Page 53 of The Vines Between Us
"Why?" I managed to ask, my throat dry.
"VitaVine values Domaine Moreau's heritage and location." Rousseau adjusted his platinum cufflinks. "Your little alliance proposal has... complicated matters. My superiors prefer resolution rather than protracted negotiations."
I leaned back in Henri's chair, my grandfather's presence almost palpable in the worn leather. "This is a significant increase."
"Indeed." Rousseau's smile never reached his eyes. "Enoughto purchase a magnificent apartment in Paris. Perhaps a vacation home in Provence. Financial security for life, Alexandre. No more struggling with ancient equipment, unpredictable weather, or labour shortages."
The offer was obscene. Excessive. Tempting in ways I hadn't anticipated. With this money, I could walk away from everything—the crumbling estate, the failing vines, the village politics. I could return to Paris, not to my corporate job but to freedom. I could travel, invest, live comfortably without ever working again.
I picked up the contract, pretending to read details I'd already memorized. "And what happens to Domaine Moreau?"
"We maintain the name, of course. It becomes part of our premium heritage collection." Rousseau waved his hand dismissively. "The manor house would make an excellent hospitality center. The more productive sections of vineyard would be integrated into our operations. The rest... repurposed for more efficient use."
"Repurposed."
"Some areas simply aren't economically viable in their current state." He shrugged. "Business realities."
I set the contract down, my fingers lingering on the heavy paper. "And if I refuse?"
Rousseau's expression hardened momentarily before smoothing back into practiced charm. "Then you face foreclosure in—what is it now?—seventy-four days? The bank takes everything, you leave with nothing, and we likely purchase the property at auction anyway." He leaned forward. "The outcome is inevitable, Alexandre. The only question is whether you benefit or not."
I stood, needing to move, to think. The study suddenly felt suffocating despite its familiar comfort. "I need time to consider."
"Of course." Rousseau stood as well, straightening his jacket with practiced precision. "But not too much time. This offer expires at noon tomorrow." He extracted a business card,placing it beside the contract. "Call me when you're ready to sign. I'll have the funds transferred immediately."
I walked him to the front door, our footsteps echoing through the quiet house. At the threshold, he paused.
"One more thing, Alexandre. Your... partner, Monsieur Tremblay. He's received a similar offer for his property."
My stomach tightened. "Has he?"
"Indeed. Though not quite as generous as yours." Rousseau's smile was reptilian. "His vineyard lacks the historical significance of Domaine Moreau. Still, it would be enough to clear his grandfather's debts and provide a comfortable new start elsewhere."
"Hugo would never sell."
"Everyone has their price." Rousseau stepped onto the gravel drive. "Even those who claim principles above profit. It's simply a matter of finding the right number." He gestured toward the contract on Henri's desk, visible through the open study door. "And I believe I've found yours."
I watched his Bentley disappear down the drive, dust settling in its wake. The morning breeze carried the scent of ripening grapes and distant rain. I should have felt anger, indignation, resolve to fight harder against VitaVine's manipulation.
Instead, I felt temptation coursing through me like poison.
I returned to the study, picking up the contract again. The figure hadn't changed. It was still obscene. Still life-changing. Still an escape from the uncertainty that had plagued me since returning to Saint-Émilion.
"Merde," I whispered to the empty room.
I poured myself a measure of Henri's cognac—too early, but necessary—and stepped onto the terrace. The vineyard stretched before me, rows upon rows of vines my grandfather had tended for decades. Vines I'd learned to care for during childhood summers. Vines that were failing now, despite our best efforts.
What would Henri do? The answer seemed obvious: he would never sell. But then, Henri had loved this place with his entire being. I merely... what? Respected it? Felt obligated to it?
No, that wasn't fair. I loved Domaine Moreau. But I also feared it—feared failing it, feared being trapped by it, feared giving myself to something that might not survive despite my best efforts.
The cognac burned pleasantly down my throat. The money would solve everything. I could pay off Henri's debts, salvage my career in Paris, avoid the humiliation of bankruptcy. I could walk away clean, financially secure.
And Hugo... Hugo would understand eventually. He was a practical man beneath his passion. He would see that this was the sensible choice.
Wouldn't he?
"You can't be serious."
