The inbox refreshes with the same mocking emptiness it displayed five minutes ago.
I sit on the narrow bed beneath the eaves, a borrowed laptop balanced on my knees, watching the loading icon spin like it might conjure different results through sheer repetition.
Christopher's only message arrived this morning—three sentences that landed with the weight of a stone dropped into deep water.
Christopher: Still searching. Nothing concrete yet. Will update when I have more.
The cursor blinks at me, patient and accusatory.
I close the message and force my fingers to open a new document instead. If I cannot control the investigation into my grandfather's will, I can at least control the work in front of me.
The afternoon light slants through the window as I begin mapping Domaine Côté's potential distribution channels.
The regional markets are obvious—Paris restaurants, Lyon wine bars, the tourist shops that line every village square in Provence.
But the real opportunity lies in the gaps Estienne has not thought to exploit.
Boutique hotels in the Luberon valley. Farm-to-table restaurants emphasizing terroir. The emerging natural wine bars in Berlin and Copenhagen that fetishize authenticity.
The strategy builds itself as my fingers move across the keyboard.
By the time the light begins to soften toward evening, I have filled twelve pages with plans that could transform this struggling estate into something remarkable.
The sound reaches me first—music and laughter drifting through my open window, carried on air that smells like roasting meat and ripe grapes.
I set aside the laptop and follow the noise downstairs, through the farmhouse, out into the evening where lanterns hang from the rafters of the summer kitchen.
The scene before me looks like a painting from another century.
Long wooden tables stretch beneath the open-sided structure, laden with platters of food and bottles of wine that catch the golden light.
Workers fill the benches, their faces flushed with celebration, their voices rising and falling in overlapping conversations that create a symphony of ordinary joy.
It is Assumption Day.
I had forgotten the date entirely, lost in the chaos of escape and discovery.
Two young women sit near the end of the nearest table, their heads bent together in animated discussion.
I recognize them from the sorting tent—students who arrived last week with backpacks and eager smiles.
"Lucienne thinks we should start in Portugal," the darker-haired one is saying, gesturing with her wine glass. "But I keep telling her, if we're going to see the world, we should begin somewhere completely unexpected. Maybe Vietnam. Or Peru."
"Thérèse has been planning this trip since we were seventeen," Lucienne adds with fond exasperation. "She has spreadsheets. Actual spreadsheets with color-coded columns for each country's visa requirements."
"Organization is not a character flaw," Thérèse protests, but she's laughing.
Their optimism makes longing ache in my chest. I was their age once, filled with dreams of possibilities that stretched bright and unbroken toward the horizon.
Before my father sold me to his best friend.
Before I learned that some cages are gilded so beautifully you do not realize you are trapped until the door has already locked behind you.
I move deeper into the celebration, accepting a glass of wine from a passing worker, letting the warmth of the evening seep into my bones.
At the head of one table, Bastien sits in a chair that has clearly been positioned for his comfort, a blanket across his knees despite the summer warmth.
Margaux occupies the seat beside him, her silver hair catching the lantern light, her face soft with contentment.
I watch as Bastien's hand reaches for hers beneath the table, their fingers intertwining.
The wine flows freely as darkness settles over the vineyard. Personalities emerge from the professional masks everyone wears during working hours.
Whispered gossip travels down the table about a romance developing between two of the harvest crew.
Harmless flirtation sparks between the younger staff, their laughter bright and uncomplicated.
Then someone suggests a drinking game, and the energy shifts.
A student named Grégoire positions himself beside me before I notice him approaching.
He is tall and handsome in the generic way of young men who have never been told no, his smile too wide, his eyes already glazed with alcohol.
"You're the mysterious one, aren't you?" His voice carries confidence like he expects to be welcomed. "I've been wanting to talk to you all week."
"That's very kind," I say carefully, shifting slightly to create distance between us. "The harvest has kept everyone busy."
"Too busy to notice the most beautiful woman on the estate?" He leans closer, close enough that I can smell the wine on his breath. "That seems like a waste."
The compliment lands wrong, excessive in a way that makes my skin prickle with warning. I take another step back, but he follows, closing the gap I created.
"I should check on something in the kitchen," I say, turning to leave.
His hand catches my arm, fingers wrapping around my wrist with casual possession. "Don't run away yet. The night is young, and I think we could have a lot of fun together if you'd just relax a little."
I pull away, but his grip tightens instead of releasing.
The pressure against my bones sends panic flooding through my nervous system—muscle memory from eight years of hands that grabbed without asking.
"Let go of me." My voice comes out sharper than I intend, loud enough to draw glances from nearby tables.
Grégoire's expression shifts from charm to something uglier, the mask slipping to reveal the entitlement beneath. "Playing hard to get? I like that in a woman, but don't push your luck. You're just staff here, same as me, and I'm offering you a good time."
His other hand reaches for my waist, and before I can react, someone else does.
The first punch happens so fast I barely see it.
Estienne materializes from somewhere in the crowd, his fist connecting with Grégoire's jaw in a single devastating motion.
Grégoire goes down hard, releasing my wrist as he falls, his body hitting the packed earth with a thud that silences every conversation within earshot.
He scrambles up swinging, his face twisted with rage, and suddenly the two men are brawling while the party watches in stunned silence.
Fists connect with flesh. Bodies collide and separate and collide again. Blood appears on someone's lip—I cannot tell whose.
It ends with Estienne pinning Grégoire to the ground, his knee pressing into the younger man's back, his breath coming hard and ragged.
The lantern light catches the fury in his expression, the barely controlled violence thrumming through every line of his body.
"You're fired," he says, his voice cold enough to freeze wine in the glass. "Get your things and get out."
Workers surge forward to pull the men apart, their hands gentle with Estienne, rough with the disgraced student. Grégoire slinks away cursing, his threats growing fainter as distance swallows them.
But I barely notice his departure.
I am watching the faces around me, the way people look at Estienne as he rises to his feet and brushes dirt from his clothes.
This was not just about defending a staff member's dignity. Everyone can see that the rage burning in his eyes has nothing to do with workplace conduct violations.
It was personal.
Estienne's gaze finds mine across the chaos, dark with protective fury and desperate longing and something that looks terrifyingly like… love.
Then he turns and walks into the night.
I follow.
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