tickets are for my property.”
Her jaw tightened.
“One thousand eight hundred advance tickets.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the number was so outrageous that my brain briefly refused to treat it as real.
“Eighteen hundred people?”
“Across three days.”
“At what price?”
“That varies.”
“How much?”
“General admission was thirty-five dollars. Family packages were higher.”
I did the math silently.
At minimum, sixty-three thousand dollars.
Before concessions.
Before parking.
Before VIP packages.
Before vendor fees.
Before whatever else she had sold.
“You sold sixty thousand dollars’ worth of tickets to walk through corn you don’t own.”
“The association has rights to use this parcel.”
“No.”
“Jack—”
“No.”
I didn’t raise my voice.
That bothered her more than yelling would have.
Because anger could be dismissed.
Calm required an answer.
She reached into her leather tote and produced a folder.
“I expected resistance, which is why
