Page 80 of Cherished Lands
The dim lightsin Hank's office made everything look cozy and warm—the opposite of how I was feeling. I sat rigid in the leather chair, Elliot's hand warm on my lower back, as our lawyer reviewed the injunction papers scattered across his desk.
Emma had sent leftover cake from Jasper's wedding for Hank, and the untouched container sat beside his coffee mug. He hadn't stopped working since Andy delivered his copy of the papers.
"Forty-eight hours," he said. "That's how long we have to respond before the court grants an automatic stay on construction."
I felt sick. After everything we'd invested—not just money, but dreams, hopes, our future—it could all stop with one court order.
"And our options?" Elliot asked.
"Limited." Hank spread his hands. "The marriage strategy bought us time, but Ray's lawyers are arguing the timing proves it was purely to circumvent the non-compete. They're pushinghard on the fact that you two had no prior romantic relationship."
I almost laughed at that. If they only knew how long I'd been watching Elliot Everton from afar.
Elliot's grip on my hand tightened. "Can they prove it?"
"They don't have to." Hank removed his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes. "The burden of proof is on us to show the marriage is legitimate. If we can do that, the non-compete becomes unenforceable—you'd be legitimately working in your spouse's family business."
"And if we can't?" I had to force the words past the growing lump in my throat.
"Worst case? The court grants the injunction. Construction stops immediately while we fight this out. We're looking at months of delays, mounting costs. You'd miss the summer tourist season."
"Shit." Elliot slumped back and stared at the ceiling. "We'd lose our contractors."
Hank nodded. "And those equipment orders you've got pending? Supply chain's already tight. Any delay could push you back six months, maybe more."
Over half a million dollars in equipment sitting idle in warehouses. And the contractors we'd spent months coordinating wouldn't wait around while we fought this in court.
I clutched my purse. The manila folder from Mom was tucked safely inside. It was a good thing I carried a massive bag because no way in hell was I letting those papers out of my sight. But I wouldn't need them. This wasn't about exposingDad's secrets. This was about proving what Elliot and I had was real.
"How long do we have to prepare our response?" Elliot's question pulled me from my spiraling thoughts.
"We need something solid by tomorrow afternoon." Hank gathered the papers into a neat stack. "I'll work through the night, but I need you both to document everything about your relationship. Every interaction before the marriage, every shared moment since. We need to prove this is genuine."
I felt Elliot's eyes on me, but I couldn't meet his gaze. Because itwasreal now, wasn't it? Somewhere between the fake proposal at Callaghan's and this moment, everything had changed. But how could we prove that to a court when we were barely admitting it to ourselves?
"Get some rest," Hank said, though he showed no signs of following his own advice. "I'll call you first thing with a draft response."
As we stood to leave, Elliot's arm curled around my waist—a gesture that had become so natural I barely noticed it anymore. How many of these little moments would it take to convince a judge that we weren't just playing house?
We hopped into Elliot's truck and drove back home in silence. I couldn't stop fidgeting with my purse strap, too aware of the documents inside. Elliot scowled and gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white in the glow of passing streetlights.
Familiar landmarks slipped by—the Henderson's mailbox with its crooked flag, the old oak where I broke my arm in third grade, the rusted tractor that had sat in Miller's field since beforeI was born. Each one twisted the knot in my stomach tighter. This wasn't just about me and Elliot. This was about Ever Eden, the entire Everton family, about everything we'd built together.
Elliot took the corner onto the orchard drive too fast, the truck's tires crunching over scattered gravel. I pressed my palm against the dashboard to steady myself.
"Sorry," he muttered.
The nearly completed cidery loomed ahead of us. All that progress, all our dreams, hanging by a legal thread. My father's voice echoed in my head:You'll always be a Belmonte.
But when Elliot's warm, steady hand found my thigh, I wasn't so certain about that anymore.
By the time we made it into the house, my nerves were frayed. I paced our kitchen while Elliot leaned against the counter, watching me with concerned eyes.Our kitchen.When had I started thinking of this tiny space asoursinstead ofhis? The coffee mug I'd left out this morning still sat in the dish drain, my fancy face wash had migrated to his shower, and my silk robe hung next to his flannel shirt on the back of the bathroom door. We'd built this life so carefully, piece by piece, and now Dad was threatening to tear it all down.
I glanced at my purse. One email. That's all it would take to make him back off. The thought of using it made me sick, but wasn't that exactly what he'd taught me? Use whatever leverage you have. Win at all costs. God, I was becoming him, wasn't I?
"I could end this." My voice shook. "One email to the right people, and he'd have to back off."
"Tess." Just my name, soft and understanding.
