Page 23 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Seventeen

ALEXANDRE

I stood at the edge of Hugo's property for five full minutes before walking toward his house. The old me would have found excuses to delay this conversation indefinitely. Would have convinced myself that Hugo needed space, that I should respect his boundaries by staying away entirely.

But that was cowardice dressed up as consideration.

The truth was simpler: I missed him. Missed his laugh, his easy competence with the vines, the way he listened without judgment. Three days of working alone had felt like three weeks.

I was tired of letting fear make my decisions for me.

If Hugo rejected my olive branch, if he told me to leave and never come back, I'd survive that. What I couldn't survive anymore was not trying.

I found Hugo moving between rows of vines.

The late afternoon sun caught in his auburn hair, now tied back in a messy knot.

His movements were efficient, almost aggressive—pruning shears attacking the overgrowth with practiced precision.

Even from this distance, the tension in his shoulders was visible.

My stomach clenched. I'd rehearsed what to say a dozen times on the walk over, but now that I was here, the carefully prepared words evaporated. The weight of Henri's journal pressed against my chest where I'd tucked it inside my jacket.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward, boots crunching on the gravel path loud enough to announce my presence.

Hugo's back stiffened, but he didn't turn around. "I'm busy, Alexandre."

The cold formality in his voice was worse than anger. I deserved it.

"I found something at the domaine." My voice sounded strange to my own ears—too high, too uncertain. "Something I think you should see."

He continued pruning, his movements never faltering. "More old love letters? I've seen enough, thanks."

"No, it's—" I moved closer, stepping into the row behind him. "A room. A secret room they built together."

This made him pause, just for a moment, before he resumed his work.

"Behind the eastern cellar wall. It was their... sanctuary, I guess."

Hugo's hands finally stilled. He stood motionless for several heartbeats before turning to face me. His expression was carefully blank, but his eyes betrayed him—curiosity warring with the hurt I'd inflicted.

"What kind of room?"

"A place just for them. With photographs, special wines, music." I pulled out Henri's journal. "The key was where Henri described—under the cherub statue in Margot's rose garden."

Hugo wiped his hands on his work pants, leaving smudges of dirt. He didn't reach for the journal.

"Why are you here, Alexandre?"

The direct question caught me off-guard. I'd expected to ease into this conversation through the discovery, not face the heart of the matter immediately .

"Because I—" I swallowed hard. "Because I keep making the same mistake."

His eyebrows lifted slightly, the only change in his carefully controlled expression.

"I run. When things matter, when they're real, I run." The words tumbled out, unpolished and raw. "I ran fourteen years ago. I ran three days ago. It's what my father taught me—that vulnerability is weakness, that connection is dangerous."

Hugo crossed his arms. "And now you've had some grand epiphany because of a hidden wine cellar?"

The edge in his voice cut deep, but I pressed on.

"They found a way to be together despite everything. Not perfectly, not openly, but they chose each other over and over for almost their entire lives." I gestured helplessly with the journal. "And I can't even manage four days without sabotaging everything because I'm terrified."

"Terrified of what, exactly?"

"Of wanting something I might lose." The truth of it ached in my chest. "Of being like my father if I stay. Of being like Henri if I go."

Hugo sighed and looked past me toward the setting sun. The golden light softened his features, highlighting the exhaustion etched there.

"What do you want from me, Alexandre?"

"Nothing you're not willing to give." I took a step closer. "But I want you to know that I'm staying. I'm staying to fight for the vineyard, for what Henri and Claude built together."

His eyes snapped back to mine. "And us? What about us?"

"That depends on you." I held his gaze steadily. "I won't push. I won't demand. But I'm not running anymore, Hugo. Not from the vineyard, not from this village." I paused. "Not from you."

Hugo turned away, resuming his pruning with short, sharp movements. "Pretty words. You've always been good with those."

"I know words aren't enough." I stepped into the row with him, careful not to crowd his space. "But I'd like to show you the room. After that, whatever happens between us is your choice."

For several minutes, the only sound was the snip of his shears against the vines. I waited, giving him the time he needed. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the rows.

Finally, he straightened. "I'll come see this room. But not tonight. I have too much work to finish before dark."

"Tomorrow, then?"

"Maybe," he said noncommittaly, still not looking at me. "What about VitaVine? Rousseau told me he made you an offer."

"He did. I declined."

Hugo's hands stilled again. "He said you were considering it. That your job in Paris was at risk."

"It is. Doesn't matter."

This made him turn. "Doesn't matter? That job has been your entire life for years."

"It's been my escape. Not my life." I gestured to the vineyard around us. "This was my life. Is my life."

Hugo studied me, searching for deception. "Rousseau also mentioned that the bank is calling in the loan. Said you've got less than seventy-nine days now."

"He's well-informed." I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice. "And yes, that's true. But I'm not selling to VitaVine."

"How will you save it, then? Even if we combine resources, we're both drowning in debt."

"I don't know yet." I met his skeptical look with honesty. "I really don't. But I'm not giving up."

Hugo turned back to the vines, considering. The silence stretched between us, filled with unspoken history and hurt.

"I can't do this again, Alexandre." His voice was so quiet I had to lean forward to hear him. "I can't watch you walk away a second time."

"I know." The admission felt like glass in my throat. "I don't expect you to trust me. I haven't earned that. "

He nodded slowly, more to himself than to me. "No, you haven't."

The simple truth of it stung, but I accepted it, for now. "Will you still help with the vineyard? We could at least try to combine our efforts against VitaVine."

Hugo's shoulders relaxed fractionally. "Yes. For the vineyards, I'll help." He turned to face me fully. "But that's all I'm promising. A business partnership."

"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 the legacy 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.