POV: Rosalind
Daniel came to the winery during open hours, something he never did.
I was at the bar helping a customer choose between two Pinots when I saw him walk through the door. Not evening. Not after closing. Two in the afternoon on a Wednesday with tables full and staff moving through their routines and sunlight streaming through the windows.
He'd never come during business hours. Never. It was an unspoken rule—the winery was mine during the day, his at night when we needed private space. Seeing him there in broad daylight felt fundamentally wrong, like watching someone break a law they'd written themselves.
He nodded at me once. Didn't approach. Just moved to the corner table near the window and sat, watching me work with the kind of focused attention that made the back of my neck prickle.
I finished with the customer. Rang up the sale. Then my assistant—a college student who'd been with me for six months—brought out a bottle of the '15 Margaux and set it on the wrong shelf.
"Emma," Daniel called from across the room. Not loud. But firm. "That vintage goes above the '14, not beside it."
Emma froze. Looked at me. Then at Daniel. Confused why a customer was correcting her inventory placement.
"It's fine," I said quickly. "I'll reorganize later."
But Daniel was already standing. Moving toward the bar. He picked up the bottle, examined the label, then placed it precisely where it belonged—above the '14, separated by region and vintage with the kind of attention to detail that suggested he'd memorized my entire system.
"The '15 is superior," he said to Emma, voice pleasant but firm. "Customers look top to bottom. Best vintages at eye level or above."
Emma nodded. Glanced at me for confirmation. I smiled tightly and sent her to check inventory in the back.
When she was gone, Daniel leaned against the bar. Close enough that his voice wouldn't carry to the occupied tables.
"We need to talk," he said quietly.
"You're talking. I'm working."
"Rosalind—"
"You've never come here during open hours. You're breaking your own rules." I kept my hands busy wiping down the counter. "So either this is an emergency, or you're sending a message to whoever might be watching."
"Both." His jaw tightened. "The timeline's accelerating. Things I thought I had weeks to manage are compressing into days."
"What things?"
"One of the accounts from Zurich has resurfaced under a proxy name. Clean documentation. Legal structure. But the signature patterns match transactions from fifteen years ago." He kept his voice low. Clinical. "Someone's activating old architecture. Pulling threads I thought were cut."
My hands stilled on the counter. "Why now?"
"Because they know I'm preparing to shut things down. They're racing me to establish claims before I can close access." He glanced around the winery. "And they're using your space to apply pressure. Making sure I know they can reach you anytime. During business hours. With witnesses. In broad daylight."
"So coming here yourself is—what? Establishing presence?"
"Establishing priority." His hand moved to cover mine on the counter. "If they're watching—and they are—I need them to see that I'm not hiding. That I'm not letting fear dictate movement. That you're protected by proximity to me, not vulnerable because of it."
It was a performance. Strategic positioning. The kind of calculated gesture Daniel excelled at—turning vulnerability into strength through careful staging.
Except his hand was shaking slightly against mine. And Daniel never shook.
"How bad is it?" I asked.
"Bad enough that I'm breaking protocol to make a point." He squeezed my hand. Once. "Bad enough that—"
The door opened.
A man walked in. Mid-fifties, expensive casual clothes, the kind of presence that suggested he was comfortable in spaces where money moved quietly. He glanced around the winery like any other customer would, then approached the bar with a pleasant smile.
"Afternoon," he said. "Heard you had an excellent Burgundy selection."
I looked at him. Really looked.
And my stomach dropped.
I knew that face. Not well. Not clearly. But I'd seen it before in the background of an old photograph in Daniel's study—one of the business pictures from twenty years ago. The ones he kept in the drawer, not on display. The ones from before Steele went international.
The man who'd been standing beside Daniel in the subsidiary acquisition photo. One of the partners. One of the witnesses.
Daniel went completely still beside me.
Not frozen. Just... utterly motionless. The kind of stillness that came from every muscle locking down simultaneously, from the body's instinct to become invisible when predators were near.
"We have several excellent Burgundies," I said carefully, keeping my voice professional. "Are you looking for something specific?"
"Dealer's choice." The man smiled. Pleasant. Friendly. "I trust your judgment."
I reached for a bottle. But Daniel's hand covered mine again—pressing down, holding it flat against the counter. Not gentle. Not casual. The kind of grip that communicated don't move, don't speak, let me handle this.
"Marcus," Daniel said quietly. "I didn't know you were in town."
"Passing through. Thought I'd stop by." Marcus's smile didn't change. "Beautiful space. Your wife has excellent taste."
"She does."
"I'm particularly impressed by the art." Marcus gestured toward the paintings. "That piece on the far wall—is that a Rothko?"
"A reproduction."
"Still. Very evocative." His eyes moved back to Daniel. "I was hoping we might have a word. About old business. When you have a moment."
"I'm actually quite busy at the moment."
"Of course. I wouldn't want to intrude." Marcus pulled out his phone. Tapped something. Set it face-down on the bar. "But when you find time—perhaps this evening—I think we should talk. About timelines. And shared interests."
The phone sat there. Black screen. Silent. But the message was clear: I know where you are. I know where she is. I can reach both of you whenever I want.
Daniel's hand tightened over mine. His thumb pressed into my knuckles hard enough to hurt.
"I'll call you," Daniel said.
"I'll be waiting." Marcus smiled once more. Then he turned and walked out without ordering wine. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Daniel didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there with his hand crushing mine against the counter while the winery continued its normal afternoon rhythm around us—customers browsing, staff working, the espresso machine hissing in the corner.
"Daniel," I said quietly.
He released my hand. Stepped back. His face had gone pale beneath his tan. When he finally looked at me, his eyes held something I'd never seen there before.
Fear. Pure, undiluted fear.
"We're out of time," he said.