The funeral ended without peace.
Not because people cried.
Not because grief was heavy.
But because the air itself felt hostile—
like the hill was watching who would dare to claim it next.
When the last prayer was spoken, the villagers didn't leave.
They lingered.
Like vultures waiting for the widow to collapse.
Rashi stood beside the coffin until the soil covered it completely.
Her nails dug into her palms the whole time.
She didn't know if she loved the man buried there.
But she knew one thing:
Someone killed him for this land.
And they would kill her next if she let them.
When the crowd finally began to break apart, Vera Ashbourne stepped closer again, her black dress too clean for a woman pretending to mourn.
"You've embarrassed the family," Vera said softly.
Rashi didn't look at her.
"I buried my husband," she replied. "Not your reputation."
Vera's jaw tightened.
Mara Whitlock hovered behind her, eyes bright with the kind of excitement that belonged in a theater, not a funeral.
"Rashi," Mara cooed, "you're making enemies. You're alone. You can't fight everyone."
Rashi turned her head slowly.
Her voice was calm.
"I'm not trying to fight everyone."
She paused.
"I'm trying to survive the ones who want me dead."
That sentence made the women behind Mara go quiet.
Even the village gossipers stopped whispering for a second.
Because survival wasn't dramatic.
It was real.
Vera's smile returned, thin and sharp.
"Careful," she warned. "People will start thinking you're accusing someone."
Rashi finally looked at her.
"I am."
Vera's eyes flashed.
But before she could speak again—
Greg Veralta stepped forward, cutting through the space like a blade through cloth.
"Enough," he said.
His voice wasn't loud.
But it didn't need to be.
The village shifted instinctively, making room for him like they were afraid their bodies might offend him.
Rashi hated that.
Hated how power moved people without permission.
Greg stopped beside her.
Not behind her.
Not in front.
Beside.
Like he was making a statement.
Vera's eyes narrowed.
"This is family business," she said again, like repeating it would make it true.
Greg's gaze stayed cold.
"This is murder business," he corrected.
The word hit the air like a match.
Mara gasped.
Someone in the crowd whispered, "He said murder…"
Vera's face didn't change, but her fingers twitched slightly.
A crack.
A tell.
Greg watched it.
Then he turned his eyes to Rashi.
"Walk," he said quietly.
Rashi didn't move.
"I don't take orders," she replied.
Greg's mouth curved faintly.
"I know," he said. "That's why you're still alive."
Rashi's stomach tightened.
Alive.
As if death had already been scheduled for her.
Greg leaned slightly closer, voice lower.
"They're going to corner you tonight," he murmured. "Not in public. Not with witnesses. They'll do it quietly."
Rashi's throat went dry.
She didn't want to believe him.
But she could feel it.
The village had been waiting for her to be alone.
Vera lifted her chin, pretending she couldn't hear.
"You're scaring her," she said, sweet as poison. "How cruel, Mr. Veralta. She's grieving."
Greg didn't even glance at her.
"She's not grieving," he said.
Then his eyes flicked to Rashi's hands.
"She's calculating."
Rashi's jaw clenched.
Because he was right.
She wasn't crying.
She was counting.
Counting exits.
Counting faces.
Counting threats.
Greg spoke again, voice calm.
"If you want to keep the farm, you need a contract tonight."
Rashi's eyes narrowed.
"A contract with you."
Greg's gaze didn't flinch.
"A contract that makes you untouchable."
Rashi scoffed. "Nothing makes a woman untouchable."
Greg's voice dropped.
"Money does," he said. "And signatures."
Rashi stared at him.
She hated how true it sounded.
She hated that she needed it.
Mara suddenly stepped forward, voice too bright.
"Rashi, don't be fooled," she said. "City men don't help for free. He'll take your farm and leave you with nothing."
Rashi looked at Mara like she was dirt under her shoe.
"Don't pretend you care about me," she said softly. "You've been waiting for me to disappear since I arrived."
Mara's smile twitched.
Vera's eyes sharpened.
Greg watched the exchange, then spoke with deadly calm.
"I'll make this simple," he said.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded document.
Not the transfer paper.
This one was clean.
Typed.
Stamped.
A real contract.
He held it out to Rashi.
"Exclusive supply agreement," he said. "Ten years."
Rashi didn't take it.
"Ten years?" she repeated. "That's not protection. That's a leash."
Greg's gaze stayed steady.
"A leash keeps wolves from biting," he replied.
Rashi's breath caught.
Wolves.
So he knew.
He knew the village wasn't the real threat.
It was whoever had money behind them.
Whoever wanted the hill.
Rashi's voice stayed sharp.
"And what do you get?"
Greg didn't hesitate.
"Control," he said.
Rashi's eyes narrowed further.
"At least you're honest."
Greg's lips curved faintly again.
"I don't lie about business," he said. "Only about feelings."
Rashi froze.
For half a second, her mind didn't know how to respond.
Then she forced herself to breathe.
Feelings.
No.
Not here.
Not now.
Not with vultures watching.
Rashi reached out and took the contract.
The paper felt heavy.
Not physically.
Morally.
She scanned the first page fast.
Price per kilo.
Delivery schedule.
Penalties.
And one line that made her spine go cold.
PROTECTION CLAUSE — Any party interfering with the supplier's operation will be pursued legally and financially by Veralta Trading Co.
Rashi looked up slowly.
"You'll go after them?" she asked.
Greg's eyes stayed on hers.
"I'll destroy them," he corrected.
Rashi's throat tightened.
Destroy.
That was a word men used when they didn't see people.
Only obstacles.
And yet—
for the first time since she woke up in 1984…
Rashi felt something close to safety.
Which terrified her.
Because safety bought with someone else's power always came with a price.
Rashi's voice went low.
"Why me?"
Greg's gaze didn't shift.
"Because your husband chose you," he said.
Rashi's breath caught again.
Greg continued, voice even.
"He could've sold. He could've run. He didn't."
Rashi swallowed.
"You said he contacted you," she murmured. "What did he say?"
Greg's eyes darkened slightly.
"He said the Ashbournes would eat you alive," he answered. "And he said you'd still bite back."
Rashi's fingers tightened around the contract.
Her husband—
whoever he was—
had seen her.
Seen the part of her that didn't kneel.
Mara scoffed behind them.
"This is ridiculous," she snapped. "You're really going to sign with a stranger? You don't even know him!"
Rashi turned her head slowly.
Her voice was calm.
"I don't know you either," she said. "And you're the one trying to bury me."
Mara's face flushed.
Vera stepped forward, tone icy.
"If you sign that," she warned, "you'll regret it."
Rashi looked at Vera.
"Is that a threat?" she asked.
Vera's smile returned.
"It's advice."
Rashi's lips curved slightly.
"Then keep it," she said. "I don't take advice from thieves."
The crowd gasped again.
Vera's eyes went sharp enough to cut.
Greg leaned closer to Rashi, voice low.
"Sign," he murmured. "And walk away with your spine intact."
Rashi stared at the contract.
Then she looked at the hill.
The farm.
The house.
The soil that smelled like wet earth and roasted beans.
Her second life.
Her second chance.
If she let them take it…
she'd die the same way she died before.
Tired.
Kind.
Invisible.
Rashi pulled the pen from the fold.
She signed.
The moment her name hit the paper—
the air changed.
It was subtle.
But real.
Like the hill exhaled.
Greg took the contract back, folded it once, and slipped it into his coat like it was a weapon.
Then he looked at Rashi.
"Tonight," he said quietly, "you don't sleep alone."
The villagers reacted immediately.
Whispers exploded.
Mara's eyes widened like she'd just been handed a scandal on a silver tray.
Vera's lips parted in shock.
Rashi's blood turned cold.
"What?" she snapped, turning toward Greg. "No."
Greg's expression didn't change.
"Not like that," he said.
His eyes flicked toward the crowd.
"They'll twist it anyway," he added. "But I don't care."
Rashi's jaw clenched.
Of course.
Of course the village would turn survival into shame.
Greg stepped closer, voice low enough for only her.
"I have men outside the hill," he murmured. "They'll watch the road."
Rashi's eyes narrowed. "You came prepared."
Greg's gaze held hers.
"I came because your husband begged me," he said. "And because someone else is coming too."
Rashi's stomach dropped.
"Who?" she whispered.
Greg's eyes slid past her shoulder.
Toward the far end of the village road.
A black car had appeared there.
Not a village truck.
Not a farmer's vehicle.
A city car.
Glossy.
Quiet.
Expensive.
It stopped.
A man stepped out.
Not Greg's man.
Not Vera's man.
Someone new.
Someone with a coat too clean and a face too calm.
He looked toward the hill.
Toward the house.
Toward Rashi.
Then he smiled.
Not friendly.
Like he'd found what he came for.
Greg's voice dropped, sharp.
"That," he murmured, "is the buyer your husband refused."
Rashi's breath caught.
The stranger started walking toward them.
Slow.
Certain.
Like the farm already belonged to him.
Rashi's fingers tightened.
Greg stepped half a pace closer, his voice like steel.
"Welcome to the real war, widow."
CLIFFHANGER: THE OTHER BUYER ARRIVES