POV: Rosalind
I opened the winery on time and forced myself to follow routine: inventory, staff instructions, invoices, customer greetings.
My hands performed tasks they'd done a thousand times. Checked wine levels. Rotated stock. Reviewed delivery schedules. Smiled at customers. Normal. Professional. Exactly what Daniel had told me to do.
The spare phone sat in my bag behind the bar, turned on, volume low. I checked it every fifteen minutes. No messages. No calls. Just the clock ticking forward while I performed normalcy and waited for everything to collapse.
At eleven-thirty, my regular phone buzzed.
Daniel: Meeting delayed. Logistics need clarification. Home by evening.
The text was neutral. Careful. The kind of language that sounded rehearsed—like he'd drafted it in advance.
I typed back: Understood. Be safe.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then:
Always.
I set down the phone and went back to work.
At one, a supplier called about a shipment that should have arrived Tuesday. "There's a delay," he said. "International paperwork. You know how it is with cross-border documentation. Everything requires extra verification these days."
"How long?"
"Hard to say. Could be days. Could be weeks. Depends on how quickly the paperwork gets processed."
I thanked him and hung up. But the phrase stuck. International paperwork. I'd heard Daniel use similar wording when explaining business delays that weren't actually about business. Coded language for obstacles that couldn't be discussed openly.
By three, the winery had settled into its usual afternoon lull. Two customers browsing. A couple sharing a bottle. My assistant handling the register while I updated inventory logs.
Then the bell above the door chimed.
I looked up and saw her—the woman from the Henderson event weeks ago. Dark hair. Expensive coat. The kind of presence that suggested she was comfortable in rooms where power was traded.
She approached the bar. Smiled politely. "I was here a few weeks ago. Private viewing. I wondered if you had time for a brief conversation."
"About?"
"Business intersections. Shared interests." She gestured toward the paintings. "Daniel Steele and I have mutual acquaintances who are curious about his current... arrangements."
My stomach tightened. "The winery doesn't involve itself in Mr. Steele's business affairs."
"Of course not. That's always been the understanding." She leaned against the bar. "But I'm curious—is Daniel clearing his position with old partners? Settling accounts?"
"I wouldn't know."
"But you would notice. If he's been more present. More careful. More concerned about security." She tilted her head. "You're his wife. You notice patterns."
"The winery is not a meeting place for his business discussions," I said firmly.
"It never was," she agreed. "Until now."
The words hung between us. Heavy.
"I think you should leave," I said.
"I'm simply making an observation. The winery has always been separate. Your space, not his. But recently, that separation seems less defined. People are asking about permits. Guest lists. Private events." She straightened. "That suggests boundaries are shifting. And when boundaries shift, it means the architecture is under pressure."
She pulled a card from her pocket. Set it on the bar. "When things start moving faster than Daniel can manage, you call that number. We can offer alternatives he won't have."
"I don't need alternatives."
"Not yet." She moved toward the door. "But pressure changes calculations."
Then she was gone.
I stood there for a full minute, staring at the card. Then I photographed it and threw it in the trash.
***
That afternoon, I met Theo at a public parking garage three levels up where security cameras had blind spots.
He was waiting by the concrete pillar. When he saw me, he moved immediately—pulling me against the wall, one hand on my waist. He kissed me once. Brief. Then pulled back.
"Tell me," he said.
I told him. Daniel's delayed meeting. The supplier's mention of international paperwork. The woman asking about "clearing positions."
Theo listened without interrupting. His jaw tightened.
"That's pressure tactics," he said quietly. "And time compression."
"What does that mean?"
"When meetings get delayed, it usually means terms are being rewritten without consent." His eyes were dark. "Daniel agreed to meet on specific terms. They're changing those terms while keeping him waiting—adding participants, adjusting location. By the time he sits down, the meeting will be about things he didn't agree to discuss."
"Can he refuse?"
"Not without consequences. That's the point." Theo's hand found my face. "You need to be ready for what comes next."
"What comes next?"
"Escalation. If Daniel doesn't give them what they want, they'll move to direct action. Your winery becomes a target. Luca becomes a target. You become a target. Not theoretically. Actually."
My throat tightened. "How do I prepare?"
"By accepting that normal is ending. That routine won't protect you anymore. That when I text 'go,' you don't hesitate." He kissed me again. Softer. "Promise me."
"I promise."
"Say it."
"When you text 'go,' I move."
"Good." He stepped back. "Go home. Check on Daniel. Text me when you're safe."
***
I returned home just after six to find Daniel asleep on the couch, shoes still on, phone clenched in his hand.
He looked exhausted. Worn. His shirt was wrinkled. His tie hung loose. He'd collapsed more than slept—the kind of unconsciousness that came from the body overriding the mind's insistence that rest was luxury.
I covered him with a blanket. Didn't wake him. Just stood there watching him sleep with his phone still gripped tight, waiting for the call that would tell him the meeting was finally happening.