"Ten million dollars, Ivy." Grandfather planted both hands on the boardroom table. "That is what you forfeit if this stunt violates the trust."

"Then have counsel read the clause again," I said. "It requires a spouse from the approved founder-family register. Nathan Stone was a cofounder, and Rowan is his legal heir. He qualifies."

Lucas sat across from me in a navy suit, every inch the reasonable fiancé. "The doctors warned us about post-traumatic confusion. You should not make permanent decisions this week."

"My decision is permanent."

"She's lost her mind."

Celeste entered without knocking. My cousin crossed the room in heels and looped her arm through Lucas's. The diamond pendant at her throat had once belonged to my mother. Celeste had stolen it at fifteen and blamed a housekeeper who was fired before dinner.

"Choosing the family bastard over Lucas?" she said. "The windshield must have done more damage than the scans showed."

"Take him," I told her. "You've been waiting long enough."

Lucas pulled his arm free. "Stop making a spectacle."

"I'm making a legal choice."

Grandfather's face reddened. "Rowan has no position, no capital, and no place in the main house. You would trade the estate for a man who lives in a service cabin."

"I'm trading Lucas for a chance to stay alive."

Lucas sighed as if I had disappointed him. "I sat beside your hospital bed for a month. I love you."

"You love my voting shares."

Grandfather hurled his water glass at the wall.

It shattered beside the bookcase. Water struck Rowan across the jaw. He had remained in the corner since the meeting began, arms folded, expression unreadable.

He wiped his face with his sleeve and crossed the room. His work boots sounded too loud against the hardwood.

"She chose me," he said.

He stopped between Lucas and me, then held out a calloused hand toward Malcolm Voss, the family's private attorney. "Show me the documents."

Voss adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "The prenuptial agreement was drafted for Lucas. A replacement will take time."

"You have until this afternoon," Rowan said.

Lucas rose. "You have nothing to offer her."

Rowan shifted half a step, forcing Lucas to stop. "She didn't ask what I owned."

"No one signs anything until I approve it," Grandfather said. "If Ivy insists on this humiliation, she funds it herself. The main accounts remain frozen until the marriage is recorded."

"Fine," I said. "Keep your money."

Voss spent the next three hours revising the agreement while Grandfather's staff called the county clerk. He tried twice to insert language giving Lucas temporary voting authority if I became medically incapacitated. I crossed out both clauses and initialed the margins. Rowan noticed, said nothing, and placed his own initials beside mine.

By four, a deputy clerk stood in the estate library with a seal, two witnesses, and no interest in our family drama. Grandfather refused to attend. Celeste watched from the doorway with a smile she could not quite control.

Rowan and I signed the license. We exchanged the shortest vows allowed by California law. There were no rings and no photographs. When the clerk pronounced us married, Rowan's gaze dropped to my shaking hand. He covered the tremor by taking the pen from me and returning it to the clerk. Lucas walked out before the ink dried, and Celeste followed him a second later.

By nightfall, the marble halls were miles behind us.

I followed Rowan up the warped steps of his North District cabin. The air smelled of cold soil and crushed grapes. Inside, a woodstove leaned against one wall. A sagging cot occupied the other. The place contained no photographs, no rugs, and nothing that suggested Rowan expected to stay.

He set a sheet of notebook paper on the pine table.

"Read it."

The handwriting was hard and angular.

"Separate rooms. Separate accounts. No questions about schedules," I read. "Neither spouse claims the other's assets. You will not help me acquire the main winery."

"Correct."

"You just married the controlling heir and cut yourself out of everything."

"I was never included."

I set the paper down. "Then why agree? You could have watched Grandfather strip the trust from me."

"Because you were desperate, and desperate people accept clear terms." Rowan crossed his arms. "You keep your inheritance. I keep the North District and my privacy. I attend board functions when necessary. Once the trust is secure and the danger passes, we separate."

"What do you get?"

"Quiet."

"That's all?"

"I don't want Grandfather's money." His eyes hardened. "You pay your expenses. I pay mine. If you bankrupt yourself fighting Lucas, don't expect me to rescue you."

"I don't need rescue. I need a husband who won't kill me for my shares."

"That is a low standard."

"Lucas failed it."

His jaw tightened. "Keep your paranoia on your side of the cabin. In public, we act married. Behind this door, your war is yours."

"Agreed."

I added one line beneath his terms: Neither spouse may authorize medical decisions, transfer voting shares, or change the beneficiary of the other spouse's trust without written consent. Rowan read it twice.

"You really think Lucas will try again," he said.

"I think he already started."

He took the pen and initialed the addition.

I signed the paper with a plastic pen.

When I passed it back, I shifted my hand and brushed my fingertips across his knuckles. I expected rain, a grave, and the confession I had heard at the hospital.

Nothing came.

The yellow bulb buzzed overhead. Rowan's skin was warm, but the future stayed silent.

Before I could try again, his hand closed around my wrist.

He drew me forward until only inches separated us. The warning in his eyes was sharper than anger.

"Do not touch me to test a theory," he said. "Ask your question or keep your hands to yourself."

I tried to pull free. His grip held.

"Then answer one," I said. "What did you see on Route 29?"

For one beat, something dark moved across his face.

He released me.

"That question isn't part of our contract."

"Let go of me," I said, yanking my wrist free from his iron grip.

His fingers released immediately, leaving red marks fading on my skin. Rowan didn't offer a single word of apology. He just turned his broad back to me and walked toward the rusted woodstove, grabbing a heavy iron poker to stoke the dying embers.

I grabbed the handle of my leather suitcase. The wheels scraped loudly against the uneven floorboards as I dragged it toward the cabin's narrow second bedroom.

I pushed the door open. The space was barely larger than a closet. A single hard wooden bed sat pushed against the far wall. No mattress pad. No blankets. Above the frame, a faded paper calendar hung from a bent nail. Someone had circled next Tuesday in thick red ink.

The upcoming board meeting.

The exact day I had to walk into the main estate and prove this fake marriage was real enough to secure my fifty-one percent. I shoved my suitcase into the corner and sat on the bare wooden slats, the cold seeping straight through my jeans.

At dawn the next morning, the biting wind of the North District woke me.

I walked out of the cabin, my boots sinking into the damp, freezing earth. The sprawling vineyards stretched out before me, barren and gray under the morning fog.

Three years ago, I had stood in this exact same dirt. I had convinced Grandfather to let me lead the "Red Heather" vintage project. I poured everything into it, practically living in the soil. It failed spectacularly, wiping out five hundred thousand dollars of family capital. Grandfather never let me forget it, and Lucas had used that failure to slowly strip my operational power at the winery.

A sharp snapping sound broke the morning silence.

I spotted Rowan fifty yards away. He gripped a pair of heavy steel shears, snapping off thick branches from a row of dead, blackened vines.

"Why are you cutting those?" I asked, stopping a few feet behind him. "They've been dead for years."

Rowan didn't turn around. "Roots are still good. Mind your own business."

"If the roots are good, why is the surface rotting?"

He stopped cutting. He lowered the shears and finally looked at me over his shoulder. "Because people up at the main house don't know how to treat soil. You all just dump chemicals and expect miracles."

I opened my mouth to press him further, to ask what else the main house had ruined, but a high-pitched roar cut through the valley.

A silver Aston Martin tore down the dirt path, its low chassis scraping against the deep ruts. Mud sprayed across the pristine paint job as the car slammed to a halt just inches from the vineyard perimeter.

The driver's door popped open. Lucas stepped out, brushing imaginary dust from his tailored navy suit.

Celeste emerged from the passenger side, clutching a designer bag against her chest. She picked her way around the puddles, a sickly sweet smile plastered across her face.

"Ivy!" Celeste called out, waving her left hand high in the air.

A massive, square-cut diamond caught the morning sun, flashing brightly.

I stared at the ring. It was the exact diamond Lucas had kept hidden in his top desk drawer for the last six months.

"You work fast, Lucas," I said.

Lucas adjusted his cuffs, his expression smooth. "The board needs stability, Ivy. Since you threw a tantrum and abandoned your post, I had to secure the family's image. Celeste understands duty."

"I understand love," Celeste corrected, leaning her weight against Lucas's arm. She looked around the barren field, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Are you really going to live in this filth? You belong in a hospital, Ivy. Or a psych ward."

"I belong exactly where I am," I said.

Lucas stepped forward, his polished Italian leather shoes sinking slightly into the mud. "It's not too late. Annul this farce with the bastard. Come back to the estate. I'll make sure Grandfather forgives you."

"You really think I'd go back to a man who laughs at my grave?"

Lucas frowned, his perfect mask slipping for a fraction of a second. "What are you talking about? Grave?"

He didn't know about the visions. He just thought I was losing my mind.

I offered a sharp, cold smile. I pointed at the silver car sinking deeper into the muck. "That chassis is too low for this terrain. If you don't leave now, you'll need a tractor to pull you out."

"You're making a mistake," Lucas warned, his voice hardening. "You won't survive out here without my protection."

"Get off my property," Rowan's gravelly voice boomed from behind me.

I didn't wait to see Lucas's reaction. I turned my back on both of them and walked straight toward Rowan, matching his steady, unyielding stance.

Behind us, the sports car engine revved furiously, the tires spinning and spitting mud before finally catching traction and speeding away.

Hours after the sun dipped behind the hills, the temperature plummeted.

I sat on the edge of the hard wooden bed, rubbing my freezing arms. Through the crack in the door, I watched Rowan move around the main room.

He wore his heavy canvas jacket. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, rusted iron key. He hung it on a small metal hook right next to the front door.

"I'm checking the perimeter," Rowan said, addressing the wall rather than me. "Lock the door behind me."

He walked out, shutting the heavy wooden door with a solid thud.

I stood up and walked into the main room. I stared at the rusted key swinging slightly on the hook.

Rowan never left things out in the open. He was too guarded.

I grabbed the key. The metal was freezing against my palm.

I slipped outside into the biting wind. The night was pitch black, save for a faint, unnatural glow coming from the far edge of the property.

I followed the dirt path toward the light. Hidden behind a row of overgrown, dead oak trees sat an abandoned glass greenhouse. The panes were caked in years of grime, but the glow inside was unmistakable.

I stepped up to the heavy steel door. A massive padlock secured the latch.

I slid the rusted key into the lock.

It fit perfectly.

I twisted my wrist, feeling the heavy mechanism click open.

I yanked the padlock off and pushed the door, listening to it groan loudly as it swung inward to reveal rows of thriving, vibrant vines bathed in an eerie, purplish-red temperature-controlled light.

I pushed the heavy steel door open, the rusted hinges whining in the quiet night. Humid, earth-scented air hit my face, chasing away the North District chill.

Rows of thriving, vibrant vines stretched across the greenhouse, bathed in the eerie, purplish-red glow of temperature-controlled lamps.

I walked down the center aisle, my shoes sinking slightly into the perfectly tilled soil. I reached out, brushing my fingertips against a broad, healthy green leaf. A small plastic tag hung from the trellis wire.

Red Heather. Year Three.

My lungs tightened. I dropped the rusted iron key. It hit the dirt with a dull thud.

Three years ago, Rowan stood in the main estate courtyard and loudly called my Red Heather project a total waste of soil. He mocked me in front of Grandfather. Yet here they were. Hundreds of saplings, carefully grafted and nurtured back to life. He had spent three years secretly saving my ruined legacy.

I stared at the thriving leaves, a strange, uncomfortable heat prickling the back of my neck. The bastard hated my family. But he had kept my vines alive.

Forty-eight hours later, the massive double doors of the main estate banquet hall loomed in front of us.

"Stand still," Rowan ordered.

He stepped into my space, his large hands reaching for the diamond clasp at the nape of my neck. He wore an old charcoal suit that pulled too tight across his broad shoulders, the fabric worn thin at the elbows. I wore my signature crimson silk gown, the exact dress Grandfather hated.

Rowan's rough knuckles brushed my skin. I flinched, expecting a vision, but nothing came. He simply twisted the silver chain until the pendant rested flat against my collarbone.

"Don't bait the old man tonight," Rowan said, his voice a low scrape against the faint classical music drifting through the doors. "Get in, smile for the cameras, and get out."

"I know how to handle my own family," I said, stepping away from his touch.

"You know how to get yourself cornered," he corrected, adjusting his cheap tie. "Keep your mouth shut unless spoken to. I'll handle the press."

"I don't need a bodyguard, Rowan."

"You need a miracle," he muttered. He pushed the brass handles down. The doors swung open.

Blinding camera flashes erupted the second we stepped onto the marble floor. The grand hall buzzed with the region's wealthiest socialites, all eager to witness the family's double announcement.

Across the room, Lucas stood by the champagne tower, his arm securely wrapped around Celeste's waist. They looked like a magazine cover.

I ignored them and scanned the crowd. I needed leverage.

My eyes locked on Richard Garrison, the board's Chief Financial Officer. He stood near the ice sculpture, swirling a glass of scotch. If Lucas was making moves on the company, Garrison signed the checks.

I marched straight toward him, leaving Rowan to fend off a swarm of reporters.

"Richard," I said, forcing a bright smile.

Garrison turned, his gray mustache twitching in surprise. "Ivy. I mean, congratulations on your recovery."

"Thank you," I said. I thrust my bare hand forward. "It means a lot to see you here."

Garrison hesitated, then reached out. His clammy palm met mine.

I gripped his fingers hard.

The banquet hall vanished.

Rain beat down on a black umbrella. A polished mahogany casket lowered into the ground.

"If I knew Lucas was going to hollow out the company, I wouldn't have helped him cook the books," Garrison's voice whispered, thick with panic. "The auditors are going to find the offshore accounts. We're all going to prison."

I yanked my hand back.

The string quartet music rushed back into my ears. Garrison blinked, rubbing his knuckles.

"Are you alright, Ivy? You look pale."

"I'm perfectly fine," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Cooked books. Offshore accounts. Lucas wasn't just trying to steal my shares. He was draining the entire empire dry.

I turned on my heel, scanning the room for Rowan. I needed to tell him.

A sharp clinking sound echoed through the hall.

Lucas stood on the main stage, tapping a silver spoon against his crystal flute. The room fell dead silent. Celeste beamed beside him, resting her chin on his tailored shoulder.

"Family and friends," Lucas projected, his voice smooth and commanding. "Tonight, we celebrate two new unions. Celeste and I are thrilled to step up and guide the family business into a new, prosperous era."

Polite applause rippled through the crowd.

Lucas raised his glass higher, his brown eyes locking onto mine.

"And we also wish the very best for my dear cousin, Ivy," Lucas continued, his tone thick with fake pity. "The crash took a terrible toll on her fragile mental state. We all know she isn't thinking clearly. But we support her choice. Even if that choice means settling for a man who is more accustomed to drinking gutter water than fine wine."

A cruel, collective snicker swept through the wealthy guests. Grandfather sat at the front table, swirling his red wine, not offering a single word of defense.

My nails dug into my palms. I opened my mouth to shout back, but a massive shadow stepped past me.

Rowan strode toward the stage. His heavy boots thudded against the pristine marble, drowning out the whispers.

A waiter froze in his path, balancing a silver tray of unopened, vintage champagne.

Rowan didn't slow down. He reached out and snatched a heavy green bottle by the neck.

He stopped exactly two feet from the edge of the stage. Lucas looked down at him, a smug, victorious smirk playing on his lips.

Rowan swung his arm.

The heavy glass bottle smashed against the marble floor right at Lucas's feet.

Foam and sharp shards exploded upward, tearing through the hem of Lucas's custom trousers. Celeste shrieked, jumping back and covering her face.

The entire hall gasped in stunned, terrified silence.

Rowan stared up at the golden boy, his green eyes dead.

"A toast to you."