Sleep is a country that refuses me entry.
I lie in the narrow bed under the eaves, staring at the ceiling beams, counting the knots in the wood like they might reveal something useful.
Estienne Côté.
Twenty years ago, he was a boy with wild dark hair and a laugh that made my stomach flip. Now he's a man who picked me up off a dark road and offered me shelter in the house of my family's oldest enemy.
The irony would be funny if it weren't so dangerous.
He didn't recognize you, I remind myself for the hundredth time. Your nose is different. Your weight is different. You're not the girl he knew.
But am I safe here?
Frank will look for me—that's certain. He'll check hotels, train stations, airports. He'll call in favors and hire investigators and tear apart every lead until he finds me.
I can only hope he would not think to look next door.
When the first gray light seeps through the curtains, I give up pretending to rest. My body craves movement, punishment, anything to quiet the noise in my head.
I find running clothes in my hastily packed bag—leggings, a sports bra, a loose shirt that hides the bruises on my arms. The farmhouse is silent as I slip down the stairs and out into the dawn.
The vines stretch in orderly lines toward the horizon, their leaves catching the early light like small green flames.
I round a corner and nearly collide with a broad chest.
"You're up early for someone who arrived looking like she'd escaped a Gothic novel," Estienne says, steadying me with hands that are warm and careful.
My heart stutters, and I tell myself it's from the running.
"Couldn't sleep," I manage, stepping back to create distance. "New place, unfamiliar sounds."
"The roosters take some getting used to." He falls into step beside me. "I spent almost twenty years in San Francisco, and my first week back I wanted to commit poultry murder every morning at five."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it—rusty, unpracticed, surprising us both.
"San Francisco?" I keep my voice neutral, though my mind is racing. "That's quite a change from provincial winemaking."
"Business development." He shrugs, and the motion draws my attention to the breadth of his shoulders, the easy way he carries himself. "Learned a lot about marketing and distribution. Turns out wine is easier to sell when people actually know it exists."
I study him as we walk. The jaw is stronger now, squared off by adulthood. The laugh lines around his eyes are new, etched by years I know nothing about.
But those eyes—that particular shade of pale blue, almost glacial in certain lights—those haven't changed.
Does he truly not see me? Or is this a performance? How the fuck come I didn't recognize him?
"You're staring," he observes mildly.
Heat floods my cheeks. "Sorry, I was just trying to figure out if you're genuinely this friendly to strangers or if there's a catch I'm missing."
"No catch." His smile is disarmingly open. "Though my grandfather would say I'm too trusting. He thinks Americans ruined me with their aggressive optimism."
"Did they?"
"Probably." He stops at the crest of a small hill, gesturing toward the vineyard spread below us. "But optimism is what's going to save this place. That and a lot of very hard work."
The morning light paints the vines in shades of gold and green, and despite everything, I feel the familiar pull.
Wine is patience.
"It's beautiful," I say, and mean it.
"It's struggling." Estienne's voice loses some of its lightness. "We took a bad hit two years back. Nearly bankrupted us."
He runs a hand through his dark hair, and the gesture tugs at something buried deep in my memory—a boy doing the same thing when he couldn't find the right words.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"It's okay." He turns back toward the farmhouse. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the people who'll actually be supervising your work. Fair warning—Henri is skeptical of everyone until you prove yourself useful, and Margaux will try to feed you until you burst."
We walk in companionable silence, morning run forgotten, and I catch myself watching the way he moves—confident but not arrogant, at home in his own body in a way I've never been in mine.
The farmhouse kitchen is warm and bright, filled with the smell of fresh bread and strong coffee. A woman in her sixties stands at the stove, silver hair pinned back in a practical bun, her face lined but kind.
"Margaux, this is Valérie Martin," Estienne announces. "She's joining us for the harvest season. Valérie, Margaux Allemand—she runs this household and most of our lives, though she's too modest to admit it."
Margaux wipes her hands on her apron and crosses to me, her gaze assessing but not unkind. "You look like you haven't eaten a proper meal in weeks, child. Sit down before you fall down."
The maternal concern in her voice catches me off guard. I can't remember the last time someone worried about whether I'd eaten. "I don't want to impose…"
"Nonsense." She steers me firmly toward a chair. "Estienne, go find Henri. He's probably already in the eastern block, complaining about the trellis repairs."
Estienne catches my eye with an amused shrug. "Told you she'd try to feed you. I'll be back in an hour to check on your progress."
He disappears through the back door, and I'm left alone with Margaux, who slides a plate of bread and cheese in front of me.
"Eat," she commands, then settles across from me with her own cup of coffee. "So, you're running from something or someone."
I nearly choke on my first bite. "I'm sorry?"
Before she can respond, the back door opens and a weathered man in his forties enters, his expression guarded and assessing.
"This the new girl?" He looks me over like I'm livestock of questionable quality.
"Henri Vasseur, our foreman," Margaux says. "Henri, try not to scare her off before she's finished her breakfast."
"I don't scare easy," I say, meeting his gaze directly.
Something like respect flickers in his eyes. "We'll see about that. Harvest starts in six days and you don't exactly look like you've done manual labor before."
"Appearances can be deceiving."
Margaux chuckles softly. "I like this one already."
Henri settles at the table with his own coffee, and the conversation shifts to logistics—schedules, assignments, equipment checks. I listen carefully, filing away information, when Margaux mentions the neighboring estate.
"Did you hear about the chaos at the Pasquier party last night?" She shakes her head, tutting. "Frank Chevotet announced his retirement and handed the company to some girl half his age. His mistress, apparently."
"Couldn't happen to a more deserving family," Henri mutters. "Though I'll say this—old Léonard Pasquier was a decent man. He and Bastien used to be friends."
My throat tightens. Bastien is Estienne's grandfather. The patriarch of this estate, the man my grandfather loved and then hated with equal ferocity.
"What happened between them?" I ask.
"Business deal gone wrong, twenty-some years back." Margaux sighs. "But even after, there were rules. What happened to us two years ago, that violated everything the old rivalry stood for. Léonard would have been ashamed."
"Frank is the worst thing that could have happened to that company," Henri agrees darkly. "And now he's given it to someone even less qualified than himself. The whole region is laughing."
I stare at my plate, emotions warring in my chest—vindication that others see Frank for what he is, shame for my lies, and beneath it all, a strange, fragile hope.
These people hate my company. But they respected my grandfather.
And for the first time in eight years, I've found people who see Frank Chevotet exactly as he deserves to be seen.
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