The words hang in the air between us, and I feel a small knot form in my stomach. I force my hands to remain still in his grip but a quiet concern settles behind my ribs.
"How do you know it's a woman?" I ask, and the question is edged with an irritation that surprises us both.
Estienne looks up from my bandaged palms, surprise flickering across his features. "What do you mean?"
"You said 'she.' You specifically said 'wherever she is.'" I pull my hands back slowly, folding them in my lap where he can't feel them trembling. "How do you know the person responsible wasn't Frank himself?"
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him recalculating like he takes questions seriously.
"Frank Chevotet is a blunt instrument," he says finally. "What happened to us wasn't blunt."
"That doesn't mean it was a woman." I keep my tone neutral. "It just means it wasn't Frank. He could have hired consultants."
"He could have." Estienne nods, conceding the point. "But industry insiders don't think so. There have been whispers for years about someone behind Frank."
"Whispers aren't evidence," I say. "And it sounds to me like someone decided the villain had to be a woman."
Estienne stiffens, his easy posture tightening almost imperceptibly. "That's not what I said."
"Isn't it?" I press harder. "My father was the same way, you know. Every time something went wrong in his business, there was always a woman to blame."
"I'm not your father," Estienne says quietly.
"No," I agree. "But you're making the same assumptions he made. The fact that you've decided the person responsible must be a woman says more about your expectations than it does about the evidence."
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I think I've pushed too far.
But he doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he takes a slow breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is measured and controlled.
"You're right that whispers aren't proof," he says. "And you're right that I shouldn't make assumptions based on gender. But I'm basing it on something that actually happened."
The shift in his tone makes my stomach clench.
"A woman visited our vineyard that spring," he continues, his eyes distant with recollection. "She said she was a journalist writing about regional wines for some lifestyle magazine. She had credentials, business cards. She even brought a photographer."
A cold prickle runs down my spine.
"She asked to tour the property," Estienne continues, "to interview my grandfather about our history and our methods. She wanted to understand what made Domaine Côté different from the larger operations."
"What kinds of questions did she ask?" The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Estienne's brow furrows slightly at my curiosity, but he answers anyway.
"Everything. She asked about our irrigation schedules, our supplier contracts, which distributors we relied on most heavily. She wanted to know our production costs, our profit margins, our plans for the next five years."
Each detail lands like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples of unease through my chest.
The questions he's describing—they're textbook competitive intelligence.
"My grandfather was so proud," Estienne says, and the raw edge in his voice cuts deep. "He showed her the original stone cellars his great-grandfather built. Let her taste wine from barrels that weren't ready for anyone outside the family."
My throat tightens.
"He said she seemed genuinely interested," Estienne continues. "Not like the other journalists who just wanted a quick quote and a photo. She asked follow-up questions. She made him feel like his story mattered."
The unease in my chest is spreading now, creeping through my veins like ice water.
"The last thing she said to him," Estienne says quietly, "was that she hoped the article would bring him the recognition he deserved."
The ground tilts beneath me.
I know those words. I know them because I said them.
I was that journalist.
I remember the way Bastien Côté's face lit up when I asked about the history of the estate. I remember the pride in his voice as he explained techniques passed down through four generations.
I remember thinking that he reminded me of my own grandfather—the same passion, the same reverence for the land.
I remember filing my report with Frank that evening, noting every opportunity for disruption.
The destruction I orchestrated later.
"Three months later, our contracts started canceling," Estienne continues, unaware that he's describing my handiwork to my face. "Distributors who'd worked with us for decades suddenly found better options."
I have to say something. The silence is stretching too long, becoming suspicious.
"That's horrible," I manage, and my voice sounds distant to my own ears. "To betray someone's trust like that… that's cruelty."
"The magazine never published the article, of course," Estienne says, watching my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "We checked. There was no journalist by that name on staff at any publication we could find."
"Did anyone ever see her again?" I ask, because I need to know how much danger I'm in. "Would anyone recognize her if they did?"
"I don't know." Estienne shakes his head slowly. "I was still in San Francisco. When I came back, my grandfather described her to me once—blonde hair, professional demeanor, very knowledgeable about wine. But he was already getting confused by then. The stress had taken too much out of him."
God… I did all that because the numbers said they were a threat to our market share.
I wore a wig and contacts.
I never asked what would happen to the people behind those numbers.
I knew, and I did it anyway. I told myself the boy I'd loved at ten had nothing to do with the competitor I needed to eliminate at twenty-nine.
I told myself that childhood memories didn't belong in boardrooms, that sentiment was a weakness I couldn't afford, that my grandfather's legacy mattered more than some half-forgotten summer.
I was wrong.
I was so catastrophically, unforgivably wrong.
"Do you know what that did to him?" Estienne's voice drops lower, rougher. "Watching everything he built crumble while he was too old and too sick to fight back? The stress took years off his life. The doctors said his heart would be twice as strong now if the anxiety hadn't worn him down."
I think of my own grandfather, of the way his eyes lit up when he talked about the vineyard.
Bastien Côté loved his land the same way. And I helped destroy him for it.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, and the words are wholly inadequate for what I've done. "I'm so sorry that happened to your family."
Estienne looks at me strangely, and for a terrifying moment I think he sees through me—sees past the fake name and the changed appearance to the woman underneath.
"You say that like you mean it," he observes quietly.
"I do mean it." My voice cracks on the truth buried inside the lie. "No one should have their legacy stolen from them."
He reaches out and takes my hand again, gentle and warm, and I want to pull away because I don't deserve his kindness.
"You're shaking," he says.
"I'm tired," I lie. "It's been a long day."
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