Page 47 of The Vines Between Us
Their love had been real. Deep. Worth everything they'd sacrificed to protect it.
I thought of Hugo, of the hurt in his eyes when I'd walked away. Of Rousseau's smug certainty that I would abandon everything and return to Paris.
"Not this time," I whispered to the ghosts of Henri and Claude who seemed to linger in this sacred space. "I won't run away again."
Chapter Seventeen
ALEXANDRE
Istood at the edge of Hugo's property for five full minutes before walking toward his house. The old me would have found excuses to delay this conversation indefinitely. Would have convinced myself that Hugo needed space, that I should respect his boundaries by staying away entirely.
But that was cowardice dressed up as consideration.
The truth was simpler: I missed him. Missed his laugh, his easy competence with the vines, the way he listened without judgment. Three days of working alone had felt like three weeks.
I was tired of letting fear make my decisions for me.
If Hugo rejected my olive branch, if he told me to leave and never come back, I'd survive that. What I couldn't survive anymore was not trying.
I found Hugo moving between rows of vines. The late afternoon sun caught in his auburn hair, now tied back in a messy knot. His movements were efficient, almost aggressive—pruning shears attacking the overgrowth with practiced precision. Even from this distance, the tension in his shoulders was visible.
My stomach clenched. I'd rehearsed what to say a dozen timeson the walk over, but now that I was here, the carefully prepared words evaporated. The weight of Henri's journal pressed against my chest where I'd tucked it inside my jacket.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward, boots crunching on the gravel path loud enough to announce my presence.
Hugo's back stiffened, but he didn't turn around. "I'm busy, Alexandre."
The cold formality in his voice was worse than anger. I deserved it.
"I found something at the domaine." My voice sounded strange to my own ears—too high, too uncertain. "Something I think you should see."
He continued pruning, his movements never faltering. "More old love letters? I've seen enough, thanks."
"No, it's—" I moved closer, stepping into the row behind him. "A room. A secret room they built together."
This made him pause, just for a moment, before he resumed his work.
"Behind the eastern cellar wall. It was their... sanctuary, I guess."
Hugo's hands finally stilled. He stood motionless for several heartbeats before turning to face me. His expression was carefully blank, but his eyes betrayed him—curiosity warring with the hurt I'd inflicted.
"What kind of room?"
"A place just for them. With photographs, special wines, music." I pulled out Henri's journal. "The key was where Henri described—under the cherub statue in Margot's rose garden."
Hugo wiped his hands on his work pants, leaving smudges of dirt. He didn't reach for the journal.
"Why are you here, Alexandre?"
The direct question caught me off-guard. I'd expected to ease into this conversation through the discovery, not face the heart of the matter immediately.
"Because I—" I swallowed hard. "Because I keep making the same mistake."
His eyebrows lifted slightly, the only change in his carefully controlled expression.
"I run. When things matter, when they're real, I run." The words tumbled out, unpolished and raw. "I ran fourteen years ago. I ran three days ago. It's what my father taught me—that vulnerability is weakness, that connection is dangerous."
Hugo crossed his arms. "And now you've had some grand epiphany because of a hidden wine cellar?"
