, or to reenter the world of the Heaton family. Perhaps whatever secrets that family kept had nothing to do with him. Perhaps he would never even cross paths with Old Heaton or Vance. As long as he did not sign away ten or more years in a long-term contract, there would still be a way out.

  After much hesitation, Elian dialed the number on the card. The line rang a few times before it was quickly picked up.

  "Hello?"

  The call connected, and only then did Elian realize it was already late in the evening. He might have been disturbing someone, but since the line was open, he answered anyway.

  "This is Elian Lien, the jockey for Storm Surge today," he said, worried the assistant might not remember him, and introduced himself again.

  He drew in a deep breath. "I've made up my mind. I'd like to discuss the contract in more detail."

  "Hold on a moment."

  Simon didn't respond right away. Instead, he murmured a few words to someone nearby.

  "If I'm bothering you, you can call me back whenever you're free," Elian added quickly.

  After a few seconds of muffled static, the line shifted and another voice came through.

  "This is Vance Heaton. Regarding the contract, speak directly with me." The cold, commanding tone pierced through the phone.

  Elian's shoulders went rigid, his breath caught in his throat. He had never expected to face that man so soon. Instinctively, he swallowed hard, only then noticing the heat creeping up his back. For a moment he was transported to his youth, standing on the training grounds, gazing up at Vance, who stood high above. Even a fleeting glance from those stern, glacial eyes had once been enough to make him shrink away.

  Then came the abrupt beep of a call ending.

  Elian froze, blinking down at the screen, only to realize he had accidentally cut the call off with his ear.

  "Oh no, oh no, oh shit, shit!"

  He wanted to smash the useless phone into pieces, or better yet, cut off his own clumsy ear like Van Gogh. After all these years, the very first time he heard Vance's voice again, and he hung up on him.

  Damn it, I'm too fucking polite.

  Gritting his teeth, he dialed again.

  "Ha... haha... Mr. Heaton?" His voice shook so badly he cringed at himself.

  The other end was silent for a beat, then the icy voice returned, this time tinged with disbelief.

  "You hung up on me?"

  "Uh, yeah, it's incredible... I actually dared to hang up on you," Elian stammered with a dry laugh, his words quivering. "I mean, sorry. I must have hit the button by mistake."

  "Try it again and see what happens," Vance replied. "You've read the contract, haven't you?"

  Elian opened it again, his eyes skimming over the dense wall of text. It looked just like those endless agreements he always scrolled past when installing software, skipping straight to the little green checkmark beside I Agree.

  The first clause spelled it out: the jockey, referred to as Party B, would be contracted exclusively by Heaton Company, Party A, for three years, effective from the date of signing. Upon expiration, renewal rights would rest with the rider. The company could not terminate without cause except in cases of force majeure as listed in Appendix A, unless the jockey himself chose to withdraw.

  Elian squinted at the tiny, ant-like words. Only after several seconds did he realize Vance was still waiting for an answer.

  "I've read through it. There are a lot of clauses, and I'll need to double-check a few of them."

  "Let me explain. You can review the details over the next few days, or consult a lawyer if you like. If you have any questions, raise them at any time." Vance's voice was steady and measured as he began going over the contract from the very first clause.

  Elian pinched the corner of the card between his fingers, unsettled by how thorough Vance was being. This wasn't something a company president needed to do—he could have left it to the legal department or an assistant. Why waste his own time walking Elian through the details?

  The terms were famous for being generous. Heaton contracts always showed clear intent to cultivate their riders. Prize money was subject to cuts, endorsements and promotions carried heavy obligations, but overall the conditions were enviable.

  "Why?" The question slipped out before he realized it, cutting Vance off mid-sentence.

  What he had wanted to ask was why the powerful Vance Heaton was granting him such an opportunity. Instead, it came out raw and unguarded.

  "Is there a problem with the contract?" Vance asked.

  After a long hesitation, Elian finally said, "I just don't understand. Signing this kind of international-level contract right now—aren't you worried about the risk?"

  "We've already evaluated your potential," Vance answered evenly, his tone calm yet carrying an unmistakable certainty. "If you feel this contract puts too much pressure on you, we can draft another version more suited to your needs." There was even a hint of weary resignation in his voice.

  "No, no, that's not what I mean." Elian shook his head so fast he nearly bit his tongue. "You're helping me a lot, and I really am grateful, Mr. Heaton."

  Silence lingered on the other end, then Vance spoke again, his voice lower.

  "It's nothing. All you've ever lacked is a chance."

  For some reason, Elian thought he heard disappointment behind those words. It had to be his imagination.

  "And... I miss you," Vance added.