Vanessa Vale dragged her sister’s chair backward in front of two hundred wedding guests.

By the time the last town car departed from the estate gravel, the afternoon light had turned amber through the clerestory windows of the main office.

Marin sat behind the reclaimed timber desk that had belonged to her grandfather. Across from her, Nolan leaned against the stone fireplace, his tuxedo jacket discarded over a leather armchair, his sleeves rolled to his forearms. Between them lay thirty-two pages of Larkstone documentation.

“She approached me four months ago,” Nolan said, running a hand through his hair. His jaw was set in tight lines of exhaustion and self-reproach. “She presented Larkstone as a private equity group specializing in sustainable eco-resorts. She swore you wanted to step down from day-to-day operations to focus on reserve viticulture.”

“And you didn’t ask me directly?” Marin inquired, raising an eyebrow over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Every time I asked to review the contract with you, Vanessa intercepted it,” Nolan replied honestly. “She claimed you were overwhelmed by the harvest loss from last autumn. She said you resented my family’s construction background and would take offense if I intervened. She manufactured an entire narrative of your fragility to keep us from talking.”

A knock sounded at the door before Arthur Vale, their father, stepped inside. He looked years older than he had that morning, his hands visibly unsteady.

“She locked herself in the guest cottage,” Arthur said heavily. “Your mother is demanding we settle this quietly, Marin. She wants you to honor the Larkstone deposit so we don’t get sued.”

“The deposit?” Marin sat forward, her eyes narrowing. “What deposit, Dad?”

Arthur swallowed hard. “Vanessa took an advance. Two million dollars. Larkstone wired it to Vela Celebrations last Tuesday to secure the ground lease.”

The room went deadly quiet. Nolan looked at Marin, his expression darkening with realization.