Henri watches me with contempt that needs no words to communicate.
His weathered face holds thirty years of loyalty to this family, and I have just revealed myself as the architect of their near-destruction.
"You should have stayed in the shithole wherever you came from," he says finally, his voice flat with disgust.
Then he follows his employer without another word, and I am alone with the beautiful tasting room I spent all day perfecting for people who will never want my help again.
The walk back to the farmhouse feels endless.
My feet move automatically, carrying me along the path between the vineyard rows I have come to know so well during my morning runs.
The evening light paints everything in shades of amber and rose, and the irony of such beauty surrounding such devastation makes my throat ache with grief.
Workers I pass avoid my eyes or stare with open hostility—word has already spread through the estate like wildfire through dry brush.
I catch fragments of whispered conversations that fall silent when I approach, see the way bodies angle away from my path as if my presence carries contamination.
Near the summer kitchen, I spot Lucienne and Thérèse, the two young students whose optimism had inspired me during the harvest dinner.
They had talked about traveling the world together, about spreadsheets and dreams and the particular kind of hope that belongs to people who have not yet learned how thoroughly life can fuck you up.
They huddle together now, whispering, and when Lucienne catches my gaze, her expression shifts from curiosity to cold disappointment.
Thérèse turns her back entirely, the gesture so deliberate it might as well be a slap.
I keep walking.
In my small room under the eaves, I pack my few possessions—the clothes I arrived in, my passport, the cash I have left, the phone that represents my only lifeline to Christopher and whatever legal strategies might still save me from Frank.
The narrow bed where I dreamed of Estienne's hands on my skin sits accusingly in the corner. The window that overlooks the vineyard frames a view I will never see again after tonight.
I am folding my last shirt when a knock sounds at the door.
I expect Henri, come to ensure I actually leave. Or perhaps Margaux, with quiet reproach for the lies I told over her breakfast table.
Instead, Bastien Côté stands in the doorway, leaning on his cane, his sharp eyes taking in my packed bag with an assessment that misses nothing.
"So it's true," he says, his voice carrying no surprise, only the weary confirmation of suspicions he must have been harboring since our conversation in his study. "It was you all along."
I cannot find words adequate to the moment.
I nod once, bracing for his fury, preparing myself for the condemnation I deserve from this man whose trust I exploited with a smile and a blonde wig.
But Bastien does not rage.
He steps into the room, moving slowly to the chair by the window, and lowers himself into it with the care of a man whose body has begun to betray him.
The cane rests against his knee, and the evening light catches the silver of his hair, illuminating the face that survived enough grief to know that anger is rarely worth the energy it costs.
"I should have known back then," he says quietly, his gaze drifting toward the vineyard visible through the glass. "That woman—she understood things about winemaking that no journalist would bother to learn. She looked at my cellars the way Léonard used to look at his."
He shakes his head, something between regret and dark amusement crossing his weathered face.
"I told myself she reminded me of someone. I couldn't place it. But it was you."
My throat tightens until breathing requires conscious effort.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, and the words scrape past the constriction like broken glass. "I know that means nothing, but I am."
Bastien studies me for a long moment, those pale Côté eyes measuring something. The silence stretches until I want to scream just to break it.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughs—a dry, rasping sound that carries no humor but somehow holds no hatred either.
"I'm almost proud, child."
I stare at him, certain I have misheard, certain my guilt has finally driven me into hallucinations that make the unbearable slightly more bearable.
"Proud?" The word emerges strangled with disbelief.
"Only Léonard's granddaughter could have done what you did," Bastien says, and his voice carries the weight of decades spent watching men build and destroy empires in these vineyard-covered hills. "Your grandfather had that same gift—the ability to see exactly where a rival was weakest and strike without hesitation."
His expression hardens, the momentary softness giving way to respect tangled with warning, recognition shadowed by loss.
"He never used it against me, of course. We were friends. But I saw him use it against others. I knew what he was capable of."
He rises slowly, gripping his cane, and the movement costs him visible effort. I can see how thin his legs have become, how much the years and the stress have taken from him.
Stress I helped create.
"You are his true heir, child. Whether that's a blessing or a curse, I suppose you'll have to decide for yourself."
He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the frame. The evening light catches the deep lines carved into his face, each one a testament to griefs he has carried and somehow survived.
"My grandson will never forgive you. You understand that."
It is not a question. He delivers this verdict like he knows his family's heart.
"I know," I say, and the admission hollows out my chest until I am not sure what remains to hold my bones together.
Bastien nods once, the gesture carrying finality that needs no elaboration.
"Then we have nothing more to say to each other. Be gone by morning."
He leaves without looking back, and the soft click of my door closing sounds exactly like the click of Estienne's door closing hours earlier—quiet, definitive, irreversible.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my chest hollow, my hands still clutching the shirt I was folding when Bastien knocked.
The fabric is soft against my fingers, and I focus on that small sensation because focusing on anything larger will shatter whatever fragile composure I have managed to maintain.
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out with numb fingers, expecting nothing, hoping for nothing, prepared for more silence from Christopher that will confirm my situation is as hopeless as it feels.
A message glows against the dark screen.
Christopher: Found something. Need to meet.
I stare at the words until they blur, until the letters rearrange themselves into shapes that might mean salvation or might mean nothing at all.
Then I type my response—the address of this estate I am being expelled from, and a request for him to pick me up because I will need a ride.
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