Heiress of Ashes and Grapes

Renée's POV

"The Château Margaux goes on the left, not the right. Unless you want our guests to think we pair bordeaux with the fish course like savages."

The server freezes mid-step, bottle clutched to his chest like a shield. I don't wait for his response. There's no time for hand-holding today—not when everything I've built for the past four years is about to be celebrated under someone else's name.

"And those hydrangeas need to move six inches to the left," I call to the florist arranging the centerpiece. "They're blocking the sight line to the award display."

She nods quickly, already adjusting.

The August heat presses against the windows of the estate's grand hall, thick and unrelenting. It reminds me of another summer, twenty years ago—the last time I remember being happy.

I was ten years old. The vineyard rows stretched endless and green, and I ran between them barefoot, dirt caking between my toes while my grandfather pretended not to notice.

That was the summer I met the boy from the neighboring estate—the one with the wild dark hair and the laugh that made my stomach flip in ways I didn't understand yet. His name was Estienne.

"You're holding the grape wrong," he'd said, plucking it from my fingers with theatrical exasperation. "You have to feel the skin first. Here." He pressed my thumb against the fruit, gentle. "If it gives too much, it's overripe. If it doesn't give at all, it needs more time."

"How do you know so much?" I asked, genuinely awed.

He shrugged like the world had never given him a reason to second-guess himself. "My grandfather says wine is patience. You can't rush it, and you can't force it. You just have to pay attention."