Secretly The Nrillionaire Boss

The Gardener

Eric’s hands trembled as he adjusted the brim of his cap, trying to mask his bruised face and uneasy gaze.

Eric wiped off the sweat from his face in the garden that felt suddenly too small, he stared in shock as Mrs. Rodriguez walked into view, arm linked with a young man whose smirk sent a chill down Eric’s spine.

It was Oliver, the same Oliver, from last night’s fight. The one who was about to steal his girlfriend, and publicly humiliated him, and nearly beaten him to a pulp.

Eric remember those words of Oliver from last night

YOU DON’T BELONG HERE!

Eric became furious.

Oliver looked at him and chuckled, he also had cut on his lips.

Oliver on the other hand was shocked.

He felt his pulse quicken, and he hoped Mrs. Rodriguez wouldn’t notice his expression.

Just hours ago, this very person was seated arrogantly in the bar, after ruining his day floating wealth in front of Lisa, in the name of friendship. And now, here he was, on the Rodriguez estate, laughing with his supposed mother.

Swallowing hard, Eric forced a polite nod and lifted his hand in a casual wave, hoping to mask his turmoil.

“Good morning, Mrs. Rodriguez,” he greeted as she drew closer.

Mrs. Rodriguez acknowledged him with a curt nod, though her eyes lingered a moment longer, as though assessing him.

“Eric,” she said, her voice sharp as ever,

She continued “step aside and let us pass, please. I’m giving my son a tour of the garden.”

The words sank in slowly, a wave of realization hitting him all at once. This was Mrs. Rodriguez’s son. She had never once mentioned a son, yet here he was, a stranger-turned-nemesis who’d stolen his girlfriend and seemed to revel in every insult.

Mrs. Rodriguez noticed the way Eric looked at her son, Oliver, and the way Oliver smirked.

“Do you two know each other?” She asked.

“No ma,” Eric replied, trying to keep his job.

“I don’t associate myself with gardeners,” Oliver replied, sarcastically.

“And let it that way, this is Eric our gardener, such a pity figure,” Mrs. Rodriguez complemented.

Oliver chuckled.

“Excuse us!” She commanded.

Eric barely held his composure as he stepped back, pressing himself against a tall, fragrant hedge.

Oliver smirked, clearly relishing Eric’s discomfort, but made no move to acknowledge him directly. Mrs. Rodriguez’s voice became softer as she led Oliver deeper into the garden, pausing here and there to point out her prized flowers.

“These roses here,” she said, her voice carrying an odd note of pride, “they’ve been in the family for years. I make sure they’re cared for personally. I can’t trust just anyone to do it right, you know.”

Her words stung more than they should. For years, Eric had worked this very garden, day in and day out, weathering her sharp criticisms and dismissals. He’d put more hours into her roses than she would ever know. And yet, standing here, hidden in plain sight, he felt invisible unworthy even of acknowledgment as anything more than hired help.

Oliver glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, a glint of satisfaction flashing in his gaze. Eric knew that look; it was the same smugness he’d seen last night as Oliver flaunted his wealth and Lisa’s attention. He clenched his fists, willing himself to stay calm, though his heart thundered in his chest.

Mrs. Rodriguez looked over her shoulder. “Eric,” she called, her tone dismissive, “I don’t need you lingering. Go back to trimming the east hedge.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, forcing his voice to remain steady as he took a few slow steps back. He watched them retreat down the path, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Just as he turned to resume his work, he felt a presence behind him. Oliver had slipped away from Mrs. Rodriguez and was standing just inches away, his voice a low, mocking whisper.

“So,” he drawled, a taunting smirk stretching across his bruised lips. “You’re my gardener?”

Oliver chuckled.

“Yeah, what can you do about it?” Eric asked, trying not to engage in a conversation directly not to draw Mrs. Rodriguez attention.

“I can make you lose your job,” Oliver replied.

The words hit Eric like a punch. His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to keep his eyes on the roses, refusing to give Oliver the satisfaction of a reaction. But Oliver wasn’t finished. He leaned in closer, his tone venomous and low enough that only Eric could hear.

“Quite the fall, isn’t it?” Oliver’s sneer deepened. “From fighting over a girl to trimming my mother’s roses. You’re nothing but dirt under my shoe, Eric. And that’s where you’ll stay.”

Eric’s fists clenched involuntarily, his fingernails digging into his palms. It took every ounce of self-control not to retaliate, not to shout back or throw another punch. Instead, he swallowed hard, his voice cold and restrained.

“Enjoy it while you can, Oliver,” he said, barely a whisper, though the venom was unmistakable. “Everyone’s on top until they fall.”

Oliver chuckled, the sound as grating as it was self-satisfied. “Oh, I’m quite comfortable where I am, thanks. And judging by your new job, I’d say you’re the one who fell, not me.”

With a final, smug glance, Oliver stepped back, hands in his pockets, and sauntered down the path to rejoin his mother.