“Just say it.”
He blinks. Adjusts his glasses. Clears his throat.
“The bank is unable to approve the requested loan restructuring at this time.”
The words land like a bullet to the chest. I keep my face neutral, my breathing even. Ranger training. Never let them see you bleed.
“Risk profile,” I repeat. “That’s interesting. Considering our risk profile hasn’t changed in eighteen months. Same herd numbers. Same revenue streams. Same management.”
Marlon’s eyes flick to something on his desk. A tell. “Market conditions have shifted. Policy changes at the regional level?—”
“What policy changes?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss internal?—”
“We’ve banked here for four generations, Marlon.” I lean forward slightly, and he leans back. “My grandfather helped construct this building. My father’s signature is on the original charter. So when you tell me there are policy changes that suddenly make Stoneridge a risk, I’d like to know what changed.”
Sweat beads at his temple. He reaches for his glasses again and polishes them with a cloth he pulls from his drawer. Buying time.
“The agricultural sector is facing unprecedented challenges.” The words sound rehearsed. Memorized. “Commodity prices, climate variability, operational costs?—”
“Our operational costs are down twelve percent from last year. Delaney Phillips restructured our vendor contracts and consolidated our supply chain. You have the projections. She sent them to you herself.”
“Yes, Ms. Phillips’s work is... impressive.” He can’t quite hide the surprise in his voice. Like he expected us to roll over. “However, the committee felt that given current market pressures, the risk of default?—”
“We’ve never missed a payment.”
“—the potential risk of default outweighs the benefit of restructuring at this time.”
I stare at him. He won’t meet my eyes.
It’s clear that this man isn’t making the decisions. He’s simply delivering them. Someone else is pulling the strings, and Marlon Ennis is just the puppet with the polished desk and the sweaty handshake.
“Perhaps you might consider outside investors,” he says, his voice taking on a different tone now—almost eager, like he’s been waiting to get to this part. “There are development companies that specialize in agricultural properties facing financial headwinds. Companies like LandCorp, for example. They offer very competitive terms for land with... potential.”
Land with potential? And who the fuck is LandCorp?
My instincts flare. Something cold and sharp settles in my gut.
“Potential,” I repeat flatly. “You mean land you can carve up and flip.”
Marlon’s smile tightens a fraction. “I mean land that isn’t being used to its fullest capacity.”
“Funny,” I say. “We’re running at a profit.”
“On paper,” he counters smoothly. “But paper doesn’t account for volatility. Weather. Labor shortages. Market shifts.”
“Neither does greed,” I say.
He clears his throat. “LandCorp has helped many family operations transition gracefully.”
“Transition,” I echo. “That’s a hell of a word for pushing people off land they’ve worked for generations.”
Marlon finally looks at me then—really looks. There’s a flicker of something there. Calculation. Caution.
“This is just an option,” he says quickly. “No commitments. No pressure.”
I stand and lean forward, placing my palms on his desk. “You brought them up. That’s pressure.”
