Page 3 of The Vines Between Us
"You're not coming back, are you?" he finally whispered.
The direct question deserved a direct answer. I owed him that much.
"No."
His hand stilled on my wrist but didn't pull away. "Because of your father? Because of what people might say? Or because of me?"
"Because of me," I admitted, only telling half of a truth. "I can't be who I need to be if I stay."
"And who is that, exactly?"
I couldn't articulate it then—the desperate need to build something unbreakable around myself. Something my father couldn't shatter with his fists or his words. Something that would never leave me exposed, vulnerable, raw.
"Someone successful," I said instead. "Someone who matters."
Hugo sat up abruptly, dirt clinging to his shirt, eyes fierce in the fading light. "You already matter, Alexandre. To your grandfather. To me."
"It's not enough."
"It's everything," he countered, voice breaking. "Everything that actually matters."
That night, we made desperate, clumsy love in the wine cellar, surrounded by bottles holding years we'd never share. Afterwards, Hugo fell asleep against my chest, his breathing steady while mine came in silent, jagged gasps. I memorized the weight of him, the scent of his skin, knowing I was already leaving though my body remained.
"Je t'aime," I whispered to his sleeping form. The only time I'd ever said it aloud.
The next morning, I left without waking him. Coward that I was.
The train lurched, jolting me from memory. We were approaching Saint-Émilion station. I gathered my briefcase, straightened my tie—armour donned for battle.
I'd come to settle Henri's estate, nothing more. Sign whatever papers needed signing. Sell the vineyard to someone who'd care for it properly. Be back in Paris within twenty-four hours. Simple. Efficient. Painless.
Another lie.
The station was exactly as I remembered—small, sun-bleached, forgotten by time. No taxi stand waited outside, just a single bench beneath a twisted plane tree. I pulled out my phone to call for a car, then hesitated, struck by the absurdity. In Paris, I'd never walk six kilometres. Here, the idea of not walking seemed equally foreign.
I set off along the road, briefcase in hand, suit jacket slung over my shoulder. The midday sun beat down, indifferent to my corporate attire. Within minutes, sweat trickled down my spine, my polished shoes gathering dust.
Ahead, the medieval town rose from the landscape, honey-colored stone glowing in the sunlight. Beyond it, rolling hills covered with the geometric precision of vineyard rows. Somewhere among them, Domaine Moreau waited. And perhaps Hugo too, if he still remained at Domaine Tremblay.
The thought stopped me mid-stride. Would he still be there? Henri's funeral had been a blur—faces offering condolences while I checked my watch. Had Hugo been among them? I couldn't remember. Didn't want to remember.
I resumed walking, faster now. With each step, I reconstructed my walls. Brick by brick. Memory by memory. Sealing away the boy who'd loved recklessly, replacing him with the man who calculated risks, who never lost control, who kept everything—everyone—at a safe distance.
By the time Domaine Moreau appeared on the horizon, I was fully armoured again. Ready for whatever complications awaited.
Ready for anything except the truth.
Chapter Two
ALEXANDRE
Ipaused at the entrance to Domaine Moreau, my grandfather's kingdom now reduced to a shadow of itself. The iron gates hung askew, one barely clinging to rusted hinges. Weeds pushed through the gravel drive that once crunched pleasingly beneath visitors' tires—a sound that had always announced someone important was coming.
No one important had come here in a very long time.
I pushed the gate open, wincing at its pained screech. The sound seemed to echo across the property, announcing my arrival to ghosts.
"Mon Dieu," I whispered.
