The morning after the Lavender Gathering dawned with golden light—but something in the air felt off.
Elara stirred awake to the distant rumble of trucks and the faint scent of something acrid. She pulled a shawl over her shoulders and stepped onto the porch. Her heart dropped at what she saw.
A line of sleek, dark vehicles crept along the dirt road that edged Honeyfern's property. Not toward her house—but toward the north ridge. The boundary line. And beyond it… untouched wildland.
Rowan joined her moments later, eyes narrowing.
"That's Sterling's logo," he muttered.
Elara's breath caught. "What is he doing?"
They drove up the ridge road in Rowan's truck, the tires crunching gravel like warning bells. Smoke drifted faintly across the sky—thin and gray, not fire, but something burning all the same. When they crested the ridge, Elara's mouth went dry.
Sterling's men were there. Bulldozers. Orange-vested workers. A stack of freshly torn-down trees piled like corpses beside a growing scar of red earth.
At the edge of it all stood Michael Sterling.
He turned when he saw them approach, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth like oil on water.
"Ah," he said smoothly, "Ms. Hale. Mr. Jameson. Taking a morning drive?"
Elara stepped out of the truck, jaw clenched. "This is protected land."
Sterling arched a brow. "Technically, it's disputed. You've claimed it's part of your property. My lawyers have claimed otherwise. And while the boundary dispute is being sorted… I thought I'd get started."
Rowan stepped forward. "This is intimidation."
Sterling didn't blink. "This is initiative."
Elara felt her heartbeat hammer in her throat.
The wildland was sacred. Her grandmother had once called it the soul of Honeyfern. The lavender fields grew wild there in spring, and deer came to drink from the hidden creek. It wasn't just land—it was legacy.
"You can't do this," she said. "The council hasn't ruled. You're risking environmental violations—"
Sterling smiled, slow and practiced. "I have permits. I have money. What do you have, Elara? Sentiment? A gathering of townsfolk who think nostalgia will save rotting wood?"
Rowan looked like he was about to lunge.
Elara put a hand on his arm. Her voice was cold when she spoke.
"I have truth. And I have the people."
Sterling's smile didn't falter. "People are easily distracted. They come for pie and stories. But when the real decisions are made—in courtrooms, in banks—they don't show up. And neither do lavender fields."
Then he turned, hands in his pockets, walking back toward his caravan of machines.
That night, back at Honeyfern House, the silence was heavier than usual. Elara sat in the garden, the scent of lavender unable to mask the weight in her chest.
Rowan emerged with two mugs of tea. He didn't speak. Just sat beside her, letting the silence say what words couldn't.
Finally, Elara whispered, "He's right about one thing. We can't win this with feelings alone."
Rowan nodded. "So we hit back with facts. Legal ones. Historical ones. Whatever we have."
Elara turned toward him, tears in her eyes. "What if it's not enough? What if he tears it all down before anyone listens?"
He cupped her cheek, gently. "Then we scream louder. We bring in news cameras. We go public. You said it yourself—this isn't just about land. This is about fighting back against people who think they can take whatever they want."
Later, they pulled the maps out again. Elara began marking everything—dates, family records, the history of the north ridge. She called Mrs. Halberd, who promised to expedite the review.
And before she fell asleep that night, Elara drafted a letter. To the local paper. To the environmental preservation board. To the Wryfield town council.
Michael Sterling had declared war.
And she was done playing nice.