My cheating fiancé begged me to stay

By Rodolfo

Life is constantly changing, and sometimes those changes aren’t pleasant—in fact, sometimes they’re painful, as in this case.

I’m in charge of one of the largest farms in my country.

Half of this farm belongs to me.

My father and his business partner were in a plane crash; the helicopter they were traveling in crashed.

They had been lifelong friends and business partners; they never had any problems with each other—they cared deeply for one another and respected each other deeply.

When I graduated with a degree in agricultural engineering—partly because it was expected of me and partly because I realized it was the best way to manage everything related to the farm with expert knowledge—I took charge of a whole host of responsibilities.

My mother had separated from my father when I was little; she couldn’t stand anything to do with the farm, and we lived there.

She chose to give it all up—even my farm—and that still hurt me.

But she wanted a different life—high-society parties and not having to travel for hours every time she wanted to go to the city.

In the city, we had a huge house, worthy of the mansions of any Hollywood actor.

That house was the only thing she asked my father for when they separated.

For years now, she’s been happily married to a lawyer.

She’s not entitled to any part of my father’s inheritance, and I’m his sole heir.

I have almost no relationship with my mother, and even less with my half-brother on her side—I think I’ve seen him two or three times in my life.

I’m now a 32-year-old man, and I have no interest in seeing her; my life revolves around the countryside.

The house where I live is in the countryside; it’s huge, with several wings, so you don’t run into anyone if you don’t want to. We lived on the south side, and on the north side lived Matthew Miller, my father’s business partner.

The house had several entrances, three kitchens, more than 15 bedrooms, four dining rooms, a huge living room, every amenity, and every luxury.

But that wasn’t enough for my mother; she wanted parties almost every day, she wanted dinners at restaurants, she wanted trips, and above all, she didn’t want to live in the countryside.

My father never remarried, so as far as he’s concerned, I’m his only child.

My father’s business partner was a widower; he’d lost his wife at a young age and never remarried either.

Matthew has a daughter, and as much as I’d like to remember her as a little girl, I can’t. Vaguely, I remember a baby, but we hardly ever crossed paths—precisely because the house was so huge; everyone ate in the dining room on their respective side of the house.

I was 13 when I left the countryside to attend high school in Sacramento, and although I returned to the countryside every weekend, Matthew and his family might have been out in the city at that time.

I think I was finishing high school when Matthew’s wife passed away after a long illness, and his daughter was being cared for by an aunt of hers, also in Sacramento. Later, the girl studied in Europe; I don’t know when she returned. The fact is, I never ran into her again until our parents’ accident, which happened yesterday.

I was devastated; I lost my father, the man whose example shaped my life.

I was also heartbroken for Matthew, who was like an uncle to me—and a very close one at that.

It really was a tragedy.

We were all devastated, because both of them were men who were very dear to the farmhands.

People kept coming by to offer their condolences.

The wake was held symbolically, since the helicopter caught fire and we were only able to recover the ashes of both of them, as well as those of the helicopter pilot; the engine failed—which was unbelievable, because the helicopter was brand new.

I suppose it was fate.

Suddenly, a very flashy car pulled up—it wasn’t from around here—and a young woman got out, with an air of superiority, wearing tight black pants and a sweater, also black, with dark sunglasses and her light blonde hair, loose, reaching almost to her waist.

She was slim and seemed to have a great figure, but I wasn’t in the mood to look at anyone.

She caught everyone’s attention.

Although I have to admit that her beauty was immense—so much so that it was almost offensive—she seemed like a woman beyond the reach of mere mortals.

Without looking at anyone, she made her way to the cash registers, which were side by side.

She stood in front of them, her gaze lost in thought, wondering who knows what.

She stood there for about 20 minutes without moving, until I approached her.

She wasn’t as tall as I’d thought—though she came up to my nose—but I’d noticed she was wearing mid-calf boots with sky-high heels, completely out of place there.

I’m tall—I’m 1.86—so even without those ridiculous boots, she’d come up just below my mouth, meaning she wasn’t quite 1.70; she wasn’t short either, but when I saw her walk in, I thought she was taller—it must have been because she was dressed in black and was slender.

“Good morning, miss. I’m Rodolfo Orellana Coutol.”

She looks at me, as if studying my appearance or trying to figure out who I am—I don’t know.

I feel her gaze sweeping over me—or rather, I guess that’s what’s happening, because she was wearing dark glasses.

“I’m Kelly Miller, Matthew Miller’s daughter.”

“I’m sorry for the circumstances under which we’re meeting.”

I say this, and she doesn’t answer me at all—in fact, she ignores me.

Until, an hour later—she’d been standing there the whole time, and I’d walked away half an hour earlier—she decided to come over to me.

“When is the funeral?”

She asked without a tremor in her voice or any hint that she truly cared about the deaths of the two men, which caused immense pain to many—myself included.

“At two in the afternoon—there was no point in making the funeral any longer.”

Once again, she didn’t answer me, and by this point, she already seemed rude to me.

It seemed as though she wasn’t affected at all—I’m not talking about my father’s death, but her own father’s.

She ordered a coffee, and she did so with an air of superiority that rubbed everyone the wrong way, although they didn’t say a word—I think that, like me, everyone guessed who she was the moment she walked in.

“I’d like a coffee, medium-sized and with milk, with a small spoonful of sugar.”

She didn’t say “please,” she didn’t say “thank you” when they brought it to her—nothing at all—as if she were the queen of the universe.

She hadn’t even satisfied her cravings.

I thank God that woman didn’t live in the house; she must live in Sacramento or maybe abroad—it would be horrible to live with her.

She reminded me of my mother, with her cold and almost contemptuous behavior.

It must make her uncomfortable to come out to the countryside, I thought.

I kept thinking that must be the case, because I never saw her—not even on vacation.

Many people watched her with curiosity, and whenever someone from a neighboring farm approached, they always greeted me; I chose not to introduce her. She seemed to be in a world of her own—she’d been glued to her cell phone for a while, doing nothing but sending and reading messages.

The city mayor arrived, accompanied by the governor of California—the thing is, even though we had no ties to politics, we’re landowners, influential, and multimillionaires.

Did you say her name is Kelly?

Yes, but I remembered it because Matthew had mentioned her name—not because I remembered the name of the unpleasant woman standing in front of me.

I greeted the mayor, whom I knew well—because, even though I wasn’t interested in politics, it was obvious I had to know him—and also the governor, whom I knew by sight; we’d had dinner together a few times at business meetings.

The thing is, basically, we’re businesspeople, beyond being labeled as “country folk.”

I approached that woman again—the one I already disliked intensely.

“Kelly, the mayor and the governor of California are here.”

Without taking off her dark sunglasses, she stood up, seemingly reluctantly.

“Gentlemen, this is Kelly Miller, Matthew’s daughter.”

“I share her grief,”

The governor said, and I thought that woman had no feelings and didn’t believe the governor was truly grieved by the deaths of my father and Matthew—so yes, they might have shared the same sentiment.

The mayor was more shaken; he, too, was a man from the countryside, close in age to my father, and since they were involved in similar activities, I can’t say they were friends, but they were close neighbors—though from the edge of the field nearest to ours, several miles separated us, so many that it was almost impossible to cover them on foot.

We, in particular, got around by pickup truck, on horseback, or by helicopter.

That’s why I don’t understand that accident—the helicopter was just another mode of transportation for us.

The politicians left, but not before telling us they were at our disposal.

At the time of the funeral, Kelly followed the funeral procession in her own car; I had offered her a ride in mine.

“No, after the funeral, I’m leaving.”

I shrugged; it was her problem.

I don’t think she was nervous about the drive; she seemed to be there just out of a sense of obligation, like the governor.

I didn’t see her break down during the funeral either; it was clear that for her, it was just another formality.

I don’t understand any of it—her father spoke of her affectionately, and yet she seems almost indifferent to his death.

By this point, I already despised her.

Women like that—cold and unfeeling—make my skin crawl. It’s her father! And he was a good man; I know, I can vouch for it.

The funeral was over, and I approached Kelly—just out of courtesy—because, in reality, I was hoping she’d get the hell out of there once and for all so I’d never have to see that horrible woman again.

She took off her glasses, and I could see an incredibly clear gaze, almost turquoise, with more life than I’d imagined.

Her eyes had a special sparkle; it seemed to me she was even holding back her tears.

She put her glasses back on right away.

“Do you want to stop by the house?”

I found myself asking.

“No, I’m leaving now.”

Without saying goodbye, she got into her red sports car.

I must have been wrong—that woman is incapable of crying.

Her eyes must have been like that.

I was angry that she didn’t say goodbye, although, after all, I didn’t care at all.

Women!

I despise them.