"Ex-boyfriend," I corrected firmly. "Very ex."
Mark laughed like I'd made a joke. "She's still upset about a little disagreement we had. You know how women are."
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the chickens seemed to stop clucking. Wyatt's jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grind. Clay appeared from the barn, drawn by some invisible drama radar. Hunter emerged from his shop, wrench still in hand, like he might need a weapon.
"Why don't we start the tour?" I said quickly, desperate to defuse the tension. "The breeding barn first, where the program implementation is most visible."
We walked as a group toward the barn, but Mark stayed glued to my side, his hand finding the small of my back every few steps despite my attempts to create distance. Each touch felt like a brand, and I could feel Wyatt's eyes burning into us from behind.
"The genetic improvements are remarkable," Doug was saying as we entered the barn, reviewing the charts I'd posted. "Conception rates up thirty percent, projected calf weights increased by twelve percent. The board will be very impressed."
"It's a team effort," I said. "The ranch hands have been incredible in implementing the new protocols."
"Don't be modest," Mark interjected, his arm sliding around my waist in a move that made me want to scrub my skin with lye. "You always downplay your brilliance. It's one of the things I love about you."
I stepped away, but he followed, his hand now on my arm, proprietary and possessive. "The credit belongs to everyone here?—"
"This is why you need to take the senior partnership," Doug interrupted, studying the data sheets. "You're wasted out here in the middle of nowhere. Dallas is where you belong. Theinternational expansion Mark's been developing needs someone with your expertise."
"We make such a good team," Mark added, his fingers squeezing my arm. "In the office and out of it. Don't we, sweetheart?"
The endearment made my stomach turn. Behind us, I heard something crack—Wyatt's knuckles, probably, from clenching his fists.
"Don't call me that," I said quietly, but Mark either didn't hear or didn't care.
The tour continued, but it felt more like a hostage situation. Mark's hands were constantly on me—my arm, my back, my shoulder—marking territory that wasn't his to mark. Every touch was a performance for Wyatt, who followed our group with storm clouds gathering in his eyes.
Doug praised everything he saw but kept circling back to Dallas, to the promotion, to the life I'd built there. "The signing bonus alone would set you up for life," he said. "Corner office, company car, six figures plus bonuses. You'd be crazy to pass it up."
"Some things matter more than money," Louisa said from behind us, having joined the tour with the quiet authority of a queen reviewing her realm.
"Do they?" Patricia Pope spoke for the first time, her voice carrying the dismissive tone of someone who'd never worried about money. "In my experience, that's what people say when they can't afford better."
The insult landed like a slap. I saw Owen's face darken, saw Clay take a step forward before Hunter's hand on his arm stopped him.
"You're right," Louisa said smoothly. "We can't afford to compromise our values for a paycheck. That kind of poverty would bankrupt us in ways that matter."
By the time we reached the house for lunch, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Louisa had prepared a spread—pot roast,fresh vegetables from her garden, homemade bread, pie that smelled like heaven. The kind of meal that should bring people together, but instead felt like a battlefield being set.
We sat at the long dining table, Mark maneuvering to sit beside me despite my attempts to avoid him. Wyatt sat directly across, his gaze never leaving Mark's hands every time they touched me.
"So," Harold Williams said, cutting into his pot roast with surgical precision, "when can we expect you back in Dallas, Ivy? The Murphy project needs your expertise."
"The contract here runs through—" I started.
"Contracts can be modified," Doug interrupted. "I'm sure the Blackwoods understand that your talents are needed elsewhere."
"Her talents are needed here," Wyatt said, his voice deceptively calm. "The program is only half-implemented."
"Any competent tech could finish it," Mark said dismissively. "Ivy's too valuable to waste on”—he gestured vaguely at the room, the ranch, everything I'd come to love—“this."
"Careful," Clay said softly. "That's our home you're insulting."
Mark laughed, that practiced sound that had once fooled me into thinking he had genuine joy in him. "I'm not insulting anything. I'm just saying Ivy belongs in a boardroom, not a barn. She's meant for bigger things than playing cowgirl."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" I asked. "Playing?"
"Come on, sweetheart," he said, his hand covering mine on the table. "This whole thing has been fun, I'm sure. Revisiting your roots, playing with cows, reliving your teenage romance?—"
