The late afternoon sun hung low over Pherros, casting long shadows across the newly tilled fields of Sullivan's farm. The air smelled of upturned earth and promise—rich, fertile, alive with potential. Three weeks had passed since the contract was signed, and already the land bore the marks of swift, efficient labor. Fences stood straight as soldiers at attention, irrigation channels cut through the soil like veins ready to carry lifeblood to thirsty crops, and storage sheds rose from the earth with the precision of a master architect's blueprint.
Mr. Sullivan stood at the edge of the property, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the progress with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had gambled and won. His sharp eyes missed nothing—the way the fence posts were perfectly spaced, how the newly installed water pump hummed without complaint, even the organized stacks of seed bags waiting in the shade of the largest shed.
Beside him, Mr. Kirby wiped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, the fabric darkened with sweat. Jake lingered a step behind, arms crossed, watching the older men with an expression caught between pride and wariness. The sleeves of his work shirt were rolled up past his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with fresh scratches from the day's labor.
"Actually," Sullivan began, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over them, "I am very much surprised when I was told that you immediately started working the very next day after we signed that contract." His voice carried the same crisp enunciation Jake remembered from their first meeting, each word carefully measured.
Kirby grinned, the sun etching deep lines around his eyes. "Well, that's how we work. Start fast, finish fast." He shot a glance at Jake, something unspoken passing between them.
Sullivan chuckled, a dry sound like leaves rustling. "It is really great because it has just been three weeks, and after looking around the farm and seeing the report you sent over, I was blown away." He turned fully to face them now, his gaze lingering on Jake. "Your team works with remarkable efficiency."
Kirby inclined his head. "Well, thank you, sir, for your nice review."
"You deserve much more, Mr. Kirby," Sullivan said, his voice taking on a rare warmth that seemed at odds with his usual reserved demeanor. "How many companies do you think start a project immediately after signing the contract?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Most would say they need a week or more to 'put things in place.' Waste time. Then, even after starting, they don't work half as efficiently as you have." He shook his head, a lock of silver-streaked hair falling across his forehead before he brushed it back. "I am very much happy to have contacted you. And I will recommend you to my friends."
Kirby's grin widened, showing teeth that were slightly too white against his sun-darkened skin. "What can I say, sir, when you keep giving us such a great review?"
Sullivan nodded, then turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the fields stretched out, nearly ready for planting. The setting sun painted the tilled earth in shades of gold and umber. "When will it be ready for farming?"
"In about three weeks for the farmland," Kirby replied without hesitation.
"That's fantastic!" Sullivan's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. "You're saying I can have farmers working here by next month?"
"Yeah, very much so." Kirby clapped a hand on Jake's shoulder with enough force to make the younger man rock forward slightly. "Actually, this is all thanks to Jake's help. My manager would've taken much longer to get things moving."
Sullivan's sharp eyes flicked to Jake, assessing in a way that made the hairs on Jake's arms stand up. "Really? The last time we spoke, I knew he was a good businessman." His lips quirked. "You know the value of things."
Jake shifted under the scrutiny but kept his voice even. "I'm just lucky, sir. Lucky to be here at this time."
"Luck? Really?" Sullivan stepped closer, his polished loafers sinking slightly into the soft earth. The scent of his cologne—something expensive with notes of sandalwood and citrus—mingled with the smell of fresh-turned soil. "Even you don't believe what you're saying." He tilted his head, studying Jake like a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen. "Luck is important, yes. But in this partnership, you've shown capability. And that, young man, is what gains trust in business."
Jake met his gaze, seeing something calculating in those pale eyes, before dipping his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, sir."
After a moment, Kirby cleared his throat—a rough, grating sound—and stood straighter. "Mr. Sullivan, thank you for the business—and the glowing reviews. We'd best be on our way to keep things moving."
Sullivan rose as well, his movements precise despite his age. He shook Kirby's hand firmly before turning to Jake. "It's been a pleasure. And Jake—" He paused, his grip tightening slightly as he leaned in. The fading light caught the silver in his tie clip as it winked against the dark fabric. "I'll be at the Bullbar tonight. There's something I'd like to discuss with you."
Jake nodded, curiosity flickering behind his eyes like a candle catching flame. "I'll be there."
**The Bullbar - 9:17 PM**
The evening air in Pherros carried the scent of salt and industry, a mingling of sea breeze and the distant hum of machinery from the docks. The Bullbar, nestled between the portside bustle and the quieter streets leading toward the cliffs, stood as it always had—a place of dim lighting, polished wood worn smooth by decades of patrons, and murmured conversations that ebbed and flowed like the tide.
Jake pushed through the heavy oak door, the familiar weight of the bar's atmosphere settling over him like a well-worn jacket. It had been weeks since he'd last been here, weeks since that first meeting with Sullivan that had set everything in motion. Now, as he made his way to the private room at the back, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change.
The private room was exactly as he remembered—dark paneled walls, a heavy table of some rich, reddish wood, and the same two men seated in the same positions as before. Sullivan in his usual chair, fingers steepled before him, the dim light catching on the platinum of his wristwatch. Rowland sat to his left, this time without his laptop, idly scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other cradled a glass of what appeared to be orange juice.
The only difference was the absence of tension. This time, when Jake entered, Rowland looked up from his phone and gave a curt nod before returning to his screen.
"Evening," Jake said, taking the seat across from Sullivan without waiting for an invitation.
Sullivan slid a glass of juice toward him—the same vibrant orange as Rowland's, condensation beading on the sides. Jake hesitated, eyeing the drink with the same confusion as last time.
Sullivan chuckled, the sound low and knowing. "Still not used to it, eh?"
Jake smirked, running a finger through the condensation on the glass. "Can't say I've seen many people come to a bar just for juice."
"Not many do," Sullivan admitted, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked softly in protest. "But then again, not many people think the way we do." He studied Jake over the rim of his own glass. "You've done well with the farm. Better than I expected."
Jake shrugged, the movement deliberately casual. "Just doing the job."
"Modest," Sullivan mused. He set his glass down with a soft click. "But we both know it's more than that. You didn't just do the job—you made it happen faster than anyone else could've."
Jake took a sip of the juice, the sweetness sharp on his tongue, the citrus tang making his mouth pucker slightly. "Fast work means happy clients."
"And happy clients mean more business," Sullivan finished for him. His fingers tapped a rhythmless pattern against the tabletop. "Which brings me to why I asked you here."
Jake set the glass down carefully, watching the way the liquid sloshed against the sides. "The training you mentioned earlier?"
Sullivan nodded once, a precise dip of his chin. "Five years ago, I started something... unusual. A program. A show, if you will."
Jake frowned, his brow furrowing. "A show?"
"Not the kind you write," Sullivan clarified, his lips twitching in what might have been amusement. "This one's real." He leaned forward slightly, the light catching the silver at his temples. "Every year, I handpick thirty young people—bright, hungry, the kind who could be something more if given the right push." His hands moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. "I put them in an estate, let them live like kings for six months, then tell them they have to go back to their old lives unless they can create something that'll keep them there."
Jake's fingers tightened around his glass. The condensation had made the surface slick, and his grip shifted slightly. "That sounds... familiar."
Sullivan's smile was knowing, the expression of a man holding all the cards. "Does it?"
"Like the plot of Diamond in the Rough," Jake said slowly, the title of his first series tasting strange on his tongue in this context.
"Exactly." Sullivan's eyes gleamed with something that might have been triumph. "You wrote it five years ago. I watched it. And then I made it real."
Jake exhaled sharply through his nose, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. The sound echoed in the quiet room. "You're joking."
"Dead serious," Sullivan said, his voice dropping into a register that brooked no argument. "And it worked. Out of 150 people who've gone through the program, seven are now billionaires or close to it. The rest?" He spread his hands. "Most are millionaires. A few didn't make it, but even they're better off than before."
Jake's mind raced, connections forming and breaking like waves against the shore. "That's... insane. You took a TV show and turned it into a real-life experiment?"
"Not an experiment," Sullivan corrected, his voice sharp. "An opportunity." He leaned back again, the chair protesting softly. "People don't fail because they're stupid or lazy. They fail because they never get the chance to see what they're capable of." His gaze pinned Jake in place. "I give them that chance."
Jake leaned back, rubbing his temple where a headache was beginning to form. The juice sat heavy in his stomach. "And now you're telling me this because...?"
"Because you're going to be part of it," Sullivan said simply
Silence.
Jake stared at him. "What?"
"The selection for this year's group starts soon," Sullivan continued. "And I want you in it."
Jake barked a laugh. "You realize I wrote this story, right? I know how it ends."
"Do you?" Sullivan's gaze was steady. "Because last I checked, you're still working for your father's company. Still writing scripts when you have time. Still wondering if there's more."
Jake's jaw tightened.
Sullivan stood. "Think about it. Rowland will give you the details next week." He nodded toward the door. "Let's take a walk."
---
The night air was cooler by the sea, the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs a steady backdrop to their conversation. Jake's mind whirled.
"You're serious about this," he said finally.
"Deadly," Sullivan replied.
Jake shook his head. "It's one thing to write about it. Another to live it."
Sullivan stopped, turning to face him. "That's the point, Jake. You wrote about a man who got a chance to change his life. Now I'm offering you the same."
Jake looked out at the dark water. "And if I say no?"
"Then you go back to what you were doing," Sullivan said. "But we both know you'll always wonder what if."
A car pulled up—Rowland at the wheel. Sullivan opened the door but paused before getting in.
"Oh, and Jake?" He smirked. "The show's named after your series. Diamond in the Rough. Fitting, don't you think?"
Then the door closed, and the car disappeared into the night.
Jake stood there a long time, the sea wind tugging at his clothes, the weight of the offer settling over him like a second skin.
He had written this story.
Now, it seemed, he was going to live it.