"These Yankees want to disarm us!" John Connor stormed into Sheffield's office, his face twisted with indignation.
*Could you pick a worse time to rant about Yankees?* Sheffield's temples throbbed. They were in the heart of Rockefeller territory, not some backwater dock.
"We're guests here," Sheffield replied tersely, forcing calm into his voice. "The Rockefellers didn't become America's wealthiest family by leaving security to chance. Mind your manners."
The Rockefeller estate, though sprawling, lacked ostentation. Its understated grandeur spoke of power refined rather than flaunted. As a servant led them toward the main villa, Sheffield rehearsed his lines, determined not to appear provincial. Yet when he entered the parlor, no host awaited—only silence.
Nearby, a young man in a tailored suit mirrored Sheffield's anxiety. "First impressions matter," the man muttered to himself, pacing. "Greetings, Mr. Sheffield. No—*William*. Casual, yet respectful…"
Annie, Sheffield's sharp-eyed companion, arched a brow. "Practicing for a play?"
Before Sheffield could retort, John D. Rockefeller Jr. entered. The heir to the oil empire froze mid-stride, thrown by the unexpected duo.
"A pleasure," Annie interjected smoothly, extending her hand. "Your family's legacy precedes you. Standard Oil's reach is…*breathtaking*."
Rockefeller Jr. recovered, clasping her hand. "The honor is mine. Welcome to our humble estate."
Sheffield's gaze narrowed as their grip lingered. "Last I checked, Americans don't kiss hands."
Annie withdrew her fingers with a laugh. "French customs don't translate well here."
Once seated, Rockefeller Jr. cut to the chase. "The railroad strikes in New York—they're linked to this year's grain collapse. And the collapse," he pinned Sheffield with a stare, "traces back to *Texas*."
Sheffield's smile tightened. "Bad harvests happen. Blame the weather—or better yet, the British."
"The British?"
"Of course." Sheffield leaned forward, weaving his web. "London's sanctions sank grain prices to cripple our economy. Texas farmers are victims, not villains. This isn't a crop failure—it's *economic warfare*."
Annie nodded fervently, her loyalty unwavering. Rockefeller Jr. steepled his fingers, skepticism etched in his frown.
"Proof?"
"Proof?" Sheffield scoffed. "Since when did Standard Oil need proof to spot an opportunity? The British want us divided—North vs. South, farmer vs. tycoon. Meanwhile, they'll buy up our debt, our land, our future." He spread his hands. "Unite against the real enemy, or watch them pick America apart."
Silence hung like gunpowder. Then Rockefeller Jr. smiled—cold, calculating. "An intriguing theory. Let's discuss…*allies*."
**(End of Chapter)**
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