POV: Rosalind
Back at the winery, I hosted a small tasting.
Eight guests. Carefully curated list. No one from last night's event—these were locals, people who actually cared about wine rather than using my gallery as neutral ground for whatever deals Daniel facilitated in the shadows. I needed normal tonight. Needed to pour Pinot Noir and talk about tannins and pretend my life wasn't unraveling one careful thread at a time.
Theo was there. Corner table, nursing a glass of Bordeaux, watching me work the room the way he always did when he showed up unannounced. We'd been careful not to acknowledge each other beyond a polite nod. Just another customer. Just another face.
The evening had been smooth until Marcus Henderson's nephew decided his third glass should be his seventh.
"Another pour, darling," he slurred, holding out his glass. Mid-thirties, expensive watch, entitled smile. The kind of man who'd never been told no by a woman and wouldn't know what to do with it if he was.
"I think you've had enough," I said pleasantly. Professional smile. The one that didn't reach my eyes.
"I'll decide when I've had enough." He stepped closer, invading my space with the confidence of someone who'd never faced consequences. "Come on. One more. Unless you're too busy playing hostess to do your job."
The other guests had gone quiet. Watching.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to—"
His hand landed on my waist. Heavy. Possessive. "You're very pretty when you're being difficult."
I moved on instinct. Removed his glass from his other hand with one smooth motion, set it on the nearest table, then gripped his wrist and twisted—not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make my point. Years of carrying crates and wrestling with wine barrels had given me strength most people didn't expect from a woman my age.
"Get. Out," I said quietly.
His face flushed red. Anger or embarrassment, hard to tell. "Do you know who I am?"
"I know you're drunk and you just put your hands on me without permission. And I know you're leaving. Now."
I walked him toward the door, my hand firm on his elbow. He stumbled, tried to pull away, but I kept moving. Professional. Efficient. My heart was hammering but my grip stayed steady. This was my space. Mine. Not Daniel's front for his criminal cleanup operation, not a stage for entitled men to put their hands where they didn't belong. Just mine. And I'd be damned if I let anyone take that from me. The other guests watched with a mixture of shock and approval—a woman in her forties handling a man half her age like he weighed nothing. Good. Let them watch. Let them see exactly who ran this place. When we reached the entrance, I opened it, guided him through.
"Your uncle will hear about this," he spat.
"I'm counting on it." I closed the door in his face, locked it, turned back to face the room.
Seven guests. All staring.
I smoothed my blouse, picked up his abandoned glass. "My apologies for the disruption. Now, shall we continue with the 2018 Châteauneuf-du-Pape?"
The evening resumed. Conversations picked back up. Within ten minutes, it was like it hadn't happened. But I felt Theo's eyes on me from across the room. Steady. Watchful. He hadn't moved. Hadn't intervened. Just watched me handle it myself.
Good. I didn't need rescuing.
By ten, the last guest had left. I locked the door behind them, flipped the sign to closed, and started clearing glasses. My hands were steady, but my jaw ached from clenching it for the past three hours.
"You handled that well." Theo's voice came from behind me.
I didn't turn. "I've had practice."
"I know." He was closer now. I heard his footsteps, felt the shift in air. "You shouldn't have to."
"World's full of things I shouldn't have to do."
His hand touched my shoulder. Turned me around. We were standing in the middle of the gallery, surrounded by paintings and empty glasses and the ghost of tonight's near-disaster.
"Come here," he said.
We moved to the storage room. Automatic. Safe. The door closed behind us, and then his mouth was on mine—deeper than usual, more urgent. His hands framed my face like he was trying to memorize the shape of me. I tasted wine and desperation and something that felt like goodbye. My back hit the wall and I pulled him closer, needing this—needing him—needing something real in a life built on carefully constructed lies. His fingers tangled in my hair. My hands found the solid warmth of his shoulders, gripping like I could anchor myself to this moment, to him, to something that wasn't falling apart. Ten years and he still kissed me like I mattered. Like I was more than Daniel Pierce's decorative wife. Like I was Rosalind, just Rosalind, worth wanting for reasons that had nothing to do with appearances or transactions.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"This situation is changing faster than you think," he said.
My stomach dropped. "What situation?"
"All of it. Daniel. The winery. Whatever he's involved in." Theo's thumb traced my cheekbone. "It's accelerating."
"How do you know?"
"Because I pay attention. Because I know how these things work." His eyes were dark, serious. "Men like Daniel—they're useful right up until they're not. And when they stop being useful, they become liabilities."
"You're scaring me."
"I'm trying to prepare you."
I stepped back, put space between us. "Do you know something I don't?"
Theo looked at me for a long moment. Something passed across his face—calculation, maybe, or resignation. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Careful.
"I know what happens when men like Daniel stop being useful."