Page 49 of The Vines Between Us
"I understand."
"Do you?" His eyes were hard, protective. "Because I need absolute clarity here. I'll work with you to save Domaine Moreau and Domaine Tremblay. That's it."
"That's enough." I held his gaze. "More than I deserve."
Something flickered across his face—a softening, perhaps, or just exhaustion. "Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. We'll look at this room, then make a plan for the vineyards."
"Thank you."
He turned back to his work, a clear dismissal. I hesitated, then placed Henri's journal on a nearby post.
"In case you want to read it before tomorrow."
Hugo didn't acknowledge this, but as I walked away, I glanced back to see him watching me, his expression unreadable in the fading light. He didn't wave, didn't smile, but he didn't look away either.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't even the beginning of trust. But it was something—a crack in the wall between us, a chance to prove through actions what my words couldn't convey.
As I crossed back to Domaine Moreau, the setting sun painted the vines in shades of gold and amber. In the distance, the spire of Saint-Émilion's church caught the last rays of daylight. This place had always felt like home, even when I'd convinced myself I belonged elsewhere.
For the first time since returning, I truly allowed myself to imagine a future here—not just for the next seventy-nine days, but beyond. A future where both domaines thrived, where thelegacy Henri and Claude built in secret could continue in the open.
Whether Hugo would be part of that future remained uncertain. I'd hurt him too deeply, too repeatedly, to expect forgiveness. But I could still honour what our grandfathers had created together. I could still fight for this land they'd loved.
And maybe, if I stayed long enough, if I proved through daily choices that I wouldn't run again, Hugo might eventually believe me. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday.
For now, that possibility—however distant—was enough to keep me walking forward instead of retreating back to Paris and the empty life I'd built there.
Chapter Eighteen
ALEXANDRE
The Saint-Émilion village meeting hall hadn't changed since my childhood—the same worn wooden floors, the same dusty chandeliers, the same faded mural of grape harvesters along the back wall. The only difference was the sleek digital projector now mounted to the ceiling, an incongruous bit of modernity in a room otherwise frozen in time.
I stood near the back, watching villagers file in. Marcel from the hardware store nodded curtly as he passed. The Pelletier sisters, both well into their eighties, clutched each other's arms as they shuffled to seats in the front row. Jean-Marc, whose family had been making barrels for five generations, took a spot by the window.
"Quite the turnout," Hugo murmured, appearing at my elbow.
I startled slightly. We'd spent the past three days working side by side on our vineyards, but his sudden proximity still unsettled me. "Everyone's curious about VitaVine's plans."
"Or worried." Hugo's gaze swept the room. "Did you see theposters they put up? 'Saint-Émilion's Exciting Future.' As if our past and present aren't worth preserving."
Before I could respond, Madame Fontaine bustled over, her grey curls bouncing with each determined step. "You two. Front row. Now."
"We're fine here," I protested.
She fixed me with a look that had probably cowed schoolchildren for decades. "This isn't about where you're comfortable, Alexandre. It's about what this village sees when VitaVine presents their so-called vision. They need to see the faces of real vignerons who've tended these soils for generations."
"My grandfather did. I've been gone—"
"You're here now," she cut me off. "And you're Henri's grandson. That matters." Her expression softened fractionally. "Besides, you've been working those vines like a man possessed these past two weeks. Everyone's noticed."
Hugo nodded. "She's right. We should sit where people can see us."
I reluctantly followed them to the front row. As we settled in, Étienne Rousseau strode through the main doors, flanked by two assistants carrying presentation materials. He spotted us immediately, his smooth smile faltering for just a moment before recovering.
"Moreau. Tremblay." He nodded as if we were all old friends. "Glad you could make it."
"Wouldn't miss it," Hugo replied, his voice deceptively pleasant.
