Two hundred faces turn toward Frank like sunflowers tracking light they don't realize is artificial.
"Friends, colleagues, partners in this extraordinary journey," he begins, his voice carrying that warm baritone that made me believe him once, a lifetime ago. "Tonight we celebrate more than an award. We celebrate the future of Domaine Pasquier."
I edge closer to the front.
"When I took the helm of this company, I inherited more than vineyards and cellars," Frank continues. "I inherited a legacy. A responsibility. And I knew that to honor that legacy, I needed someone extraordinary by my side."
My heart pounds against my ribs.
This is it.
"Someone with vision," Frank says. "Someone with passion. Someone who understands that wine is not merely a product, but a story waiting to be told."
Every word lands like a key turning in a lock I thought had rusted shut forever.
"Someone young enough to bring fresh perspective, yet wise enough to respect tradition."
Young. I'm thirty. That's young for this industry, where winemakers measure careers in decades.
"Someone whose energy and dedication have inspired me to take a step I never thought I'd take."
Frank pauses, letting the anticipation build. His showmanship has always been impeccable—I'll give him that much. He knows exactly how to work a room, how to make people lean in, how to transform a simple announcement into theater.
"Effective immediately, I am stepping down as CEO of Domaine Pasquier."
Gasps ripple through the crowd. I barely hear them. My blood roars in my ears, drowning everything except the wild, desperate hope clawing its way up my throat.
"And I am pleased—no, honored—to announce that my successor will be someone who has shown me what true dedication looks like." Frank's eyes sweep the room, and for one breathless moment, they land on me. "Someone who has reminded me that passion cannot be taught, only recognized."
Say my name. Say it. After everything I've given you, please just say my name.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming the new CEO of Domaine Pasquier." Frank extends his hand toward the crowd, his smile radiant with triumph. "Mademoiselle Sandrine Béliveau."
The name detonates in my chest.
Sandrine glides forward, her champagne-colored dress catching the light, her smile modest and rehearsed.
She takes Frank's hand, and he pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her cheek that lingers just long enough to make his meaning clear.
"I know this may come as a surprise to some," Sandrine says into the microphone, her voice steady and sweet. "But Frank has been mentoring me for months, preparing me for this moment. I promise to honor the Pasquier legacy with everything I have."
The applause sounds distant, muffled, like I'm hearing it through water. A wave of fury builds in my chest, spreading outward until my hands tremble with the force of it. My champagne flute slips from my fingers and shatters against the marble floor.
Heads turn. Whispers start.
I don't care.
"This is a joke." My voice cuts through the applause, sharp and raw. "Tell me this is some kind of sick joke."
Frank's expression shifts—just slightly, just enough for me to recognize the warning beneath his smile. "Renée, darling, perhaps we should discuss this privately—"
"Privately?" I laugh, and the sound scrapes my throat like broken glass. "You've kept me private for years, Frank. Hidden away like some shameful secret while you took credit for every deal I closed while you were too busy with your mistresses."
The crowd goes silent. Even the servers stop moving.
"You're upset," Frank says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register I know too well. "That's understandable. Change is difficult. But this is neither the time nor the place…"
I'm not upset, you miserable bastard. Upset is what happens when someone cuts you off in traffic.
What I am is rightful fucking fury.
"The Shanghai expansion was my strategy." I step forward, my heels crunching over broken glass. "The sustainable packaging initiative was my project. The distribution network that won us this award tonight—I built that from nothing while you golfed and drank and pretended to be something you're not."
"Renée." Frank's hand closes around my wrist, his grip bruising. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"No." I wrench my arm free, stumbling backward. "You are embarrassing yourself. You're handing my grandfather's company—my birthright—to a twenty-two-year-old who can't tell the difference between malolactic fermentation and a malo-something smoothie."
Sandrine's composure cracks, just slightly. "I have an MBA from—"
She has a fucking MBA.
I want to wrap my hands around this bitch's throat and squeeze until that smug little smile disappears forever.
"I don't care if you have a PhD from the Sorbonne." I hiss at her and turn back to Frank, and every survival instinct screams at me to stop before the consequences become irreversible. "This company is mine. My grandfather built it. My blood runs through every vine on this property. And I will not let you give it to your whore!"
Frank's face goes white, then red. His hand twitches at his side—the same hand that broke my nose, that split my lip, that taught me exactly how much damage a wedding ring can do to soft tissue.
"You ungrateful little—" He catches himself, remembering the witnesses. "We will discuss this later."
"No, we won't." The word tastes like freedom. "I want a divorce."
The silence that follows is absolute.
Then I'm walking through the crowd that parts around me like I'm contagious.
I hear Frank calling my name, hear Sandrine's theatrical gasp, hear the explosion of whispers that will become rumors that will become headlines by morning.
I don't stop.
My room is on the second floor, the one I've occupied alone since my father died five years ago and Frank stopped caring about the image.
I lock the door behind me and start throwing clothes into a bag with hands that won't stop shaking. The thoughts clawing at the edges of my composure.
He won't let you go. The marital contract makes him the owner. Without you, he has nothing.
The doorknob rattles.
"Renée." Frank's voice is calm and controlled. The voice he uses before the worst of it. "Open this fucking door."
I keep packing. Passport. Cash from the hidden envelope in my jewelry box. The photograph of Grand-père I keep in my nightstand.
"I'm not playing games with you." The calm fractures, revealing the rage beneath. "You humiliated me in front of everyone!"
His fist connects with the door. The wood shudders but holds.
"Open this door, or I swear to God, the surgeons won't be able to reconstruct what's left of your face this time."
Another impact. The frame splinters.
I grab my bag and cross to the window. The trellis outside is old but sturdy—I've thought about this escape route before, in the darkest moments, when the bruises were fresh and the walls felt like they were closing in.
But leaving meant abandoning Grand-père's legacy to Frank's incompetence.
The door crashes open just as I swing my leg over the windowsill. "Renée, don't you dare—"
I don't hear the rest. I'm already climbing down, the rose thorns tearing at my evening gown, my bare feet finding purchase on wood that groans under my weight.
The running shoes are in the bag, I remind myself as thorns bite into my soles. You'll put them on when you are safe. Just keep moving.
Then I'm running.
The gravel driveway cuts into my soles, but I don't slow down. The main road is half a kilometer away, lined with plane trees that cast shadows like reaching hands in the moonlight.
Cars pass. One, two, three—their headlights washing over me and moving on, leaving me gasping in their wake.
They think I'm a madwoman. Maybe I am.
I step right into the center of the road as the next car’s headlights blind me.
Then brakes scream and I brace for the deadly impact.
But this car stops. Right in front of me.
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