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.

Thomas Reeves, CEO of Western Plains Energy, entered the room with Maren Bell beside him and two geologists in company jackets behind them. If Harrison Wells represented old extraction muscle, Reeves looked like the version that had gone to Stanford, hired environmental consultants, and understood the modern value of appearing civilized while pursuing the same underground substance. Younger than Harrison by a decade, immaculate, controlled, not uncharismatic.

Robert half rose from his chair. “What is this?”

“This,” I said, finally taking my seat, “is what happens when everyone in the room gets access to the full set of facts.”

Harrison turned on Robert with visible anger.

“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.”

Inside were selected pieces from Joshua’s files. Not everything. Not enough to create spectacle. Just enough to establish pattern. Fraud. Misrepresentation. Prior misconduct. Enough to contaminate credibility. Enough to make any corporate actor in the room suddenly reassess who had brought him into this conversation and why.

Allan opened his envelope and read with the expression of a man watching a ceiling crack above him.

“These are private family matters,” he said.

“On the contrary,” I said, “they are directly relevant to whether anyone at this table should treat you as honest brokers.”

Robert’s face darkened. “What do you want?”

I did not answer immediately.