Young Master Heaton had thought he would have plenty of time to sort out these feelings. He soon realized he was wrong.

  The person who appeared at the hospital that day was not that noisy, laughing figure, but his father.

  Old Heaton sat in his wheelchair, wearing a dark trench coat, his ornate tie accentuating the coldness in his grey eyes. His gaze swept the room only once before settling on Vance.

  "I hear your leg is recovering well. You seem in unusually good spirits." His voice was light and cold. "Made a new friend?"

  Vance closed his book and placed it aside with deliberate slowness.

  "Just an ordinary friend."

  "Oh?" Old Heaton's tone was unhurried. "Then why do I hear this 'ordinary friend' is here almost every day? I also hear the two of you share a bed, whispering so intimately one might mistake you for lovers."

  Clearly, every move Vance made in this room was being watched. Perhaps a nurse, perhaps a doctor was reporting to Old Heaton. Or maybe both.

  "You seem very well informed."

  "More than that." Old Heaton stroked his chin slowly. "I also know he's that particularly adorable boy from the stables, isn't he?"

  Vance felt a wave of revulsion, goosebumps rising on his skin.

  "What are you trying to say?"

  "Just a reminder." Old Heaton's voice dropped low. "You're not an ordinary person. You should choose your circle of acquaintances carefully."

  He coolly adjusted his trench coat cuff. "I've already arranged for your transfer. You'll leave tomorrow morning. Your phone and computer won't be necessary anymore; you need to focus on resting."

  Vance was momentarily stunned, then gave a cold laugh. "So 'choosing my circle carefully' means cutting me off from the outside world."

  Old Heaton reached out to touch his son's face, but Vance turned away, refusing to meet his eyes.

  He paused, then instead picked up a strand of platinum-blond hair, rubbing it almost wistfully between his fingers.

  The man rarely showed a paternal expression, attempting a tone of moral influence. "It's for your own good."

  "If simply having someone spend a little time by my side warrants transferring me," Vance sneered, "then you'll be so busy you won't have time to blink for the rest of your life."

  "You don't actually need to be transferred. I have a hundred ways to make that boy and his mother disappear."

  Vance closed his eyes. The words came with difficulty. "I'll leave here. Don't touch them."

  "That's my good boy."

  Old Heaton smiled, satisfied. He patted Vance, looking pleased. "I'll come visit you again."

  Just before he left, he heard his son's voice behind him, barely restrained.

  "You can't keep doing this to me!"

  It was a voice almost grinding with anger, but thanks to his upbringing, the son quickly suppressed the violent emotion.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He heard his son take several deep breaths, then speak in a constrained tone. "How long will you do this? You can't control me forever."

  "Oh, you're wrong." The old man, still with his back to Vance, replied in that same steady voice. "I can."

  Vance pulled himself from the memory. The cabin lights were soft and dim; he couldn't tell if it was morning or afternoon.

  That forcibly sealed memory coiled around him like a python, making his chest tight and heavy.

  "Mr. Heaton, we've landed."

  The flight attendant's voice was soft.

  As he stepped out of the cabin door, a rush of fresh air hit him. The air here was cool, carrying a sense of openness and freedom.

  He unconsciously let out a breath, as if only now truly waking up.

  His phone showed the time was slightly later than expected. The car was waiting.

  He had already missed the competition.

  But... even so, an inexplicable urgency gnawed at him, an urgent need to see someone.

  As if one glance could momentarily ease the burning in his heart and lungs.

  "Drive. Proceed to the competition venue as planned," Boss Heaton instructed.

  When he arrived, the competition was nearing its end, but he happened to catch the Heaton company's contracted rider taking the field.

  Vance's gaze cut through the crowd. He recognized Elian on the field instantly.

  In his ears, he could almost hear Old Heaton's viper-like threats, clashing sharply with Elian, bathed in sunlight.

  Can't show that he matters.

  Can't love anyone.

  Or everything could be taken away—

  Ironically, even from this distance, the pull was still strong.

  The desire to possess was just as potent.

  The crowd's cheers rose and fell. Elian and Zephyr moved as one across the field, navigating the slippery mud path smoothly.

  Ahead, continuous water jumps, forest trails, and wooden obstacles intertwined in sequence.

  Zephyr's movements were clean, his rhythm steady. Even the difficult water jumps were cleared with elegance. It was clear that after this period of adjustment and training, Elian was better able to guide his landing points on the field, showing significant improvement since his first competition.

  But before the ninth turn, an almost imperceptible misstep made the audience hold their breath.

  "A slight deviation on landing, but the rider corrected it." the commentator observed.

  It was a rare mistake for them. Zephyr's hind leg slipped, momentarily losing balance. Fortunately, Elian shifted his weight back immediately, tightening the reins to steady the horse.

  For the remaining obstacles, the rider was completely focused. Every jump was precise and clean. The audience rose and fell with each cleared obstacle, the tension like a drawn bowstring.

  "The final jump before the finish line—a perfect landing!"

  Thunderous applause erupted from the stands. The commentator excitedly shouted the names of the rider and horse.

  After the competition, Elian sat in the waiting area. His clothes were dust-stained. His flaxen hair, freed from the helmet, stuck up messily, but he had no time to care.

  He was watching his horse with concern.

  "What's wrong?" Vance approached.

  Coach Jasper was talking quietly with a veterinarian. He looked up at Vance. "Nothing serious. The kid's worried about his horse, but everything's fine now."

  "Zephyr's fetlock is really okay?"

  Elian gently palpated Zephyr's joint, asking the veterinarian for confirmation again.

  "Just a minor issue with the shoe. His fetlock is fine," the vet assured him.

  "That's a relief." The young rider exhaled.

  "See, kid? Told you not to worry." The coach patted Elian's shoulder, pleased. "Now we should celebrate the good news."

  "What good news?"

  Elian was still observing Zephyr's hoof, answering only half-consciously.

  "The good news is, you came in first this time." Vance looked at the screen. "Well done."

  "What?"

  "See for yourself." Vance gestured for him to look up.

  Elian's eyes widened as he turned to the screen. Sure enough, his name and score were clearly displayed in the top position.

  "First place? Really first? Yes!"

  He jumped up, hugging Zephyr and cheering nonstop.

  "You're the best partner EVER!!!!!!" He was shouting, still jumping.

  "Don't get too cocky. You still have many competitions ahead," the coach said, hands on his hips, though his face wore a pleased expression.

  Elian, caught up in his excitement, launched himself at Jasper instead. "And YOU'RE the best coach EVER!!!!!!"

  "Alright, alright! Stop grabbing people!" Jasper struggled. "Vance! Get this kid off me!"

  Boss Heaton just stood to the side, eyebrows raised, watching the scene unfold.

  Only after Jasper finally escaped did it belatedly occur to Elian:

  Why had Vance come to watch this competition?

  Though Elian was reluctant to admit it, he had spent the last two days scanning the crowd for Vance, nearly losing focus during the event.

  He consoled himself: Vance was a busy boss; it was normal he couldn't attend. His previous appearances were just coincidences. And even if he had time, Vance had no obligation to watch him compete.

  "Hi, Vance." Elian rubbed the back of his head. "How come you had time to watch today? Here to check on your contracted rider's performance?"

  "I went to Mexico." Vance answered, then paused, seeming to think before continuing. "I'm not—"

  "Not bad, little guy. Winning gold in your first four-star event." A flippant voice interrupted them.

  Vance's lips pressed together. His gaze, icy cold, swept over the person intruding on their conversation.

  "Dylan?" Elian was surprised. "Didn't you say you couldn't wait to change out of those soaked clothes?"

  Dylan's dark blue competition gear was nearly black with rain, sleeves dripping, fabric clinging to the muscles of his shoulders and back.

  Clearly, he hadn't changed. He'd come straight to talk after Elian's event.

  The clasp at his collar was already undone, hanging askew to one side. Yet his stride remained unhurried, as if the wet clothes were merely a slightly cumbersome jacket.

  "I was going to. But I couldn't wait to congratulate you on your win."

  "More like you saw my results and came running over before they were even final, right?" Elian crossed his arms. "Were you already planning what insults to throw if I lost?"

  "Would I do that? I keep my promises."

  "Right, I haven't forgotten! You said if I won, you owe me a fancy dinner."

  "I believe I said, if you lost, you'd be treating."

  "But obviously, I won." Elian grinned, triumphant.

  Dylan's eyes held an indulgent amusement, showing no sign of feeling slighted by having to pay.

  Beside them, Vance seemed completely isolated from the cheerful atmosphere, radiating a heavy, oppressive aura. When he heard Elian was going out to dinner with this playboy, his gaze dropped to a temperature colder than liquid nitrogen.

  Dylan pretended not to notice the someone's gaze, which was crystallizing into icy daggers. He continued, "Actually, the real reason I rushed over was because I saw your boss come to find you."

  "Huh? What does that have to do with anything?" Elian asked.

  "I was afraid he'd coerce you, trick you, then snatch you up and eat you. Then my dinner would be canceled."

  His amber eyes narrowed. Dylan's tongue traced over his canine tooth, as if savoring some delicacy.