Celeste sat next to him, her fingers wrapped around a designer handbag.

She looked up at me, her eyes narrowing into cold slits.

“You’re late,” Graham said, checking his gold watch.

“It’s exactly ten o’clock,” I said.

I walked to the empty chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down.

I placed my leather briefcase flat on the wood.

Harper Sloane stood near the window, her expression carefully neutral.

In the corner sat a woman I had never met.

She had silver hair pulled back into a sharp bun and wore a tailored black coat.

Her eyes were dark, intense, and fixed on me.

“Marisol Keene, I assume,” I said.

The woman bowed her head slightly.

“And you must be the stubborn cousin,” she said, her voice smooth and devoid of warmth.

“I am the owner of Blackthorn Ridge,” I said.

Graham let out a short, irritated laugh.

“Not for much longer,” he said. “We have the papers ready.”

He slid a thick document across the table toward me.

“Sign the quitclaim,” Graham said. “You get your payout, and we can finally put this ridiculous drama to rest.”