Page 16 of Blurred Lines

"Damage?" I ask, voice tight.

"Bad." The voice is grim. I hear the strain in it, the unspoken fear.

My mind races. On one hand, this is the most important meeting of my career. On the other … Harvey's Vineyard is more than a dream. It's a symbol of everything I believe in.

"Mr. Davenport," I turn back to the table, meeting his flinty gaze head-on, "I apologize, there's been an emergency. I need to leave."

He purses his lips, displeasure radiating from him. "This is hardly professional, Landry."

"A client's vineyard is being vandalized," I counter, my voice rising a notch. "I'm surprised you don't understand the urgency."

Gloria sputters beside him, but I push past her, practically running from the room. Davenport's call of—"We'll reschedule!"—fades behind me.

The lobby is a blur as I snatch my bag and bolt out the door, hailing a taxi with a desperation that borders on panic.

"Harvey's Vineyard," I bark at the driver, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. As the taxi weaves through traffic, I curse my fancy shoes, my stupid meeting, the entire concrete jungle of a city.

The hotel, the money, the prestige—it all shrivels into insignificance. What good is a fancy eco-haven if the very heart of sustainability is under attack? I'm an architect by trade, but at my core, I'm a builder with dirt under my nails and the stubborn belief that you can damn well change the world, one plot of land at a time.

Right now, that plot needs me.

The driver cuts through the late afternoon air, but the thrum of the powerful engine does nothing to calm the storm brewing inside me. Each mile closer to the vineyard increases the tightness in my chest, a visceral response to the violation that awaits.

Rounding a bend, the familiar sight of Harvey's Vineyard comes into view—and my heart sinks. Where rolling fields of vibrant green should be, an inky stain scars the earth like a gaping wound. The driver slams the brakes, the car skidding slightly on the gravel shoulder as a primal fury washes over me.

"Damn it all to hell," I snarl, the leather of the seat creaking as I wince.

Silas stands stoic by the edge of the desolation, his shoulders carrying a decade's extra weight. Flora—one of the sisters—has her phone raised, documenting the damage with grim determination.

"What hit you?" I ask, voice taut as I step out of the taxi, ignoring the sting of pebbles under my dress shoes.

Silas just shakes his head, lines etched deeper into his sun-baked face. "Smell reminds me of the old fertilizer plants. Soil's shot, gonna need testing."

My knuckles whiten. Testing is expensive, and folks like Harvey lived on a financial knife edge. "Anyone catch a glimpse?"

"Neighbor heard trucks hauling outta here at dawn," Flora says, her voice steel despite the flicker of helpless anger in her eyes. "No plates. Smart bastards."

"Professionals," I echo. This isn't petty vandalism; it's a carefully executed message designed to intimidate. The realization ignites a cold, calculated rage within me, a stark contrast to the heat of the sun.

I force myself to think, to strategize. "First order of business—cover the contaminated area." I gesture towards the stack of weathered tarps leaning against the old barn, "Don't want rain washing this poison any further down."

The vineyard manager and I stand aside as the workers disperse to get the job done.

"Mr. Landry, I want you to know, I'm on this," the manager starts, his voice edged with the resolve of a seasoned caretaker. "I'm going to comb through every invoice, every order, every communication. Nothing escapes scrutiny."

I nod, appreciating the depth of his commitment but acutely aware of the sluggish pace at which the local bureaucracy moves. "I understand the effort, but you and I both know how things tend to drag around here. How long do you think this will take?"

He exhales, moving his mouth like a horse chewing cud, heaviness rife in his aged eyes. "Honestly, we're looking at weeks, maybe a month. It's not just about finding discrepancies; it's about tracing them back to their source, understanding the how and the why."

I feel a twinge of frustration, but this is how things work in Emberton. "Alright, a month then. But let's keep the lines open, yeah? Any lead, no matter how small, I want to know about it."

"Of course," he agrees, a firm nod sealing his promise. "This is as much my fight as it is yours. We'll get to the bottom of this, Finn. You have my word."

Our conversation wraps with a handshake. Flora stands beside me as I finish dealing with the manager. After that bit is done, she and I remain out in the open, observing the affected part of the vineyards in silence.

I should be more detached, but it's hard. I grew up in this place, ran around the vines when I was a scrubby kid.

"Why do I think someone close to Dad has a hand in this?" Flora deadpans, her head tilted slightly as she observes the scene like a forensic expert.

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