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.

“You told me you had negotiating authority.”

Robert’s composure faltered. “We are family stakeholders—”

“No,” Maren Bell interrupted, sliding official documents across the table. “Mrs. Mitchell is sole legal owner of Maple Creek Farm, including mineral rights. Your clients have no authority to negotiate on her behalf.”

Harrison’s face changed from annoyance to calculation to disgust in about three seconds.

Robert tried a different angle. “This property has been in the Mitchell family for generations. Joshua had a moral obligation—”

“Moral obligation,” Jenna said quietly, “like the one you had when you forged his name on estate documents?”

It was the perfect moment, not because it was rehearsed, though in a sense it was, but because it came from her. Not the widow. The daughter. The niece they had tried to recruit.

Allan froze.

David went pale.

Harrison turned slowly toward them. “Excuse me?”

I nodded to Maren, who distributed sealed envelopes.

“Copies only,” she said. “The originals remain secured.”