By the time Elara and Rowan arrived in Portland, the city wore its usual mix of steel-gray skies and wet sidewalks. The courthouse loomed over downtown like a modern fortress—glass panels gleaming coldly, a silent reminder that justice could feel sterile even when it mattered most.
Elara clutched the folder in her lap so tightly the paper edges left faint imprints on her palms.
Inside: the original boundary deed. Her grandmother's handwriting. The small piece of truth they had needed.
Rowan parked and turned to her. "You ready?"
"No," she said. "But I'm going anyway."
The waiting room smelled of bleach and bureaucracy.
Elara sat across from a tall glass wall that overlooked a square of manicured city green. She felt like a foreigner here, out of place among the sleek suits and polished shoes.
Her lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman named Carmen Lin, arrived right on time, heels tapping across the tile. "I filed the deed as supplemental evidence last night. It's admissible, though Sterling's team will try to undermine it."
"They'll say it's fake?" Elara asked.
"They'll say it's incomplete. Or that it doesn't apply to the ridge in question. But we have precedence. We have the chain of title. We have your grandmother's journals as corroboration."
Elara nodded, trying to believe that "enough" still existed in places like this.
Inside the courtroom, Sterling was already seated with his legal team.
He wore a tailored navy suit, and his expression was one of amused detachment—as if none of this was personal, just business. But when his eyes met Elara's across the aisle, there was a flicker of something colder. Possessive.
Like she was a misbehaving tenant trespassing on land he already considered his.
The hearing began.
The judge, a stern woman with a silver bun and perceptive eyes, called the session to order. Both sides gave opening arguments. Sterling's lead counsel, a man named Halbron, moved quickly to invalidate the newly introduced deed.
"This document, while compelling in its visual form, lacks corroboration from modern land surveys," he said. "Furthermore, the amendment references landmark terms no longer in use on contemporary registries. We argue it's outdated and potentially inadmissible."
Carmen rose smoothly. "The deed is from 1967—legally registered and bearing county stamps from the era. Our witness testimony and the accompanying documents prove that the land was actively maintained under the Honeyfern family's stewardship for over five decades."
"And yet," Halbron interjected, "it was never officially plotted on the county's GIS overlay."
"Because the land was designated as agricultural preserve," Carmen fired back. "It wasn't required to be. We have written zoning exemption letters from the 1980s. This is not oversight. This is targeted encroachment."
The judge raised a hand. "Enough. I've reviewed the documents. I will allow the deed into evidence. But I want field validation from a licensed surveyor within five business days. This case hinges on whether Honeyfern Ridge falls within the amended border."
Elara exhaled in relief.
Small victory.
But temporary.
As they exited the courthouse, Sterling was waiting at the base of the stairs, flanked by his PR consultant and two suited men. His smile was wolfish.
"Congratulations," he said, voice smooth as glass. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Elara stood tall. "We have what we need."
"Maybe. But your town doesn't," he said. "Council votes can still shift. The public narrative can still shift. You may win the deed, but lose the heart of Wisteria Bay."
"I'm not fighting for headlines," she replied. "I'm fighting for roots."
Sterling leaned in slightly. "Then you'd better dig deeper. Because I don't just want the ridge anymore. I want the whole hill."
That night, back at Honeyfern, Carmen pulled Elara aside.
"He's filed for a separate injunction," she said. "He wants to prevent you from making any land changes—planting, fencing, or even walking the ridge—until the case concludes."
"Can he do that?"
"If he convinces the judge that your activity could alter the land's character, yes."
Elara looked toward the dark silhouette of the ridge outside the window.
Everything in her wanted to scream.
But instead, she turned to Rowan and said, "Then we get our own surveyor. We prove it. All of it."
"We're not giving up," Rowan said quietly.
"No," Elara said. "We're declaring war."