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."

For three full seconds, no one in the banquet hall moved.

Champagne hissed across the marble at Lucas's feet. A shard of green glass had sliced the hem of his trousers but missed his skin.

I caught Rowan by the forearm before he could make the situation worse.

"My apologies," I told the room with a bright smile. "Rowan spends more time around farm equipment than vintage glass. He forgets how fragile expensive things can be."

A few guests laughed because they were relieved to have permission.

Lucas looked down at the wet ruin of his suit, then at Rowan. The hatred in his eyes lasted only a moment before his public face returned.

"Enjoy the party," he said.

He left without another word. Celeste hurried after him, glaring at me over her shoulder.

Rowan glanced at my hand on his sleeve. "Fragile?"

"It kept Grandfather from calling security. Walk."

We crossed the terrace and stepped into the cold night.

I released him. "You could have put glass in his eyes."

"I knew where the bottle would break."

"We need the board to see us as stable. Throwing weapons at the acting CEO does not help."

"You asked me to wear a suit and defend the arrangement." Rowan loosened the cheap tie at his throat. "You did not ask me to stand still while he humiliated you."

"I can defend myself."

"Then do it faster next time."

He walked toward the valet station, leaving me alone on the steps with the unpleasant realization that his anger had not been for himself.

At seven the next morning, the North District faucet coughed once and went dry.

A white envelope waited on the kitchen table. Lucas had signed the notice inside.

Effective immediately, the North District's utility allocation, equipment budget, and access to shared vehicles were suspended pending a financial review.

Rowan entered with grease across his knuckles. He read the notice, opened his toolbox, and selected a steel wrench.

"The old manual pump can draw from the well," he said. "I can have water on the vines in two hours."

I blocked the door. "Put it down."

"The vines do not care about your pride."

"This is not pride. Lucas is testing whether he can cut us off without consequences. If you repair the pump, he shuts down the greenhouse power. If we install a generator, he blocks the access road."

"I survived five years without the main house."

"The Red Heather crop did not. Not at this scale."

His grip tightened around the wrench. "What is your plan? Let the roots dry while you request a committee meeting?"

"I am going around Lucas. You keep his people off the property."

An hour later, I entered the estate's financial wing with the North District budget under my arm.

Richard Garrison, the chief financial officer, sat behind a mahogany desk large enough to hide a body. His gray mustache twitched when I closed the office door.

"Ivy. Security should have stopped you."

"Security remembers who controls the trust. Cancel your meeting with Lucas."

I placed the budget in front of him.

Garrison did not touch it. "The acting CEO suspended those accounts. I cannot override him."

I opened the budget to the emergency maintenance page. Three invoices had been rejected within the hour: water service, greenhouse electricity, and a replacement pump seal. Lucas had not ordered a financial review. He had selected the systems most likely to kill the crop before we could appeal.

"This is not cost control," I said. "It is deliberate spoilage of a company asset."

"You can authorize essential agricultural spending when a crop is at risk. Section twelve of the operating bylaws."

His eyes narrowed. "You came prepared."

"Restore the water, greenhouse power, and equipment line."

"No."

I leaned across his desk. "Then I will demand an independent forensic audit covering the last three fiscal years."

The color left his face.

"You have no grounds."

"Apex Holdings. Cayman account ending in four-two-eight-nine. Fake vendor invoices routed through the domestic operating account."

His gold pen stopped tapping.

The vision at the gala had given me only fragments, but his reaction confirmed every one of them.

"Who told you that?" he asked.

"The same person who will testify if the water is not running by noon."

He looked toward the door. "You would damage the company over a utility dispute?"

"Lucas is damaging the company. I am giving you one chance not to help him."

Garrison opened a drawer and removed the emergency authorization form. His hand shook as he completed it.

"He will know I signed this."

"Then decide whether you are more afraid of Lucas or an audit."

He stamped the form and pushed it across the desk.

I photographed the signed page and emailed it to the facilities director while I still stood in front of him. Then I copied Grandfather's legal office and the board secretary. Garrison watched every recipient appear on the screen.

"You are creating a record," he said.

"Lucas has survived because everyone keeps his orders verbal. That ends today."

"This buys you a day," he whispered.

"A day is enough to start."

By noon, water moved through the North District lines again. A facilities technician tested each valve while Rowan stood beside him with crossed arms. The greenhouse lights returned before sunset, and the first irrigation cycle ran long enough to soak the upper rows.

By nightfall, I had copies of the authorization stored in three places and a list of every account Garrison had refused to discuss. I also had proof that Lucas had tried to destroy a viable harvest within twenty-four hours of learning it existed.

The cabin was dark when I returned.

"Rowan?"

No answer.

The water worked, but the overhead light did not. I stepped inside and smelled wet earth, machine oil, and something metallic.

I drew out my phone and switched on the flashlight.

A shadow moved behind the door.

A hand covered my mouth. An arm drove me against the wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.

I tried to scream, but the grip only tightened.