Rashi didn't blink.
Not when Greg Veralta said he was here for the coffee farm.
Not when the village's whispers turned into sharp, excited gasps—
the kind people made when they finally smelled blood.
She kept her chin up, her hands still at her sides, even though her pulse was loud enough to hurt.
Greg stood in front of her like a man who had never lost an argument in his life.
Clean coat.
Polished shoes.
Eyes dark and controlled.
The kind of city man villagers feared, not because he shouted—
but because he didn't have to.
Behind Rashi, Vera Ashbourne's voice cut through the air.
"Greg."
That single word was tight.
A warning.
A claim.
Greg didn't even look at her.
His gaze stayed on Rashi, as if the entire village was background noise.
"You heard me," he said calmly. "I'm here for the farm."
Rashi stared back. "Then you came for the wrong person."
A few people laughed under their breath.
Not because it was funny.
Because they thought she was brave in the way a widow was brave before she broke.
Mara Whitlock stepped forward again, smiling like she'd been waiting her whole life to host this moment.
"Oh, Mr. Veralta," she said, voice dripping sweetness. "We're so relieved you're here. This is a delicate situation, you understand… The poor widow is emotional."
Rashi's eyes slid to Mara.
Emotional.
That word always meant: weak enough to steal from.
Greg's gaze flicked once toward Mara.
Just once.
And it was enough to make her smile stiffen.
"I didn't ask for your explanation," he said.
Mara froze.
The crowd murmured again—this time not in excitement.
In shock.
Because Greg had spoken to Mara like she was nothing.
Rashi felt it in her bones.
This man didn't belong here.
He wasn't afraid of the village's rules.
He didn't even acknowledge them.
Vera finally stepped forward, the air around her turning colder.
"Greg," she repeated, softer now. "This isn't the time."
Greg's lips curved slightly, not kind.
"It's always the time when property is involved."
Vera's smile returned—elegant, poisonous.
"We're in mourning."
Greg's eyes didn't soften. "Mourning doesn't stop paperwork."
The words hit the crowd like a slap.
Rashi's stomach tightened.
Paperwork.
That was the real coffin here.
Not the one under the canopy.
Vera gestured toward the table near the house, where the transfer paper still sat waiting like a trap.
"She just needs to sign," Vera said. "It will make everything easier. She can leave peacefully."
Leave.
Peacefully.
Like a dead thing.
Rashi's fingers curled.
She stepped forward, voice steady.
"I'm not leaving," she said. "And I'm not signing."
Vera turned to her, eyes sharp. "Rashi, don't make this harder than it has to be."
Rashi met her gaze.
"You already did."
The crowd shifted, restless.
They wanted drama.
They wanted the widow to fall apart.
They wanted the outsider to beg.
Rashi refused to give them the satisfaction.
But inside, her mind was moving fast.
1984.
A husband dead.
A farm everyone wanted.
A paper waiting to steal her life.
And now—
a city man with a calm voice and dangerous eyes standing in front of her like he owned the future.
Greg's gaze moved over the farm hill behind the houses.
He didn't look at it like it was beautiful.
He looked at it like it was valuable.
Then he spoke again, low enough for only Rashi to hear.
"Do you know what you're sitting on?"
Rashi didn't answer.
Greg continued, voice quiet, almost bored.
"That land isn't just a farm. It's a supply line. It's a brand. It's a market."
His eyes flicked back to hers.
"And you're standing in the middle of a war you don't understand yet."
Rashi's jaw tightened.
"You think I don't understand war?" she asked softly.
Greg's gaze sharpened, like he liked the bite in her voice.
"I think you understand survival," he said. "But survival won't be enough."
Rashi's chest rose slowly.
"Then what do you want?"
Greg didn't hesitate.
"I want your beans."
The crowd behind them reacted like he'd said something obscene.
Rashi didn't flinch.
Greg added, still calm, "And I want them exclusively."
Vera's voice snapped.
"Absolutely not."
Greg finally turned his head toward Vera, expression unreadable.
"You're not the one I'm negotiating with."
Vera's smile cracked for half a second.
Rashi felt the shift.
This wasn't just Greg vs the village.
This was Greg vs the Ashbourne name.
And Rashi—
was the key in the middle.
Mara recovered fast, stepping closer with fake concern.
"Rashi," she said sweetly, "don't be greedy. A man like Mr. Veralta doesn't come here for you. He comes for what you're holding."
Rashi's eyes narrowed.
Mara's smile widened.
"So be smart," she whispered. "Sign the paper. Leave. Let the family handle it. You'll only bring more misfortune."
Rashi's blood ran cold.
Misfortune.
Curse.
Widow.
Outsider.
They weren't just trying to take her land.
They were trying to erase her existence.
Greg spoke again, voice slicing through the air.
"She won't sign," he said.
The certainty in his tone made the village quiet.
Rashi looked at him.
He hadn't asked her.
He'd decided.
And that—
that was dangerous too.
Vera's eyes flashed. "You're very confident."
Greg's expression didn't change.
"I don't gamble with things I can calculate."
Rashi's throat tightened.
So he was calculating her.
Her farm.
Her life.
Her refusal.
Greg took a step closer to the table and picked up the transfer paper.
He glanced at it once.
Then held it up like it disgusted him.
"This is sloppy," he said.
Vera's smile stiffened. "Excuse me?"
Greg's gaze stayed cold.
"You're pushing a grieving widow to sign a transfer during a funeral," he said. "In front of witnesses. With no independent counsel."
The crowd stirred.
Some didn't understand the words.
But they understood the tone.
Greg looked at the villagers now.
"Do you know what happens in the city when someone tries this?"
Silence.
Mara swallowed.
Vera's eyes narrowed.
Greg's voice stayed calm.
"They get arrested."
The word hit like thunder.
Rashi felt it in her spine.
Arrested.
The village wasn't used to consequences.
They were used to gossip and pressure and quiet cruelty.
Not consequences.
Vera recovered first.
"We're not in the city," she said smoothly. "This is family business."
Greg's eyes returned to her.
"No," he said. "This is theft wearing black clothing."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Vera's face tightened.
For the first time, she looked like she wanted to slap someone.
But she couldn't.
Not here.
Not with eyes watching.
Not with Greg Veralta standing like a blade.
Rashi's stomach twisted.
She should've felt relief.
Instead, she felt something else.
A warning.
Because if Greg could cut Vera like this…
he could cut Rashi too.
Greg lowered the paper, then looked at Rashi again.
"I'll offer you a contract," he said.
Rashi's eyes narrowed.
"A contract?" she repeated.
Greg nodded once.
"A purchase agreement," he said. "Exclusive supply. Fair price. Protection."
Protection.
That word sounded too much like ownership.
Rashi's voice stayed flat. "And what do you get?"
Greg's lips curved faintly.
"What I came for."
Rashi stepped closer, until the space between them felt like a wire pulled tight.
"And if I refuse?"
Greg's gaze didn't flicker.
"Then I'll buy everything around you," he said quietly. "The market. The storage. The roads. The people who sell you sacks. The people who transport your beans."
Rashi's breath caught.
Greg continued, tone calm as death.
"And you'll still lose. You'll just lose slower."
The cruelty wasn't in his voice.
It was in his certainty.
Rashi felt heat rise behind her eyes.
Not tears.
Anger.
The kind that burned clean.
"You're threatening me," she said.
Greg tilted his head slightly.
"I'm telling you the truth," he replied. "The world doesn't care that you're a widow. The world cares about value."
Rashi's fingers tightened.
The crowd behind them started whispering again, louder now.
Because they could smell the shift.
They could smell Rashi being cornered.
Mara's eyes gleamed.
Vera's smile returned, sharp and satisfied.
This was what they wanted.
For the widow to be forced to kneel—by anyone.
Rashi looked at Greg.
Then at Vera.
Then at the coffin.
And she understood something terrifying.
Her husband's death wasn't the beginning of her tragedy.
It was the opening move of a game she hadn't agreed to play.
Rashi reached out and took the paper from Greg's hand.
The villagers leaned forward.
Vera's eyes brightened.
Mara almost smiled.
Rashi stared at the transfer lines.
Then—
she tore it.
Once.
Twice.
The paper split clean in her hands like dry leaves.
The sound was small.
But the effect was massive.
The crowd froze.
Vera's face went white.
Mara's mouth opened in shock.
Rashi dropped the torn pieces onto the ground like ashes.
"I'm not signing anything," she said, voice clear. "Not yours. Not hers. Not anyone's."
Vera's voice shook with fury. "You stupid girl—!"
Rashi turned her head slowly.
"Say it louder," she said. "So everyone can hear what kind of mourning you brought here."
Vera's lips trembled.
She didn't speak.
Because she couldn't.
Not without exposing herself.
Rashi faced the crowd.
"I will bury my husband," she said. "And then I will bury every rumor you ever used to control me."
The village murmured, unsettled now.
Because they weren't used to widows who fought back.
Greg watched her.
For the first time, something shifted in his eyes.
Not pity.
Not softness.
Interest.
Real interest.
He stepped closer, voice low.
"You just made yourself a target," he said.
Rashi didn't look away.
"I already was."
Greg's lips curved slightly.
Then he spoke, quiet enough that only she could hear the next sentence.
"Good," he murmured. "Targets are easier to protect."
Rashi's stomach dropped.
Protect.
Or possess?
Before she could answer, Greg reached into his coat and pulled out a small black notebook.
He flipped it open, then held it out—not to the crowd.
To her.
A page filled with numbers, notes, and one name written in sharp ink.
Her husband's name.
Rashi's breath stopped.
Greg's voice was calm.
"Your husband contacted me," he said. "Before he died."
The world tilted.
Rashi stared at the name, her pulse roaring in her ears.
The village noise faded into nothing.
All she could hear was the blood in her head.
Greg watched her carefully.
"He didn't sell," Greg added. "He asked for protection."
Rashi's fingers trembled as she stared at the page.
Her husband.
Her dead husband.
He had known.
He had known the farm was a war.
And he had reached out to Greg Veralta—
the man standing in front of her now like fate with a suit on.
Rashi's voice came out barely above a whisper.
"…Why didn't you come sooner?"
Greg's gaze didn't soften.
"Because he told me not to," he said.
Then he leaned closer, voice dropping into something colder.
"He said if I came too early… they'd kill him faster."
Rashi's throat tightened.
Her eyes burned.
Not with grief.
With realization.
This wasn't an accident.
This was murder in slow clothing.
Greg closed the notebook.
His gaze locked on hers.
"And now," he said, "they're going to try again."
Rashi's fingers curled into fists.
The funeral air felt heavier.
The hill behind the houses looked darker.
Like it was listening.
Greg's voice lowered, sharp and quiet.
"So tell me, widow…"
He stepped closer.
"…are you going to keep fighting alone?"
Rashi swallowed, eyes locked on his.
"No," she said.
Then her voice hardened.
"But I'm not joining you either."
Greg's lips curved.
A real smile this time.
Small.
Dangerous.
"Fine," he murmured.
"Then we'll make a deal."
END OF CHAPTER 2
CLIFFHANGER: HIS NAME IN THE NOTEBOOK