The driver, Daniel, returned twenty minutes later. The man he led into the grand foyer looked smaller than the high ceilings of the mansion, as though the weight of the rain-soaked wool coat was pressing him down into the polished Italian marble.

The collapse of the riverfront project hit Weston Property Group like a series of falling dominoes.

By Friday morning, news of the City Council's decision was on the front page of the Denver Business Journal. The headline was brutal: WESTON PROPERTY GROUP LOSES $30M RIVERFRONT DEAL TO LOCAL LAND TRUST.

Without the riverfront zoning, Father's multi-million-dollar earnest deposit was forfeited. His primary financial backers—including Arthur Caldwell’s investment firm—pulled their capital out of the company within forty-eight hours, fearing that Garrett Weston had lost his strategic edge.

On day twenty-five of our thirty-day wager, Thomas and I sat in our Colfax apartment, eating dinner.

The small apartment had become a bustling office. The Land Trust had received over fifty inquiries from local craftsmen, historic preservation groups, and community organizers eager to participate in the new park project.

A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the apartment door.

Thomas looked up from his plate, then looked at me. I walked over to the door, pulled back the small brass spyhole cover, and felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach.

Emily stood in the dark, carpeted hallway outside, holding a leather handbag tightly against her chest.

I unlocked the door and opened it.

"Emily?" I said softly.

My younger sister looked pale, her makeup slightly smudged, her expensive clothes looking out of place against the faded yellow wallpaper of the hallway.

"Hannah," Emily whispered, her voice trembling. "Can I... can I come in?"

I stepped aside, allowing her to enter the apartment. She walked into the tiny kitchen, looking around at the simple table, the wooden chairs, and the stacks of blueprints resting on the counter.

Thomas stood up respectfully, nodding to her. "Good evening, Emily."

Emily looked at Thomas, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and embarrassment. "Mr. Ward."

She turned back to me, tears welling up in her eyes. "Hannah... everything is falling apart at home."

I pulled out a folding chair for her. "Sit down, Emily. Tell me what happened."

Emily sat down, burying her face in her hands for a moment before looking up. "Father... he hasn't left his study in three days. The board of directors held an emergency meeting yesterday. They're demanding his resignation as CEO. They say his personal vendetta against you ruined the biggest deal in the company's history."

"And Natalie?" I asked.

"Natalie packing her bags," Emily said, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Her fiancé, Preston Caldwell, broke off their family arrangement after his father pulled his money out of the firm. Natalie is hysterical. She’s realization that without Father's money, none of those people actually cared about us."

Silence filled the room. I looked at Thomas, who stood quietly near the counter, offering no judgment, simply listening.

"Why are you here, Emily?" I asked gently.

Emily pulled a small, folded envelope from her purse and set it on the table between us.

"Father received a notice from the estate lawyer today," Emily said softly. "The thirty days are up on Tuesday. According to the contract you signed in the foyer, you won the wager, Hannah. You didn't break. You didn't ask for money."

She pushed the envelope toward me.

"Inside is the deed to Mother's old downtown art gallery building," Emily whispered. "Father signed it this afternoon. He didn't say a word. He just signed it, handed it to me, and told me to bring it to you."

I picked up the envelope. I opened it and pulled out the legal document. There, at the bottom of the deed, was Garrett Weston’s signature—shaky, thin, lacking its usual bold arrogance.

Mother’s art gallery building was mine. Free and clear.

"He asked me to give you a message," Emily added, her voice dropping to a whisper.