Page 54 of The Vines Between Us
I looked up from the contract to find Hugo standing in the study doorway, his expression shifting from disbelief to anger as he took in the scene: the open bottle of cognac, Rousseau's business card, the contract spread before me.
"I'm considering all options," I said, straightening in my chair.
"All options." Hugo stepped into the room, his movements tightly controlled. "Including selling your grandfather's legacy to corporate vultures? What about the cooperative?"
I set down my glass harder than intended. "I'm acknowledging reality, Hugo. We're seventy-four days from foreclosure. The equipment is failing faster than we can repair it. The alliance is a beautiful dream, but—"
"But what? It's too much work? Too uncertain?" His voice rose. "We've barely started and you're already looking for the exit."
"I'm being practical."
"You're being a fucking coward."
The accusation hit like a physical blow. I stood, anger flaring. "Easy for you to say. Your vineyard isn't seventy-four days from being seized by the bank."
"No, it's about ninety days from that point, not that it makes any difference" Hugo shot back. "And I'm still fighting. I'm not taking the easy way out."
"You know there's nothing easy about this decision."
"Isn't there?" He picked up the contract, glancing at the figure before tossing it back onto the desk. "This is exactly what you want, Alexandre. An escape. A reason to run back to Paris with your conscience clear because you had 'no choice. Just when I was beginning to think that maybe you could change.'"
I circled the desk, needing to move, to put distance between us. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Hugo followed, refusing to let me retreat. "You've been looking for an excuse to leave since the moment you arrived. Now Rousseau has handed you the perfect one, gift-wrapped with a bow of self-justification."
"What would you have me do? Watch the bank take everything? Watch twelve generations of Moreaus end with me, the failure who couldn't save what everyone before me managed to preserve?"
"I'd have you fight!" Hugo's voice cracked with emotion. "I'd have you believe in what we're building. The alliance, the future—maybe even us, if you can see past the obstacles we've faced."
“There isn’t an ‘us,’ Hugo. Not anymore. Those moments we shared—they were beautiful, but they belong to our teenage years. This is the real world now, and we both need to accept that.” My voice was heavier than I intended, thick with the weight of memories and unresolved feelings.
Hugo stepped back as if I'd struck him. "Right. Of course." His laugh was bitter. "There's just you, making decisions that affect everyone else. Just like fourteen years ago."
"That's not—"
"It is." His eyes blazed. "You're doing exactly what you did then. Running away when things get difficult. Choosing safety over... over anythingreal."
I felt cornered, defensive. "I'm trying to be realistic. This offer solves everything."
"It solves nothing! It just lets you escape the hard parts. The uncertainty, the vulnerability, the possibility of failure." Hugo's voice dropped, somehow more devastating in its quietness. "You know what I think? I think you're more afraid of succeeding than failing. Because if we save these vineyards, if we build something together, then you'd have to stay. You'd have to commit. And that terrifies you more than any financial ruin."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Hugo's eyes searched mine. "Tell me you're not tempted to take that money because it gives you permission to leave. Tell me you're not relieved to have an honorable retreat."
I couldn't answer. The truth of his words burned too deeply.
"That's what I thought." Hugo turned toward the door, then stopped. "Your grandfather stayed, Alexandre. Despite everything—society's judgment, the impossibility of being with Claude openly—he stayed. He built something that mattered, even though it was hard. Even though it hurt sometimes."
"And look what it got him," I said quietly. "A lifetime of hiding. Of compromise."
"Of love," Hugo countered. "Of purpose. Of belonging somewhere, to someone, even if it wasn't perfect." He shook his head. "But you wouldn't understand that, would you? You've spent your entire adult life making sure you belong nowhere, to no one."
The accusation landed with devastating accuracy. I wanted to deny it, to defend myself, but the words wouldn't come.
Hugo waited a moment longer, then nodded as if confirming something to himself. "Call Rousseau. Take the money. Go back to Paris. It's what you've wanted all along."
He walked out, footsteps echoing through the house, followed by the heavy thud of the front door. I stood frozen in Henri's study, surrounded by generations of Moreau history, feeling like the last link in a chain about to break.
