Page 116 of Bitter Rival

“No…not exactly.” He winces. “Mind you, I’m not proud of this. My father had promised some artwork to my mother. But of course, the old man’s word wasn’t worth a damn and he never put it in the will. So I hired Astrid to steal it for me.”

I twist the napkin between my fingers, my eyes on my lap. I can’t even look at Beckett. “And did she?” I ask quietly. “Did she steal the artwork?”

Michael shakes his head. “No. She told me the deal was off.”

Next to me, Beckett starts laughing. It’s not a merry sound.

“Gotta hand it to Astrid. Instead of stealing a piece of art, she stole a husband and ended up with a hell of a lot more than one piece of art,” Beckett says. “Welp. Hate to cut the party short, but I’ve heard enough.” He slams both palms on the table, making the glasses and dishes rattle, and stands.

“Michael. Gabriella. Thanks for joining us. It’s been very enlightening. Now take a good look around. Beautiful, isn’t it?” He sweeps his arm across the view. “Tuck it away in your little memory bank because this is the last time you’ll ever set foot on this vineyard.”

Michael opens his mouth to speak but takes in the set of Beckett’s jaw and the hardness of his expression and thinks better of it.

He nods like he knows he went too far and there’s no way Beckett will ever sell him this vineyard now.

Beckett wouldn’t have cared if Michael torched the entire vineyard but hiring Astrid is the one act of revenge he won’t tolerate.

Even in her absence, my mother still manages to infiltrate our lives and inform our decisions.

I want to say something, to try and make things better, but I can’t get the words out and even if I could, what would I say?

In Beckett’s eyes, Astrid is responsible for ruining his mother’s life. And who could blame him for thinking that way?

“This lunch is over,” he says, his voice low and steely. “Now get the hell off my land.”

Before they go, Gabriella grabs my hand and gives it a little squeeze. “You’re not your mother.”

I force a smile and stand on the terrace watching them leave. Maybe that’s true but why do I still feel like I’m being forced to pay for her sins?

Today was yet another reminder of how tangled up my life is with Beckett’s.

My mother meddled in our lives. His father meddled. Even Michael Castellano had a finger in the pie.

And for what? The almighty dollar? Pride? Just to fuck with us?

“You’ve really done it this time, princess.”

I turn to him. He sounds more weary than angry.

A part of me wishes I’d kept my big mouth shut and stuck to business like he’d asked. If I hadn’t pushed Michael Castellano for answers, we might never have known that he was the one who hired Astrid.

But another part of me is glad that we got it all out in the open. There have been too many secrets over the years. Too many convoluted revenge plots and family feuds and twisted games.

“So it seems.”

With a sigh, he catches my hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

I’m surprised he’d want to be anywhere near me, but as we walk through the vineyard, I have to keep reminding myself that I am not my mother.

After fifteen minutes of walking in silence, we stop at the bottom of the terraced old vine zinfandel slope and he releases my hand and starts climbing.

I don’t know why he chose this spot today, but Pete told me it was the place where Robert came to die. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it feels symbolic.

What if my reason for being here is to help Beckett to forgive? His father. Himself.

“Coming?” Beckett calls over his shoulder.

I debate for all of two seconds before climbing the hill in a dress I bought because it matched his eyes.

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