Declan McConnell closed his presentation with confidence. “The environmental report is clean.”

To Maren Islay, this lie tasted like salt. She rolled it around on her tongue, savoring the moment. She turned her gaze from Declan to his brother, Liam. Then she looked past both of them to take in the panoramic view of the glittering harbor behind them.

Then she turned her attention back to the McConnell brothers, heirs to a once-mighty shipping dynasty that no longer needed a port in this city. “The environmental report you gave me was clean. The report I commissioned provides a very different picture.”

Maren opened a file and took out two documents. She slid both across the vast expanse of mahogany that separated her from the McConnell’s. She gave them a few moments to skim what she’d given them, and she knew the precise moment when Liam began to sweat. It wasn’t long before she could smell the fear pouring off Declan, too. The boardroom began to fill with the scent of Liam’s too-large Brioni suit, Declan’s Penhaglion’s shaving soap, and McConnell desperation. She was looking at everything these pitiful men were about to sign away.

“You can keep those copies of the report. For now, it would probably be more efficient for you to take a look at the table on page 3. Your ships have been dumping pollutants into this bay for more than a century. I know that McConnell Shipping is committed to environmental remediation. I also know that this commitment extends about as far as talking about it on your website and you two getting your pictures taken at fundraising galas for clean water orgs. The chart we’re looking at shows what my people found: particulate matter, nitrogen oxide, volatile organic compounds… None of this is surprising. It’s the concentrations that are concerning.”

Maren looked up to make sure they were following along, but she already knew that this bay was hers.

“Now let me draw your attention to page 17, where you’ll see what it’s going to cost to transform this port into luxury homes with beach access. Numbers d0n’t lie, gentlemen.”

This assertion wasn’t precisely true. These specific numbers had been rounded up. They’d been rounded up by an amount that stretched the definition of “rounding up.” The McConnells definitely were and always had been polluters whose engagement with environmental causes was purely performative, but the bay wasn’t quite as filthy as Maren was suggesting and the projected cost of cleaning it up had been lower than she had suspected. The McConnells’ environmental report had been pure bullshit. Hers was, she felt, symbolically true if not factually true.

“You have our final offer. And I would say that it’s generous, considering…” She gestured toward the reports.

Declan was angry. Maren didn’t care. She wasn’t afraid of angry men. She had survived dangers a sheltered idiot like him couldn’t even begin to imagine. She leaned back in her chair, took a sip of stale coffee, and waited.

After less than a minute, Declan’s shoulders slumped as all the rage and entitlement seeped out of him. “Draw up the papers.”

Once all the paperwork had been handled, Maren left the McConnells’ offices and walked toward Cascade Bay. As she looked out from the shore, she could envision this place without the massive pier, just an endless expanse of dark water. When she turned around, she could see multimillion dollar homes with private beaches. But the team she’d built at Iona Properties would be handing all that.

Maren was already think about her next deal—her last deal. Once she owned Cormorant Cliffs, she’d be free. She’d be able to go home.