Page 56 of The Vines Between Us
"Alexandre," his smooth voice answered. "I trust you've made the sensible decision."
"I have," I replied. "The answer is no."
Silence stretched for several seconds. "I see. Perhaps you misunderstood the time sensitivity. This offer—"
"Is rejected," I interrupted. "Domaine Moreau isn't for sale. Not to VitaVine, not to anyone."
"You're making a grave mistake," Rousseau's voice hardened. "The bank will—"
"The bank will have to deal with me and the Saint-Émilion Small Producers Alliance." I smiled into the phone. "We're just getting started, Monsieur Rousseau. I suggest you prepare your superiors for disappointment."
I ended the call before he could respond, slipping the phone into my pocket.
My phone rang again. Philippe's name flashed on the screen as I pulled it out from my pocket.
"Alexandre, what the hell is this about resignation? Is this your idea of a joke?"
I took a deep breath, standing in Henri's vineyard with the morning sun on my face. "It's not a joke, Philippe. I'm not coming back."
"Don't be ridiculous. There are multiple case files that need your expertise. The board specifically requested you—"
"Find someone else."
Silence stretched between us. When Philippe spoke again, his voice was ice-cold. "Do you have any idea what you're throwing away? Your senior partnership track, your reputation, your money, your entire future?"
"I'm not throwing it away. I'm trading it for something better."
"A failing vineyard in the middle of nowhere? This is midlife crisis behaviour, Alexandre. Take a sabbatical if you need to, but don't destroy your career over some pathetic romantic notion about wine-making and idyllic country living."
The dismissiveness in his voice—the same tone my father uses when discussing anything I actually cared about—sparked something fierce in me.
"You know what, Philippe? For ten years, I've worked sixty-hour weeks for a company that sees me as nothing but billable hours. I've sacrificed relationships, health, happiness—for what? A corner office and a salary that buys things I don't need in an apartment I never stay in?"
"For security. For success."
"Whose definition of success?" I looked across the vines in the distance toward Hugo's property, where I could see him already working in the early morning light. "I've found something worth more than senior partnership. I've found my home and reason for being."
"This is career suicide, Alexandre."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's the first honest decision I've made in years." I paused, feeling the finality of what I was about to say. "I'll send my formal resignation today. My projects are documented, my clients are covered. Consider this my two week notice. I'll be using my accrued vacation time for my notice period, so you won't be seeing me in office again."
"We'll sue for breach of contract. Your non-compete clause—"
"Only applies if I join a competitor. Last I checked, you don't consider small French vineyards a threat to your corporate empire." I smiled, surprised by how good this felt. "Goodbye, Philippe. Thanks for teaching me what I don't want my life to become."
I hung up before he could respond, then immediately blocked his number.
Ending the call, the night air felt cleaner somehow, easier to breathe. The vineyard before me no longer looked like a burden but a possibility. The weight of the corporate world fell from my shoulders, further showing me what was right and what I had ignored.
I needed to see Hugo. To tell him I was staying. To apologize for wavering, for nearly betraying everything and everyone—including myself.
But first, I had work to do. Alliance bylaws to draft. Grant applications to research. A business plan to create that would convince the bank to extend our loan.
I gathered Henri's journal and went inside to his study. My study now. There was a lifetime of work ahead, and for the first time since returning to Saint-Émilion, I was ready to embrace it.
Not because it was easy, but because it was right.
Not because it was safe, but because it mattered.
