Page 70 of The Vines Between Us
I picked up the letter, scanning the cold, formal language. "This is illegal. They can't just—"
"They can," Alexandre interrupted. "Bertrand checked. The clause exists in both our contracts."
I leaned against the workbench, my mind racing through calculations. Between us, we owed nearly €1,200,000. Even if we liquidated everything, we wouldn't come close.
"What about your savings from Paris?" I asked, hating myself for asking.
Alexandre shook his head. "I've already put everything into the operating costs and the Alliance fund. There's nothing left."
I closed my eyes, feeling the walls closing in. "So this is it. VitaVine wins."
"No." The determination in his voice made me look up. "We're not giving up. Not yet."
But I could see the fear behind his eyes—the same fear I'd seen fourteen years ago when he'd chosen to run rather than stay and fight.
By afternoon, more devastating news arrived. Jean-Marc appeared at the boundary stone where our properties met, his expression telling me everything before he spoke.
"I've accepted VitaVine's offer," he said, unable to meet my eyes. "They're paying off my daughter's nursing bills and guaranteeing her ongoing care for life."
I couldn't even be angry. "I understand."
"And the Cloutiers have signed as well," he added. "That just leaves you, Alexandre, Marcel, and Madame Fontaine."
Our Alliance was crumbling. Four vineyards couldn't sustain the cooperative structure we'd planned. Without shared equipment, without collective bargaining power, without enough volume to interest distributors—we were finished.
"Rousseau says his offer to you and Alexandre stands," Jean-Marc continued awkwardly. "Triple value, all debts cleared."
"Thank you for telling me personally," I said, extending my hand. We shook, and I watched him walk away, shoulders slumped with a mixture of relief and shame.
When I returned to the house, I found Alexandre sitting at Claude's old desk, staring at a blank wall. The familiar panic was creeping back into his posture—the tightness in his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped rapidly against the wooden surface.
"Jean-Marc and the Cloutiers have accepted VitaVine's offer," I said.
He nodded, unsurprised. "I heard."
"The bank called again. They won't budge on the payment deadline."
Alexandre stood abruptly, pacing the room. "Maybe we should consider—"
"Don't say it," I cut him off. "Don't even think it."
"Be realistic, Hugo!" His voice cracked. "We've lost the equipment, we've lost half the Alliance, we've lost the bank's support. What do we have left?"
"Each other," I said firmly. "And the vines."
He laughed bitterly. "Sentiment won't pay €1,200,000 in five days."
I watched him pace, recognizing the old pattern emerging—the fear taking over, the walls going up. I'd lost him once to this spiral; I wouldn't lose him again.
I crossed the room and caught his hands, forcing him to stop. "Come with me."
"Hugo, I can't—"
"Just come."
I led him out of the house, through the evening-cooled vineyard rows, to the old stone wall where our properties met. The same wall where, as teenagers, we'd sit for hours talking about our dreams. The same wall where, weeks ago, we'd reconnected after his father's death.
"Look at them," I said, gesturing to the vines stretching out before us. "Your grandfather's Merlot. My grandfather's Cabernet Franc. They've survived frost and drought and hail. They've survived neglect and disease."
