Chapter 4 - Digging for Truth
By Thursday, the silence on the farm was absolute.
The frantic phone calls had stopped. The realization that I would not yield had finally set in.
But a lingering doubt gnawed at the back of my mind.
Why was Greg so desperate for the stone house? Why was he so angry when the gate wouldn't open? It wasn't just the ego of a rejected groom. It looked like panic.
I called Arthur again.
"Arthur, how well do we actually know Greg's financial situation?"
"Not well," Arthur admitted. "We know he works in venture capital, and his family has old money. Why?"
"I want you to run a background check. A deep one. Look into his businesses, his assets, everything."
"Andrea, that borders on corporate espionage."
"I'm about to hand my only daughter over to this man," I said. "If he is as wealthy as he claims, he can afford to rent a country club for his wedding. But he didn't. He wanted my farm."
Arthur promised to make some calls.
While I waited, I went back to the vines.
The grapes were heavy, dark, and sweet. The harvest was only a few weeks away. I walked the rows, feeling the leaves, checking the soil moisture.
This land demanded honesty. You could not fake a good harvest. You either put in the work, or the vines withered.
Late that evening, Arthur sent me a secure email.
I opened it in my study, a cup of tea cooling beside my laptop.
The document was forty pages long. I didn't need to read all of it. The summary on the first page told me everything I needed to know.
Greg was broke.
Not just broke—he was drowning in debt.
His venture capital firm had gone under two years ago, a fact he had carefully hidden behind leased luxury cars and expensive suits. His family's "old money" was tied up in irrevocable trusts that his mother controlled tightly.
He had taken out massive personal loans to maintain his lifestyle.
And the worst part was hidden in a section regarding his recent financial inquiries.
Three weeks ago, Greg had hired an independent appraiser to assess the value of the stone house and a portion of the surrounding vineyard acreage.
He had also been in contact with a commercial real estate developer who specialized in buying distressed agricultural land to build luxury subdivisions.
My blood ran cold.
He didn't want the stone house to live in.
He wanted the deed so he could leverage it, sell it, or carve it up to pay off his debts.
He had looked at my daughter and seen a naive girl with a wealthy, aging mother. He had looked at my calloused hands and assumed I was a simple, uneducated farmer who wouldn't notice a few legal loopholes in a marriage contract.
He was going to bleed Samantha dry, take the land Thomas and I had bled for, and pave over the vines.
I printed the documents.
I placed them in a clean, unmarked manila folder.
I didn't feel angry anymore. I felt cold, calculating, and dangerously calm.
May you like
The wedding was supposed to be in two days.
I knew exactly what I had to do.
