My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

So this was their plan. Not just pressure me. Divide me. Reach Jenna first. Cast themselves as family. Cast me as emotional, isolated, uninformed.

“Jenna,” I said carefully, “do not sign anything. Do not agree to anything. I’ll explain everything, but not right this second.”

Her voice sharpened. “If there’s money involved—”

“This is not about money.”

It came out so firmly that even I was startled by it.

There was silence on the line. Then, quieter: “Then what is it about?”

I looked at Joshua’s frozen face on the laptop screen. At the rose. At the blue folder in my hand. At the men outside who shared his blood and not, apparently, his soul.

“It’s about what your father intended,” I said. “And right now, I need you to trust me.”

A long exhale crackled through the phone. “Fine. But call me back.”

“I will.”

When I ended the call, the knocking came again.

I walked to the front door, blue folder in hand, shoulders squared with a steadiness I did not feel. Then I opened it.