The vineyard swallows me whole before the sun clears the horizon.
My feet pound against the packed earth between the rows, each stride a desperate attempt to outrun the ghost of Estienne's hands in my hair, his mouth on my throat, the raw confession that tore out of him beneath the oak tree last night.
Twenty years I spent telling myself that the girl on the other side of that stone wall was just a childhood fantasy.
I push harder, my lungs screaming for mercy I refuse to grant. The morning air burns cold in my chest, sharp with the mineral scent of dew-soaked soil.
I would have waited forever if I thought there was any chance you would come.
My legs threaten to buckle, but I force them to keep moving.
The summer kitchen materializes through the morning mist, its weathered wooden beams and open sides a beacon of warmth against the cool dawn.
Smoke curls from the chimney, carrying the promise of coffee and the particular comfort of ordinary rituals.
I slow to a walk, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my thighs trembling with exertion I should not have demanded from them.
The sweat cooling on my skin makes me shiver, but I welcome the discomfort because it proves I am still capable of feeling anything beyond the ache that has taken up permanent residence behind my ribs.
Margaux stands at the counter with her back to me, silver hair pinned in its practical bun, her hands moving through the familiar choreography of breakfast preparation.
"Coffee's fresh," she says without turning around. "Sit. You look like you need it."
I pour myself a cup from the pot on the stove, the ceramic warm against my cold fingers, and settle at the worn wooden table that has witnessed generations of harvest mornings.
The chair creaks beneath my weight, and the sound feels like a welcome—or perhaps a warning.
"The storm last night was worse than expected," Margaux observes, cracking eggs into a bowl. "Henri says we lost a few supports in the eastern block, but nothing that cannot be repaired before the real work begins."
"I did not hear the storm." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but the truth—that I lay awake for hours replaying a kiss that ended with rejection—feels too raw to share.
"Sleep can be difficult in unfamiliar places." Margaux's voice carries gentle understanding that makes my throat tighten. "I remember when I first came to this estate, I spent months listening to every creak and groan of the old farmhouse."
"How long have you been here?" The question emerges on its own, genuine curiosity overriding the careful distance I have been maintaining.
"Thirty-seven years this autumn." She turns to face me, her expression soft with memory. "I arrived for a single harvest season, and somehow never found a reason to leave."
The warmth in her voice suggests a story far more complicated than a simple employment arrangement, but I do not feel entitled to ask about the particulars.
Instead, I wrap my hands around my cup and let the heat seep into my fingers.
The tarte Tatin you made for the Assumption celebration was extraordinary," I offer, steering the conversation toward safer ground. "I have not tasted anything that good since my grandmother passed."
Margaux's smile widens with pleasure at the compliment. "The secret is in the caramelization—you cannot rush the butter and sugar, no matter how tempting it becomes when you have fifty hungry workers waiting at your table."
We fall into easier conversation after that, trading observations about the weather patterns and the harvest timeline, discussing the particular challenges of feeding a crew that grows larger each season.
Margaux moves between stove and counter like she has performed these tasks thousands of times, her presence steady and grounding.
Then, mid-sentence about the proper technique for kneading bread dough, she says, "You will need to be more careful, Renée. Henri watches everything."
My cup freezes halfway to my mouth, the ceramic suddenly heavy as stone in my grip.
"What did you call me?" The words emerge strangled, my pulse spiking with alarm that makes my vision blur at the edges.
Estienne, Bastien, and I had agreed I would continue using Valérie with everyone else—the fewer people who knew my real identity, the safer I remained from Frank's reach.
Margaux turns from the stove, her expression warm but knowing, completely unbothered by my obvious distress. "Renée Pasquier. That is your name, is it not?"
My mind races through possible explanations—denials, deflections, the careful lies I have constructed and maintained since the moment I climbed into Estienne's car.
But before I can settle on a response, Margaux holds up a hand.
"If Bastien decided you could stay, that is all I need to know." Her voice carries absolute certainty. "I have trusted that man for thirty years, and I am not about to stop now."
She takes the seat across from me, her gaze steady on my face.
The morning light catches the silver in her hair, illuminating the fine lines around her eyes—evidence of decades spent in this kitchen.
"He has no secrets from me, you see." Her tone softens into something that sounds almost like confession. "Not anymore."
The words carry weight that suggests history I cannot begin to imagine—years of trust built and tested, intimacy earned through presence rather than promised.
I think of the way Bastien's hand reached for hers beneath the table at the harvest dinner, their fingers intertwining with the ease of long practice.
"He said you reminded him of someone he lost a long time ago." Margaux's smile holds no judgment, only gentle understanding.
My grandfather. She means my grandfather.
"The feud between them," I venture carefully, "was it really just about a business deal gone wrong?"
"Business deals do not break hearts the way those two men broke each other's." Margaux shakes her head slowly. "They were stubborn fools who let pride poison a friendship that should have lasted their entire lives. Bastien has carried that grief for twenty years, and I suspect Léonard carried it too."
The confirmation settles in my chest like a stone I will carry forever.
All those years my grandfather refused to speak of the Côtés, all that bitter silence I interpreted as hatred—perhaps it was grief all along.
"But what actually broke them?" I cannot stop myself from asking. "You said business deals do not break hearts that way. So what does?"
Margaux sighs, settling more heavily into her chair. "Léonard discovered that Bastien had been negotiating with a competitor behind his back. A deal that would have saved this estate but destroyed Pasquier's position in the regional market."
My stomach drops. "He was going to betray my grandfather?"
"He was going to save his family." Margaux's voice holds no judgment. "Bastien's wife was ill, the medical costs were crushing them, and he saw no other way. When Léonard found out, he felt betrayed by the one person he trusted completely. And Bastien felt judged by the one person who should have understood desperation."
"So they both lost everything trying to protect what mattered most to them."
"That is usually how these things go, child."
My hands tighten around the ceramic cup until my knuckles ache.
The tragedy Margaux describes—two men who loved each other, broken by fear and pride—feels almost noble compared to what I did.
They were trying to protect something precious. I was trying to eliminate competition.
Suddenly, Henri appears in the doorway, his weathered face businesslike, his eyes sharp with the perpetual suspicion I have come to expect.
"I need an extra set of hands at the tasting site," he says to me, his tone brooking no argument. "Follow me."
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