You chose to get your hands dirty rather than build a real career. You turned down every opportunity Marcus and I offered you. Now you’ll see what happens when dreams collide with reality. I could have contradicted them right then and there. I could have produced the contracts, the financial statements, the client testimonials. I could have proven them wrong.
But I didn’t, because I’d learned long ago that my family wasn’t swayed by words. Only proof mattered. Irrefutable, public proof, impossible to refute. « The expert is coming on Friday, » I asked. Friday morning, 9:00 a.m. Marcus seemed satisfied. « I’ll be there to make sure everything runs smoothly. » « Very well. See you Friday. »
They left convinced they had won. Little did they know what awaited them. My farm, Green Valley Organic, was born from six years of hard work, from nothing. When I left my marketing job to dedicate myself to farming, my family was horrified. Marcus talked about a quarter-life crisis. My mother suggested therapy.
My father, the only one to withdraw his support, gave me $35,000 and told me to prove them wrong. He died two years later, never seeing what I had accomplished. But I kept his faith in me through every hardship. The first few years were terrible. I made every mistake a young farmer could possibly make, losing entire crops to bad weather, pests, and my inexperience.
But I had also learned, I had adapted, I had found my path. I quickly understood that mass agriculture was a relentless race to the bottom. Large farms systematically offered lower prices than small farms, both in terms of volume and price. So, I made the opposite choice: to produce high-end specialty fruits and vegetables, impossible to mass-produce. I cultivated heirloom tomato varieties that most farmers had abandoned decades ago.
I cultivated microgreens so delicate they had to be harvested by hand. I forged connections with seed collectors around the world to access ingredients unavailable elsewhere. And I compiled an address book that read like a who’s who of American haute cuisine: The Green Fork in Manhattan, Seaside in Boston, Harvest Moon in Philadelphia—twelve Michelin-starred restaurants in total, not to mention some thirty high-end establishments, gourmet shops, and private chefs catering to an ultra-wealthy clientele. My expectation
The waiting list for new clients stretched back 18 months. Chefs who wanted to source fresh produce had to sign contracts guaranteeing minimum orders for two years. Some of my rarest products, like purple carrots, golden beets, and the 12 varieties of heirloom garlic, fetched prices that would have made my farming neighbors green with envy.
But none of this was public knowledge. I deliberately cultivated discretion. No social media presence, no media coverage, no farm visits for curious foodies. My customers appreciated the discretion. They didn’t want their competitors to know where their ingredients came from, and I valued the privacy. To the outside world, I was simply a woman with a small organic farm, probably eking out a living selling vegetables at farmers’ markets.
In the restaurant industry, I was the most sought-after supplier of fresh produce on the East Coast. My family had never questioned which version was correct. They had always believed it was the first, because it confirmed their belief that I was a failure. They were about to discover their mistake. Friday morning arrived, crisp and clear. Perfect weather to shatter my family’s illusions.
Marcus arrived at 8:30 a.m., dressed in an overly formal suit that looked absurd on a working farm. My mother accompanied him, wearing an expression of anticipated satisfaction. They had also brought my Aunt Patricia, no doubt so she could witness my humiliation. At precisely 9:00 a.m., a county vehicle pulled up in front of the house.
The expert was a middle-aged man named Thomas Brennan. He got out of his car, notepad and camera in hand, displaying the methodical air of someone who had appraised thousands of properties over the course of his career. « Miss Delacroy, I’m here for the court-ordered appraisal. Please feel free to consult anything you need. » Marcus immediately took his place.
The property spans approximately 40 acres. It includes an original farmhouse, a few outbuildings, and a rudimentary irrigation system. I’ve done some preliminary research. Comparable farmland in this county sells for about $8,000 an acre. So the appraisal should be straightforward. Thomas glanced at him. « And you are? » « Marcus Delroy, the estate attorney. »
My mother is the director. I see. Thomas took notes on his notepad. I appreciate your input, but I need to conduct my own assessment. That takes time. How much time are we talking about? Several hours at a minimum. Agricultural properties require a comprehensive evaluation: soil quality, water rights, condition of infrastructure, equipment, or specialized facilities.
He glanced around, his gaze settling on the greenhouse complex. « These structures, for example, will require individual inspection. » « They’re just greenhouses, » Marcus said dismissively. « Plastic and pipes. » Thomas didn’t reply. He was already heading out to the fields. The assessment lasted four hours. Thomas inspected every hectare.
He photographed the greenhouses, climate-controlled warehouses, and specialized irrigation systems I had installed. He examined my processing areas, seed stocks, and propagation labs. After about an hour, his demeanor began to change. He made several phone calls. His voice was too low for me to hear the details, but his body language spoke volumes.
The way he straightened up, the way he started taking more photos, the way he kept going back to examine what he’d already seen… Marcus was getting more and more impatient. “This is never-ending!” “It’s just a farm.” “It’s a complex farm operation,” Thomas corrected. “I see investments in infrastructure. I need to check the specialized equipment.”
Controlled environment agriculture requiring expert assessment. Expert assessment for vegetables. Thomas stared at Marcus for a long moment. « Sir, do you know what’s being grown here? Organic produce? Tomatoes, lettuce, and so on. The kind of things you sell at markets. I see. » Thomas took another note.
Miss Delroy, may I consult your client files? Of course. They’re right here in my office. I led her to the small building where I handled the administrative side of the farm. Behind me, I could hear Marcus and my mother. Finally, intrigued by what was happening, I opened my filing cabinet and took out the client file. It contained my current contracts, active client relationships, guaranteed orders, and payment history.
Thomas opened the file. He read the first page, then the second. He stopped and looked at me, barely surprised. « Miss Delroy, is that right? You supply the Green Fork? » « Yes. They’ve been clients for four years. » « And Seaside, Harvest Moon, yes and yes. And this list: twelve Michelin-starred restaurants. » « Thirteen. »
Last month, Lumière and Baltimore earned their first star. They’ve been my clients for two years. Thomas put down the file and took out his phone. « I need to make a call. » He went outside. Through the window, I could see him speaking urgently on the phone, pointing at the talons and occasionally glancing incredulously at my desk.
Marcus appeared in the doorway. What’s going on? What’s in this file? My business documents. Let me see. No, I’m the estate’s attorney. You’re the attorney trying to seize my assets based on a fraudulent claim. You have no right to access my private business documents. There’s a loan.
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