During my daughter’s wedding, she slipped a note into my palm: “Dad, help me.” Before the groom finished his vows, I stood up, stopped the ceremony cold—and the sheriff I’d invited quietly rose from the crowd. His smile vanished… because while he thought he was marrying into my Colorado ranch, I’d already spent months building the case that would destroy him.

“Claire has no significant assets of her own,” Margaret said bluntly. “She does well at her marketing job, but she’s not… a target. Not like these women were. However…”

She hesitated, and I looked up.

“If Tyler believes she’ll inherit this ranch,” she said slowly, “and he has any inkling of your actual net worth, he might be taking a longer-term gamble.”

“Or,” I said, the word tasting bitter, “he’s already researched me and knows more than he’s letting on.”

Margaret nodded.

“I’d recommend having a serious conversation with Claire,” she said. “Show her this. She deserves to know.”

I stared down at the folder. At Tyler’s neat résumé, his smiling LinkedIn profile picture. At the engagement photos with other women whose fathers also owned more land and stocks than they knew what to do with.