The study smells like old paper and oak and the particular mustiness of rooms where memories have been allowed to settle undisturbed.
Estienne's hand presses briefly against the small of my back as he guides me through the heavy wooden door, and the touch carries none of the warmth it held yesterday. Now it is merely functional—a shepherd directing livestock toward slaughter.
Wine journals line the shelves in leather bindings cracked by age.
Framed photographs hang between the bookcases, generations of Côté vintners captured in sepia and silver, their faces stern with the particular pride of men who build legacies with their hands.
And there, in a leather armchair by the window, sits Bastien Côté.
A blanket covers his knees despite the summer warmth bleeding through the glass, but there is nothing frail about the way he holds himself.
His shoulders remain broad beneath the cardigan that hangs looser than it once did, and his hands—gnarled now, spotted with age—rest on the armrests like a king holding court.
The years have carved deep valleys into his face, hollowed his cheeks, turned his hair to silver wire, but his eyes remain untouched by time. Those pale Côté eyes that his grandson inherited burn with an intelligence that misses nothing.
I remember the man I met two years ago. He was weathered then, yes, but there was vigor in his movements, color in his face, strength in the hands that gestured proudly toward cellars.
The guilt settles in my stomach like a stone I will carry forever.
The years have carved deeper lines into his face since I saw him last, but his eyes—those pale Côté eyes that his grandson inherited—remain sharp as surgical instruments.
They move from Estienne to me, and I force my lungs to continue their work.
Two years ago, I sat across from this man and lied with every breath I took.
"Grand-père," Estienne says carefully, his voice carrying a tension I have come to recognize as protective concern, "this is Renée Pasquier. Léonard's granddaughter."
Bastien's expression does not change.
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze traveling from my face to my posture to the hands I am keeping deliberately still at my sides.
The scrutiny feels like being slowly dissected, layer by layer, until nothing remains but the truth I am desperate to hide.
Please let the disguise have been enough. Please let two years and failing memory stand between me and exposure.
"Leave us," Bastien says to his grandson.
Estienne hesitates, his weight shifting almost imperceptibly toward me. "Grand-père—"
"I said leave us." The command brooks no argument, carrying absolute authority.
Estienne shoots me a look I cannot decipher—warning, perhaps, or something closer to apology—and then withdraws. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like a cell door locking.
Silence fills the room.
The afternoon light slants through the window, catching dust motes that drift lazy and golden through the air. A clock ticks somewhere behind me.
Bastien gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."
I sit, my hands folding tightly in my lap before I can stop them. The leather creaks beneath my weight, and the sound seems obscenely loud in the quiet.
"I'm sorry," I begin, the words tumbling out before I can organize them properly. "What my company did to yours—"
He waves a hand dismissively. "Your company. Your husband's company. Your father's company." His voice is rough with age but clear as spring water. "Whose company is it really, child?"
The question strips away every prepared speech I rehearsed during the drive.
I have no answer because I have been asking myself the same thing for years, and the truth shifts depending on which version of myself is doing the asking.
Bastien leans forward slightly, his pale eyes pinning me in place with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. "Why are you here? And do not waste my time with pretty apologies."
The directness should not surprise me—Estienne inherited that trait honestly—but it still catches me off guard.
I could deflect. I could offer more carefully constructed explanations that reveal nothing while appearing to reveal everything.
But exhaustion has worn my defenses thin, and this man deserves better than the same lies I have been feeding everyone else.
"I want to fix the damage," I say, and the words feel like stones dropping into still water. "What my company did to yours is unforgivable. I cannot undo that, but I can help Estienne save what remains and make it stronger than it was before."
Bastien's expression remains unreadable, but he does not interrupt.
"I was here once," I continue, the memory surfacing with painful clarity. "Twenty years ago, the summer I turned ten. Estienne and I were friends before he left for America. He taught me about patience and care, and I want to thank him."
The lines around Bastien's eyes shift almost imperceptibly—a softening so subtle I might have imagined it.
"Léonard." He speaks my grandfather's name like a prayer, or perhaps a curse. "Your grandfather and I were close once, before pride poisoned everything. Did he ever tell you what happened between us?"
I shake my head, afraid that speaking will shatter whatever fragile connection is forming between us.
Bastien sighs, and the sound carries the weight of decades' worth of regret.
"A business deal went wrong. Money and ego and stubborn old men who couldn't admit they were both at fault." He pauses, his gaze drifting toward the window where the vineyard stretches green and gold toward the horizon. "My greatest regret is that I let that foolishness cost me a friendship I valued more than I knew."
The confession settles between us, heavy with implications I am only beginning to understand.
My grandfather never spoke of what happened with Bastien. He mentioned the feud only in passing, always with that particular tightness in his jaw that meant the subject was closed.
Now I wonder how much of his silence was anger and how much was grief he could not bring himself to name.
Bastien fixes me with a penetrating gaze that seems to see straight through every layer of defense I have constructed. "What do you want in return for your help?"
The question is so direct it takes my breath away.
I meet his eyes and give him an honest answer.
"Time," I say, and the word feels like a key turning in a lock. "I need time to take back what's mine. And when I do, I want to build an alliance between our families. The kind you and my grandfather should have had."
The silence that follows stretches long enough for me to count three full cycles of the clock's ticking.
Bastien studies me with calculation mixed with assessment mixed with something that might be cautious hope.
"You may stay," he says finally, and the words land in my chest like a reprieve from a sentence I expected to be fatal. "Until the harvest ends."
Relief floods through me, so intense my vision blurs at the edges.
"But understand this." His voice hardens, all trace of softness vanishing beneath granite resolve. "If you betray my grandson, I will destroy you myself."
The threat carries absolute conviction.
I nod, accepting the terms without protest.
It is more than I deserve.
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