Page 27 of The Vines Between Us

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.

Night fell over Domaine Moreau. I sat alone on the terrace, the contract still before me, pen in hand. The decision deadline loomed—noon tomorrow. By this time tomorrow, I could be on the TGV back to Paris, my bank account overflowing, all debts cleared.

My phone buzzed with a message from Philippe.

Board meeting tomorrow. Javier presenting his restructuring plan. Your position at risk. Need you back ASAP if you want to salvage your career.

Perfect timing. Another sign pointing toward Paris, toward the life I'd built there. I should have felt relief at the clarity.

Instead, I felt hollow.

I poured another cognac and looked out over the darkened vineyard.

The waxing moon cast silver light across the rows of vines, transforming them into something ancient and mysterious.

How many Moreaus had sat here before me, contemplating these same vines under this same moon?

How many had faced crises, droughts, wars, phylloxera, economic collapse?

None had sold.

But none had faced the globalized wine industry, corporate consolidation, climate change. None had inherited a vineyard already on the brink of collapse.

None except Henri, who'd taken over after the war when everything was in ruins.

I pulled out my grandfather's journal, turning to entries from 1979.

Everything is destroyed. Equipment gone, half the vines dead, cellar looted.

The banker suggested selling what's left.

Said it would be easier to start fresh elsewhere.

Perhaps he's right. But then I look at the eastern slope where the old Merlot still stands, somehow surviving despite everything, and I know I cannot leave. This land is in my blood.

I flipped forward a few pages.

Claude helped me clear the south field today. His touch on my arm as he passed the water jug nearly undid me. I must be more careful. These feelings cannot be acted upon. But oh, how they persist, growing stronger each day we work side by side.

And then, many years later:

Another harvest finished. Thirty-five years with Claude nearby, yet always apart.

Sometimes I wonder what life might have been if we'd been born in a different time, a different place.

If I'd had the courage to choose differently.

The vineyard has been my excuse, my justification for the safe path.

My reason for staying married, for maintaining appearances.

My shelter from having to risk everything on love.

I wonder if, at the end, I will regret the safety more than I would have regretted the risk.

I closed the journal, Henri's words burning into me. My phone buzzed again—Philippe, demanding a response.

The Paris apartment waited. My corporate office with its view of La Défense. The safe, structured life I'd built, where vulnerability was a weakness to be eliminated, where success was measured in acquisitions and promotions.

I could return to that life, wealthy beyond imagination. I could buy a better apartment, take luxury vacations, never worry about money again.

Or I could stay. Fight for Domaine Moreau. For the alliance. For the village.

For Hugo.

I could risk everything—financial security, professional identity, emotional safety—on something uncertain, something that might fail despite my best efforts.

Something that might succeed beyond my wildest dreams.

Henri's voice seemed to whisper from the pages of his journal: I wonder if, at the end, I will regret the safety more than I would have regretted the risk.

I knew the answer. Henri had regretted the safety. He'd regretted the compromises, the appearances, the half-life he'd lived while watching Claude from across a property line.

And I was about to make the same mistake.

I stood, decision crystallizing with sudden clarity. The contract sat on the table, the obscene figure glowing in the moonlight. I picked it up, feeling its weight—the weight of temptation, of easy escape.

Then I tore it in half. And again. And again, until Rousseau's offer lay in confetti across the terrace stones.

I texted Philippe: Not returning. Handle the board meeting without me. Resignation letter to follow.

Then I called Rousseau, my heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

"Alexandre," his smooth voice answered. "I trust you've made the sensible decision."

"I have," I replied. "The answer is no."

Silence stretched for several seconds. "I see. Perhaps you misunderstood the time sensitivity. This offer—"

"Is rejected," I interrupted. "Domaine Moreau isn't for sale. Not to VitaVine, not to anyone."

"You're making a grave mistake," Rousseau's voice hardened. "The bank will—"

"The bank will have to deal with me and the Saint-émilion Small Producers Alliance." I smiled into the phone. "We're just getting started, Monsieur Rousseau. I suggest you prepare your superiors for disappointment."

I ended the call before he could respond, slipping the phone into my pocket.

My phone rang again. Philippe's name flashed on the screen as I pulled it out from my pocket.

"Alexandre, what the hell is this about resignation? Is this your idea of a joke?"

I took a deep breath, standing in Henri's vineyard with the morning sun on my face. "It's not a joke, Philippe. I'm not coming back. "

"Don't be ridiculous. There are multiple case files that need your expertise. The board specifically requested you—"

"Find someone else."

Silence stretched between us. When Philippe spoke again, his voice was ice-cold. "Do you have any idea what you're throwing away? Your senior partnership track, your reputation, your money, your entire future?"

"I'm not throwing it away. I'm trading it for something better."

"A failing vineyard in the middle of nowhere? This is midlife crisis behaviour, Alexandre. Take a sabbatical if you need to, but don't destroy your career over some pathetic romantic notion about wine-making and idyllic country living."

The dismissiveness in his voice—the same tone my father uses when discussing anything I actually cared about—sparked something fierce in me.

"You know what, Philippe? For ten years, I've worked sixty-hour weeks for a company that sees me as nothing but billable hours. I've sacrificed relationships, health, happiness—for what? A corner office and a salary that buys things I don't need in an apartment I never stay in?"

"For security. For success."

"Whose definition of success?" I looked across the vines in the distance toward Hugo's property, where I could see him already working in the early morning light. "I've found something worth more than senior partnership. I've found my home and reason for being."

"This is career suicide, Alexandre."

"Maybe. Or maybe it's the first honest decision I've made in years.

" I paused, feeling the finality of what I was about to say.

"I'll send my formal resignation today. My projects are documented, my clients are covered.

Consider this my two week notice. I'll be using my accrued vacation time for my notice period, so you won't be seeing me in office again. "

"We'll sue for breach of contract. Your non- compete clause—"

"Only applies if I join a competitor. Last I checked, you don't consider small French vineyards a threat to your corporate empire." I smiled, surprised by how good this felt. "Goodbye, Philippe. Thanks for teaching me what I don't want my life to become."

I hung up before he could respond, then immediately blocked his number.

Ending the call, the night air felt cleaner somehow, easier to breathe. The vineyard before me no longer looked like a burden but a possibility. The weight of the corporate world fell from my shoulders, further showing me what was right and what I had ignored.

I needed to see Hugo. To tell him I was staying. To apologize for wavering, for nearly betraying everything and everyone—including myself.

But first, I had work to do. Alliance bylaws to draft. Grant applications to research. A business plan to create that would convince the bank to extend our loan.

I gathered Henri's journal and went inside to his study. My study now. There was a lifetime of work ahead, and for the first time since returning to Saint-émilion, I was ready to embrace it.

Not because it was easy, but because it was right.

Not because it was safe, but because it mattered.

I would not repeat Henri's mistake. I would not choose safety over love, appearance over truth, retreat over courage. I would not give into the fear instilled into me by my father.

Tomorrow, I would find Hugo and tell him exactly that.