"The scanned file is missing the signed delivery acknowledgment," Maya said. Her voice cut through the phone speaker at seven the next morning, sharp and professional.
I stopped pacing my bedroom. "Missing? Maya, how does a court document just vanish?"
"Clerical error. Negligence. Or someone paid to have it delayed," she replied. "We can't declare the divorce invalid just yet. I need to pull the original court documents from the county clerk."
"How long will that take?" I asked, gripping the edge of my dresser.
"A few days. Do not let Julian know we found a discrepancy. Act perfectly normal."
I ended the call and shoved the phone into my back pocket. I forced my breathing to slow. I could not afford to let Julian see my panic. He thrived on finding weak points.
I found Beck and Julian in the operations office an hour later. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on.
Julian's version of the employment contract lay flat on my desk. It listed Beck as a Cross Meridian field employee, covering his salary, insurance, and safety gear.
Beck stared at the paper. He picked up a black pen and dragged the tip across paragraph three. The ink bled through the page.
"Subject to investor directives on material risk," Beck read aloud, his tone mocking. He tossed the pen onto the wood. "What exactly does that mean, Vivian?"
Julian stood by the window, adjusting his cuffs. "It means whoever pays the insurance gets the final say on hazards."
"I wasn't asking you," Beck snapped. He kept his eyes locked on me. "If push comes to shove, do you want to save cash, or do you want my independent judgment?"
I didn't try to act tough. The red numbers from yesterday's spreadsheet were still burned into my memory. We needed the money.
"I need the payroll relief," I told Beck, keeping my voice steady. "We are bleeding cash. But I won't accept Julian using a paycheck to turn you into a monitor. You do not report to him."
Beck nodded once. He grabbed the pen again and scribbled heavily in the margin. "Then we change the terms."
He pushed the paper toward me. "I take Cross Meridian's money. But I only answer to Juniper Ridge's safety standards. Any decision that impacts the guests, the horses, or the daily operations requires your written confirmation." He pointed a calloused finger at the signature line. "Only yours."
Julian turned from the window. During our marriage, he would have instantly offered a faster, more efficient solution. He would have rewritten the clause himself to save time. Now, he just walked to the desk and tapped the edge of the modified paper.
"Sign it," Julian said to Beck. "But remember, you are now an employee. You are also a potential conflict of interest."
Beck didn't hesitate. He signed his name with sharp, aggressive strokes. "Then don't force me to pick the wrong boss."
Julian left the room to take a call. Two minutes later, his assistant walked in, placed a silver Cross Meridian name badge on the desk, and quickly exited.
Beck picked it up. He traced the engraved corporate logo with his thumb, then shoved the metal piece deep into his denim shirt pocket. He didn't pin it to his chest.
"Thank you," I said, breaking the silence. "I know taking his money is a humiliating setup."
Beck grabbed his worn leather work gloves from the back of the chair. "Don't thank me."
"You just compromised your independence to save my budget."
"I stayed because seven months ago, you looked at a frayed girth and admitted you were wrong about the safety cuts," Beck said, his voice dropping. "You didn't make excuses. You fixed it. I'm not here to be anyone's hero, Vivian."
His words hit harder than a complaint. I remembered sitting across from Julian years ago, spending hours explaining why a specific fabric or a certain lighting fixture mattered for a hotel project. Julian would just slide a blank check across the table.
You decide, he would say. He never listened to the why.
Beck didn't want my gratitude. He wanted me to keep making the hard calls. That expectation made it impossible for me to back down.
The lodge kitchen was quiet at nine o'clock. I walked in to grab a glass of water and stopped in the doorway.
Julian stood by the stove. He held a familiar green tin in his left hand. My favorite decaf chamomile.
He reached for the kettle, then stopped. His hand hovered over the handle. He looked over his shoulder at me. "May I?"
My spine stiffened. That tiny hesitation felt incredibly dangerous. He still remembered my evening habits, but now he asked for permission. He was playing a new game.
"I can pour my own water," I said, stepping past him to grab a mug from the cabinet.
"You always drank this after a long board meeting," Julian noted, setting the tin down on the granite counter.
"This isn't a board meeting. It's a ranch."
The heavy mudroom door swung open. Beck stepped into the kitchen, holding a stack of patrol logs. He stopped dead.
His boots scuffed against the tile. His gaze darted between Julian and me, taking in the sight of us standing close together under the single amber pendant light. The air in the room instantly thickened.
"I'll leave these on the desk," Beck said, his voice tight. He took a step backward toward the hall.
"Beck, wait, I was just—" I started, turning away from the counter.
Julian moved faster. He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer, pulled out a folded document covered in red ink, and pushed it across the kitchen island. The paper slid to a halt right under the pendant light.
Beck paused. "What is that?" he asked, his eyes narrowing at the legal seal visible on the top page.
Julian didn't look at Beck. He kept his gaze on me, his expression unreadable. "You should know first. The person you're protecting might not legally be single yet."
