Michael Sterling had always preferred knives to guns—metaphorically, at least.
Guns were loud. Flashy. Obvious.
Knives were subtle. Quiet. A whisper in the dark.
And tonight, under the glow of the parking lot's single streetlamp, he slipped the metaphorical blade between Wisteria Bay's ribs with practiced ease.
The notary signed the forged affidavit without hesitation. Sterling didn't need it to win—he only needed it to confuse. To stall. To make the courts question what they had just begun to favor.
"You're sure this witness was on the Honeyfern property back in '98?" the notary asked, already stamping the document.
Sterling smiled thinly. "Positive."
He wasn't.
But it didn't matter.
In 1998, Elara had been ten years old.
She wouldn't remember the fine print.
This new affidavit, purportedly from a 'long-lost' cousin of the original seller, claimed the Honeyfern boundary had been misrepresented from the start. If accepted, it could unravel the clean survey that Carmen's firm had worked so hard to authenticate.
It was a gamble.
But sometimes, fire only needed a single ember.
Elara woke the next morning to a knock on her door and the heavy thud of a certified envelope.
Her name was misspelled on the label.
Inside: a copy of the new affidavit.
Rowan read it twice, brows furrowed. "He's going after the origin now. The very foundation."
Elara's voice cracked. "It's a lie."
"Of course it is," he said, pulling her into a hug. "But now we have to prove it's a lie."
She nodded, leaning into the comfort of his warmth. "We will. Somehow."
Later that day, after hours of phone calls and legal strategizing, Rowan disappeared briefly. He returned near dusk with two bikes and a paper bag tucked under his arm.
Elara raised a brow as he wheeled the bikes into the yard.
"You," he said with a crooked smile, "are going to ride down to the beach with me. Right now. No arguments."
She blinked, still wearing a sweater smeared with soil from fixing the broken drainpipe. "Rowan—"
"Nope. Elara. We need this. You need this."
He handed her a helmet and grinned.
"I brought sandwiches," he added, "and a bottle of questionable lemonade."
Against her better judgment, she laughed.
They rode in silence, the ocean breeze crisp with salt and possibility. The road to Crescent Shore wound gently between cliffs and golden fields, the sky slowly shifting into lavender dusk.
They stopped at the edge of the dunes, where sea grass bent low and gulls circled overhead.
The beach was empty—windy, wild, beautiful.
Just as she remembered it from childhood.
They sat on an old driftwood log, the sandwiches mostly forgotten. Rowan passed her a thermos of lemonade and leaned back, face turned toward the clouds.
"This isn't how I pictured life," he said.
Elara looked at him. "No?"
"I thought I'd end up in a big city. Maybe open a gallery. Be surrounded by noise and strangers. But here I am, in a battle over wildflowers and soil lines, in love with a woman who probably talks to trees when I'm not looking."
Elara snorted. "They talk first."
Rowan chuckled. "Of course they do."
He turned serious, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I just wanted you to know… no matter what happens with Sterling, I'm not going anywhere."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"I didn't expect you," she said quietly. "And now I can't imagine this fight without you."
"You won't have to."
They sat there as the tide came in, their shoulders touching, the last light of day shimmering on the waves.
The world felt wide and unkind beyond that beach.
But here—just for a moment—Elara let herself believe they might win.
Not because they were stronger.
But because they were still standing.
Together.