Owned by the Ex

The glass walls of the Vane-Corp boardroom offered a panoramic view of Manhattan that usually made Silas Vane feel like a god. Today he felt like a man standing on a trapdoor. He sat at the head of the obsidian table and watched his Chief Operating Officer, Julian Thorne, pace the length of the room. Julian was wearing a suit that cost more than a mid-sized sedan and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Julian stopped pacing and leaned over the table, sliding a tablet across the dark surface. He pointed at a highlighted paragraph on the screen. He told Silas that the foundational code for the entire operating system was never legally severed from his marriage to June Ashby. Because they lived in Georgia and used a DIY divorce kit, the intellectual property was still considered a shared asset.

Julian looked at Silas with a mixture of pity and calculation. He said the board was already asking questions about the Globex merger. He reminded Silas that if this didn't get resolved immediately, the twenty-billion-dollar deal would collapse and the board would vote for a new CEO. Julian didn't have to say that he was the first in line for the job. Silas could see the ambition radiating off him like heat.

Silas stood up and grabbed his jacket. He told Julian to manage the press and keep the board quiet while he went to Oakhaven to get the signature. Julian's smile widened as he warned Silas that some debts couldn't be paid in cash. Silas didn't wait for a response. He walked out of the room with the measured stride of a man who was used to winning every fight.

The transition from the sterile air of New York to the heavy humidity of Georgia was a physical blow. Silas watched the scenery shift from steel skyscrapers to the endless rows of pine trees that guarded the entrance to Oakhaven. By the time his driver pulled into the gravel driveway of Blackwood Orchard, the sun was beginning to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the trees.

The orchard looked smaller and more desperate than Silas remembered. The fences were leaning at dangerous angles and the barn was gray with age. He saw a figure working near the edge of the grove.

June Ashby was hauling a crate of apples toward a rusted tractor. She was thirty-one now and the soft edges of the girl Silas used to know had been sharpened by a decade of hard work. She wore heavy denim and a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her skin was tanned by the sun and her hair was pulled into a messy braid.

Silas stepped out of the SUV. The dust from the driveway coated his polished shoes. He walked toward her and felt a familiar pull in his chest that he had spent ten years trying to ignore. June didn't look up until he was five feet away. She set the crate down