The porch boards creak beneath my feet as I step outside, escaping the warmth of the farmhouse and the laughter that follows me.
"Thought I might find you out here." Estienne's voice reaches me before his footsteps do.
I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette backlit by the golden glow spilling from the kitchen windows.
"The noise was getting to me," I say, which is only half the truth. "I needed a moment to think."
"Want some company while you think?" He pushes off from the doorframe and crosses to stand beside me. "Or would you rather I leave you alone?"
The honest answer is that I want both, desperately and simultaneously.
I want him close because his presence soothes something jagged inside me. I want him far away because every moment I spend with him deepens the betrayal I am committing.
I let my gaze trace the sharp line of his jaw, the way the dying light carves shadows beneath his cheekbones, and the sheer masculine beauty of him makes my chest ache with a longing I have no right to feel.
"Company would be nice," I hear myself say.
He gestures toward the vineyard stretching out before us, rows of vines silvered by the fading light. "Walk with me? There's a spot I like to go when I need to clear my head, and the sunset from there is worth the climb."
I nod, and we descend the porch steps together, our feet finding the familiar path between the vines.
"I owe you an apology," he says, and something in my chest clenches at the sincerity in his voice.
"No, you don't." I turn to face him. "Estienne, you have nothing to apologize for, and I mean that."
"I do, though." His jaw tightens with the stubbornness I am beginning to recognize. "Earlier, when I told you about what happened to us—I was intense, and angry, and you did not deserve to bear the weight of that."
My chest tightens because I know I deserve far worse than his anger.
"You were telling me about people who hurt your family," I say carefully. "That kind of pain does not come with a volume dial, and I would rather hear the truth with all its edges than some polished version that pretends everything is fine."
"Still." He runs a hand through his dark hair. "I should not have assumed you wanted to hear any of it, and I definitely should not have let my feelings about the Pasquier situation color our conversation."
If you knew who I really am, you would not be apologizing. You would call me a ruthless bitch and tell me to leave.
"Tell me about the recovery," I say, steering us away from the dangerous territory of his apology. "The estate seems to be finding its footing again, from what I have seen in the fields, but I imagine the financial side is more complicated."
Estienne's expression shifts, hope and exhaustion warring for dominance. "We have stabilized, mostly, but stabilizing is not the same as thriving."
"What would it take to actually thrive again?" I ask, genuinely curious despite myself. "If you could have anything you needed, what would make the difference?"
"Expertise," he says without hesitation. "I know business development and marketing from my years in San Francisco, and Henri knows vineyard management better than anyone I have ever met, but we are missing someone who understands the whole picture."
I tilt my head, studying his profile in the fading light. "What do you mean?"
"I mean the long game of building a brand that can compete with the big estates without losing what makes us special."
The irony burns in my throat. I am exactly the person he needs.
And I cannot tell him that without revealing who I really am.
"My grandmother made wine," I say, and the lie builds itself from fragments of truth that make it easier to swallow. "In a small village in Burgundy. I spent my childhood summers there, learning everything she would teach me before she passed."
Estienne stops walking and turns to face me, his pale eyes searching my face with intensity that makes my pulse quicken. "You never mentioned that before."
"You never asked." I meet his gaze steadily, willing my expression to remain neutral. "And it felt presumptuous to volunteer information about my background when I showed up begging for work."
"That's not how I remember it." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I remember you interrogating me like a suspect before you'd even close the car door."
"Self-preservation," I say, though the memory makes heat rise to my cheeks. "A girl has to be careful."
"And yet here you are," he observes quietly. "Walking into the dark with a stranger."
If only you knew…
"Maybe I've decided you're worth the risk." The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Estienne holds my gaze for a moment that stretches too long, and I look away first, my eyes drifting to the vines stretching silver in the fading light.
The silence between us shifts from charged to contemplative, and when I speak again, my voice carries a different weight.
"I could help," I offer, and the words feel like stepping off a cliff without knowing what waits below. "With the strategy, the positioning, whatever you need. If you will let me."
Estienne studies me with an expression for a moment, then resumes walking.
"Alright then," he says.
I fall into step beside him. We climb the gentle slope at the edge of the vineyard, and the landscape opens before us like a secret being revealed.
A wooden bench sits at the crest of the small hill, weathered by years of sun and rain, positioned to offer a perfect view of the valley below.
And there, glittering in the distance like a jewel I once thought I owned, sits Domaine Pasquier.
I lower myself onto the bench, my eyes fixed on those distant lights, and feel Estienne settle beside me.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks, following my gaze. "I used to hate looking at it, but lately I have started to appreciate the reminder of what we are fighting against."
"It looks different from here," I say, and the truth of that statement goes deeper than he can possibly understand.
"Different how?"
"Smaller." I watch the lights flicker in the gathering dark. "Less powerful than it seemed up close."
Estienne shifts beside me, and I feel the change in the air before I see it—the way his attention narrows, focuses, settles on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Valérie," he says softly, and the false name sounds like a question.
I turn to face him, and his hand rises to cup my jaw with a gentleness that undoes something carefully guarded inside me.
His touch is warm and questioning, giving me every opportunity to pull away, to say no, to maintain the distance that safety requires.
I do none of these things.
His lips meet mine, and for three heartbeats, I let myself have this—the softness of his mouth, the careful way he holds me like I am precious, the taste of wine and possibility on his tongue.
Then the weight of my lies crashes over me, and I wrench myself backward so suddenly that his hand falls away from my face.
"I am sorry," I mumble, the words tangling in my throat. "I cannot—I should not have—"
I do not finish the sentence.
I am already walking, then running, my feet carrying me back toward the farmhouse.
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