Page 19 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Fourteen

ALEXANDRE

I woke with a start, disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings. Hugo's bedroom. The memories of the morning flooded back—our bodies entwined, the desperate whispers, the promises made in darkness. My skin still bore the marks of his passion, tender reminders of how completely I'd surrendered.

Panic clawed at my chest. What had I done?

Hugo slept peacefully beside me, one arm flung across the pillow, his auburn hair spread like a halo around his face. In sleep, he looked impossibly young—almost like the eighteen-year-old boy I'd left behind.

I slipped from beneath the covers, careful not to wake him.

The floor creaked beneath my feet as I gathered my scattered clothing, pulling on my trousers with trembling hands.

This had been a mistake. A beautiful, devastating mistake born of nostalgia and too much wine and the shock of discovering our grandfathers' secret.

It wasn't real. Couldn't be real. People like me didn't get second chances.

"Where are you going? "

I froze, shirt half-buttoned, caught in my shameful retreat. Hugo sat up, sheet pooling around his waist, his expression shifting from sleepy confusion to hurt understanding.

"I need to get back," I said, not meeting his eyes. "There's work to do at Domaine Moreau."

"No more than there is here," Hugo's voice was quiet, dangerous. "You were going to leave without saying goodbye. Again."

"It's not like that." The lie tasted bitter. "This morning was—"

"If you say 'a mistake,' I swear to God, Alexandre."

I finished buttoning my shirt, focusing on each movement to avoid looking at him. "We got caught up in the moment. The letters, the journals... it was emotional."

"Bullshit." Hugo threw back the covers and stood, gloriously naked and unashamed. "You don't get to do this again."

"Do what?"

"Run." He stepped closer, blocking my path to the door. "You ran fourteen years ago, and now you're trying to sneak out of my bed like some pathetic one-night stand."

"What do you want from me, Hugo?" My voice cracked.

"The truth." His eyes burned into mine. "For once in your life, be honest about what you're feeling."

"Fine. You want honesty?" Something inside me snapped. "Last night meant nothing. It was just sex. Really good sex, but nothing more. We're not teenagers anymore."

I watched his heart break in real time—the widening of his eyes, the slight parting of his lips, the way he physically recoiled as if I'd struck him. It was the cruelest thing I'd ever done in my life, and I hated myself for it even as the words left my mouth.

"Get out," he whispered.

I hesitated, some desperate part of me wanting to take it all back, to fall to my knees and beg forgiveness.

But the walls were already rebuilt, the fortress secured.

I stepped around him and walked out of the bedroom, down the stairs, through the front door that slammed behind me with terrible finality.

The morning air was cool against my face as I walked the path between our properties, each step taking me further from what might have been. By the time I reached Domaine Moreau, my cheeks were wet with tears I hadn't realized I was shedding.

Inside the domaine, I stripped and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could bear. I scrubbed at my skin, trying to erase the evidence of Hugo's touch, the scent of him that clung to me. But nothing could wash away the memory of his face when I'd told him it meant nothing.

I dressed in clean clothes and made coffee I couldn't drink, staring out the window at the vineyards stretching toward Domaine Tremblay. What was wrong with me? Why did I always destroy the things I wanted most?

The answer came unbidden, my father's voice echoing in my head: "You're not worth loving, Alexandre. Never have been, never will be."

I was fifteen the first time he caught me looking at Hugo with longing.

We'd been swimming in the river that ran past the properties, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from the water droplets sliding down Hugo's bare chest. My father had been unexpectedly visiting the vineyard that weekend—one of his rare attempts at playing family man. He saw everything.

That night, he dragged me into Henri's study, reeking of whisky.

"I've seen how you look at that boy," he'd snarled, fingers digging into my arm hard enough to bruise. "It stops now. You're not a fucking fairy."

I'd denied it, of course. But the next summer, when I was sixteen and Hugo just turned seventeen, he caught us kissing behind the equipment barn. The beating that followed left marks that took weeks to fade.

"If I ever catch you with him again, you'll never see this place again, and you'll never speak to your mother again" he'd promised, his voice deadly calm after the storm of violence. "Your grandfather won't take you in either. He'd be disgusted if he knew what you are. "

I believed him. Why wouldn't I? My father had always made it clear I was a disappointment, a burden, someone who could never measure up. And the thought of losing the vineyard, my only sanctuary from the hell of our home in Lyon, was unbearable.

So I stayed away from Hugo that summer, making excuses, breaking his heart in small ways that were preparation for the final blow.

And after our last summer together, when we'd given in to our feelings despite everything, I'd left for university and never returned.

Not for holidays, not for harvest. I told Henri it was because of my studies, my internships, my career.

The truth was simpler: I was terrified. Of my father, of not seeing my mother again, yes, but more than that, I was terrified of how much I loved Hugo and how willing I was to risk everything to be with him.

Of how completely he saw me, flaws and all.

Of the power he had to destroy me if I let him in.

So I'd fled and built a life in Paris—successful, empty, safe.

I dated men discreetly, choosing those who never got close enough to matter, whose existence my father would never discover.

I threw myself into sixty-hour work weeks, convincing myself it was ambition fuelling my drive, not fear.

For Christmas dinners at my parents', I'd arrive with a woman on my arm—paid escorts who understood their role perfectly.

I crafted an illusion of normalcy, whatever the cost, just to keep my father's demons at bay.

And now I'd done it again. Given in to desire, then retreated at the first sign of real intimacy, of something that mattered. Hugo deserved better than this, better than me. He always had, his beautiful soul needed someone who was worthy of him.

I stared at the phone in my hand, wondering if I should call him.

Apologize. Try to explain. Beg for forgiveness, for him to forget the cruel words I'd spoken.

But what would I say? That I was broken beyond repair?

That my father had methodically convinced me I was unworthy of love, and I'd spent fourteen years meticulously proving him right?

That even now, at thirty-two, I cowered beneath the shadow of his judgment, terrified of the power he still wielded over me with nothing more than his voice in my head?

The walls closed in around me. I couldn't stay here, surrounded by memories of Hugo, of us. I grabbed my keys and wallet, needing to escape, to think, to breathe.

Outside, the vineyard stretched before me, the vines that had once been my safe refuge as a teenager now seemed to mock my cowardice. The path to Domaine Tremblay beckoned, but I turned away, heading nowhere in particular.

With each step, regret weighed heavier. I'd had everything I'd ever wanted in my grasp—Hugo, the chance to save the vineyard, the possibility of a life with meaning—and I'd thrown it away because I couldn't believe I deserved it.

My father's voice echoed in my head: "You're nothing. You'll always be nothing, you're a disappointment."

But beneath it, quieter but more insistent, came another voice—Henri's, from the letters we'd found: "Love is the only thing worth risking everything for."

Henri and Claude had loved each other for over forty years, mostly in secret, stealing moments when they could. But their story was not mine.

And Hugo—God, Hugo. He'd waited fourteen years, but people wait for many things that never materialize. He'd welcomed me, helped me, trusted me with his body and his heart. But one night didn't erase the years between us.

I continued walking through the vineyards of Domaine Moreau, each step more determined than the last. The morning sun broke through the clouds, casting long shadows across the vineyards.

In that moment, I made my decision with perfect clarity—I would focus on what I came here to do: save Domaine Moreau, honour my grandfather's memory, and return to the life I'd built.

What happened with Hugo was a momentary lapse, a ghost from the past demanding attention. But ghosts weren't real, and neither was the fantasy of reclaiming what we'd lost as teenagers .

I would see Hugo again, of course—our properties were too intertwined to avoid it completely. But I would be professional, distant. I would pretend this morning never happened. I would convince him it was better this way.

And perhaps, if I repeated it enough times, I might even convince myself.