Page 40 of The Vines Between Us
I'd denied it, of course. But the next summer, when I was sixteen and Hugo just turned seventeen, he caught us kissing behind the equipment barn. The beating that followed left marks that took weeks to fade.
"If I ever catch you with him again, you'll never see this place again, and you'll never speak to your mother again" he'd promised, his voice deadly calm after the storm of violence. "Your grandfather won't take you in either. He'd be disgusted if he knew what you are."
I believed him. Why wouldn't I? My father had always made it clear I was a disappointment, a burden, someone who could never measure up. And the thought of losing the vineyard, my only sanctuary from the hell of our home in Lyon, was unbearable.
So I stayed away from Hugo that summer, making excuses, breaking his heart in small ways that were preparation for the final blow. And after our last summer together, when we'd given in to our feelings despite everything, I'd left for university and never returned. Not for holidays, not for harvest. I told Henri it was because of my studies, my internships, my career.
The truth was simpler: I was terrified. Of my father, of not seeing my mother again, yes, but more than that, I was terrified of how much I loved Hugo and how willing I was to risk everything to be with him. Of how completely he saw me, flaws and all. Of the power he had to destroy me if I let him in.
So I'd fled and built a life in Paris—successful, empty, safe. I dated men discreetly, choosing those who never got close enough to matter, whose existence my father would never discover. I threw myself into sixty-hour work weeks, convincing myself it was ambition fuelling my drive, not fear. For Christmas dinners at my parents', I'd arrive with a woman on my arm—paid escorts who understood their role perfectly. I crafted an illusion of normalcy, whatever the cost, just to keep my father's demons at bay.
And now I'd done it again. Given in to desire, then retreated at the first sign of real intimacy, of something that mattered. Hugo deserved better than this, better than me. He always had, his beautiful soul needed someone who was worthy of him.
I stared at the phone in my hand, wondering if I should call him. Apologize. Try to explain. Beg for forgiveness, for him to forget the cruel words I'd spoken. But what would I say? That I was broken beyond repair? That my father had methodically convinced me I was unworthy of love, and I'd spent fourteen years meticulously proving him right? That even now, at thirty-two, I cowered beneath the shadow of his judgment,terrified of the power he still wielded over me with nothing more than his voice in my head?
The walls closed in around me. I couldn't stay here, surrounded by memories of Hugo, of us. I grabbed my keys and wallet, needing to escape, to think, to breathe.
Outside, the vineyard stretched before me, the vines that had once been my safe refuge as a teenager now seemed to mock my cowardice. The path to Domaine Tremblay beckoned, but I turned away, heading nowhere in particular.
With each step, regret weighed heavier. I'd had everything I'd ever wanted in my grasp—Hugo, the chance to save the vineyard, the possibility of a life with meaning—and I'd thrown it away because I couldn't believe I deserved it.
My father's voice echoed in my head: "You're nothing. You'll always be nothing, you're a disappointment."
But beneath it, quieter but more insistent, came another voice—Henri's, from the letters we'd found: "Love is the only thing worth risking everything for."
Henri and Claude had loved each other for over forty years, mostly in secret, stealing moments when they could. But their story was not mine.
And Hugo—God, Hugo. He'd waited fourteen years, but people wait for many things that never materialize. He'd welcomed me, helped me, trusted me with his body and his heart. But one night didn't erase the years between us.
I continued walking through the vineyards of Domaine Moreau, each step more determined than the last. The morning sun broke through the clouds, casting long shadows across the vineyards. In that moment, I made my decision with perfect clarity—I would focus on what I came here to do: save Domaine Moreau, honour my grandfather's memory, and return to the life I'd built.
What happened with Hugo was a momentary lapse, a ghost from the past demanding attention. But ghosts weren't real, and neither was the fantasy of reclaiming what we'd lost as teenagers.
I would see Hugo again, of course—our properties were too intertwined to avoid it completely. But I would be professional, distant. I would pretend this morning never happened. I would convince him it was better this way.
And perhaps, if I repeated it enough times, I might even convince myself.
Chapter Fifteen
HUGO
Istood frozen in the doorway, watching Alexandre's retreating back. The morning light caught his dark hair as he hurried away, not once looking back. The same way he'd left fourteen years ago.
My body still held the warmth of his, the echo of his touch on my skin. This morning had been everything I'd dreamed of for fourteen years—Alexandre in my arms again, our bodies remembering each other despite the time between. His whispers against my neck, promises I should have known better than to believe.
The sheets still smelled like him.
I slammed the door and pressed my forehead against the cool wood. Rage bubbled up through my chest, hot and thick. I'd been such a fool. Again.
"It meant nothing," he'd said, voice cold and distant, nothing like the man who'd held me through the night. "This was a mistake."
I pushed away from the door and stalked to the kitchen, grabbing the first thing I found—a ceramic mug Claude had made ata pottery class years ago—and hurled it against the wall. The satisfying crash as it shattered did nothing to ease the ache in my chest.
The kettle whistled, and I realized I'd put it on automatically. My body going through the motions while my mind reeled.
I poured the water over coffee grounds, watching the dark liquid bloom. The bitter scent filled the kitchen, grounding me.
"You're done, Hugo," I muttered to myself. "Absolutely done."
