Page 55 of Blurred Lines

22

EMILY

My hands clench against the armrests of the plush chair, nails biting into leather and drawing lines into my own skin, a map of mounting panic. My father's legacy is crumbling before my eyes, each word the manager utters a fresh blow.

I don't even know why it matters. Dad's legacy was never the subject of any of my woes, certainly not before my return to Emberton. But the truth is simple, so simple I can't ignore it. I care about the vineyard.

"We've analyzed the soil samples," the manager continues, his voice droning wearily, "The imbalance is severe. Nutrients leached, pH thrown off kilter. Years of neglect have turned the once-fertile ground acidic." Images flash before my eyes—healthy vines shriveling, grapes withering into bitter, inedible husks.

"And the irrigation?" I manage to force out. My throat feels thick, each syllable a struggle.

The manager sighs, the sound heavy with unspoken implications. "Faulty lines, likely deliberate sabotage. Water leaks out instead of reaching the roots. It's a wonder any of the crops survived the drought."

Drought—that other specter hanging over us. The image shifts: whole sections of the vineyard reduced to desiccated wastelands. The financial implications alone are enough to make me dizzy.

"This is a calculated attack," Silas's voice cuts through the fog of my horror. He's right. This isn't just sloppiness; it's a systematic dismantling of everything my family built.

Caeleb curses beneath his breath, a long, frustrated string of words. "But who would do this? Why?"

A grim silence falls. The manager shifts uncomfortably. "There's more," he warns.

I want to tell him to stop, that I can't take another revelation today. But the words die on my tongue. I need to know, no matter how crushing it all becomes.

"The processing facility—someone tampered with the pasteurization equipment. Traces of bacterial contamination in this season's batches. We can't risk selling them." His eyes meet mine with a desperate sort of pity.

"And the workers," the manager's voice is low, almost a whisper. "With the missing wages and the rumors they've been hearing …" His words seem to hang heavy in the air, an unspoken threat.

Strike. It's the word that echoes in my head. Dad would turn in his grave if he knew. The weight of it all presses down on me, suffocating.

Suddenly, I can't breathe. This office, with its worn furniture and oppressive stillness, feels like a coffin. "I need air," I gasp, pushing myself out of the chair, my legs barely supporting me.

I stumble outside, the sunlight a harsh, mocking assault on my senses. Vaguely, I hear the men's voices following, filled with worry and questions I can't answer. I can't focus, can't process.

The vineyard sprawls before me, a mocking testament to failure. My failure. Tears well in my eyes, hot and blurring the landscape.

"Emily." A hand, gentle but insistent, guides me towards a bench nearby. Caeleb. He always knows how to ground me when I'm spiraling.

"It's too much," I choke out, "all of it. I can't fix it."

"That's not true," Silas says, his voice firm. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

"With what resources?" I ask harshly, the desperation breaking through. "The vineyard is bleeding dry. We can't even pay the workers, let alone fight whatever this is."

Then comes the revelation that shatters my carefully constructed defenses. The manager clears his throat, drawing my attention. He hunches his shoulders, making him appear smaller, weaker. "Word on the grapevine is that AgriCorp," he pauses, gauging my reaction with narrowed eyes, "they've been sniffing around. Making offers. Saying all the right things to put doubt in the workers' minds."

AgriCorp. I know the name. It belongs to a cogent conglomerate that has been gobbling up land and crushing small businesses with ruthless efficiency. Their eyes were always on my dad's vineyard, even when I was a kid. They weren't all that powerful back then. Apparently, this is no longer the case. Now, it seems they've moved from predator to executioner.

"And," the manager continues, his voice hushed, "they wouldn't be making a play unless they had someone on the inside helping them."

Fear twists in my gut, sharp and cold. A traitor in our midst.

The men exchange worried glances. I need a moment, a way to reset my reeling mind. A break from all of this. An impossible idea sparks then, a defiant flicker amidst the chaos.

"The movie theater," I blurt out. "Can you get us the entire hall? I know it sounds crazy?—"

It's so stupid, but this was what Flora and I used to do when we were kids. When stuff at home would get a little too real, she and I would sneak out through the servants' exit and go to the movies. Mom didn't have the time to care about where we were going and why we'd return home late at night. She was fine with it so long as we came back.

I don't want to say all of this out loud. The guys, bless them, seem to sense this, sidestepping the heart of the storm with the ease of seasoned navigators. "Not crazy at all," Finn interjects with a speed that would put a gunslinger to shame. "Consider it handled."

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