Adam hated the pig farm. A rich boy who'd been pampered all his life, now thrown into this disgusting world without anyone to prepare his meals or clean his clothes or run his baths or anything.
His mother had never loved him. He'd been an accident. A product of a party out on the town when she'd been young and drunk and gotten knocked up by some random dude. What a scandal that had been. Now that she'd made some bad investments, and the money was no longer not a concern, she had been forced to dump all these luxurious expenses he had. The yacht had gone. The extra house. Half her jurally. Most of the servants. Oh, and Adam. What did she need him for. He was just an unnecessary expense.
So here he was. One day a pampered rich kid. Now a lost looking boy dumped onto his father who'd he'd never met. His father who happened to be a pig farmer in the middle of nowhere. Adam didn't even know where he was.
His father, Henry, was a practical man. First day here, he'd shoved a shovel in Adam's hands and ordered him to work. Adam. Work. It was an oxymoron in his head. He'd never even done a chore in his life. He'd thrown a tantrum. Demanded fondue. Freshly pressed fine clothes. A hot bath with lavender scented bubbles.
Henry didn't know what to do with this brat. He couldn't' work. All he did was complain. He was the epitome of everything Henry hated. These rich bastards living the high life in luxury while real men labored away and did the real work. Just seeing his so called son on the first day being dropped so suddenly onto his doorstep had filled him with rage. Fine clothing. Judgmental posh sneer at all he saw. Condescending attitude, as if everything he said was law. Every time Adam complained about something, it just made Henry want to punish him more.
The boy's mother had barely even spoken to Henry before dropping the boy off. There had barely been a warning. Henry didn't have a room ready for this son of his he hadn't even known about. He barely even remembered sleeping with some rich girl years and years ago. Though brief as their conversation last week had been, Henry had learned one important thing. The mother didn't give a damn about her brat of a son. And she wasn't going to pitch in with any financial help in feeding and clothing him.
The brat was sitting across the table from Henry right now. Pushing his food around the plate as if it was some strange alien creature he dared not put into his mouth. The boy despised eating anything “grouse”, and apparently everything Henry gave him to eat was deemed “grouse”. This couldn't go on. The pigs needed tending and feeding. There was the old fence in need of reaper. And the boy was demanding all of his time and not pulling any of his own weight. Something had to be done. And Henry knew just what that something was.