Chapter 24
(Marcus POV)
I got to the vineyard before sunrise.
The air still carried the cold dampness of night, rows of vines stretching black and endless under the pale wash of dawn. Usually, this hour calmed me. Twenty years of harvest mornings trained my body to settle into routine before the chaos started.
Today it only made me feel sick.
Tom’s office light was off when I unlocked the main building. I stood there for a second in the silence, staring at the framed photos lining the hallway. Harvest parties. Trade shows. Awards.
Me and Tom in every damn one of them. Brothers, basically. I kept walking.
Tom’s office smelled like coffee grounds and old paper. Familiar. Safe. I hated that I was about to poison it. I sat in the chair across from Tom’s desk and waited.
And waited.
My knee bounced once before I forced it still. I’d rehearsed this conversation for half the night. Every version sounded like bullshit.
I didn’t mean for it to happen.
Bullshit.
I tried to stop it.
Bullshit.
I love her.
The worst one of all.
Because that was the only thing that was true.
The front door opened around six-thirty. Tom’s laugh echoed faintly through the building as he greeted one of the early crewmen. Normal. Easy. Oblivious. For another few minutes, anyway.
Footsteps moved down the hallway. Closer.
I stood before he walked in. Not out of confidence. Respect.
Tom pushed open the office door holding a coffee and a stack of invoices. He stopped cold when he saw me standing there.
His brows pulled together immediately. “Jesus, Marcus,” he said slowly. “You look like hell.”
Fair. I probably did.
I hadn’t shaved. Hadn’t slept. My clothes were wrinkled from sitting in this chair for almost an hour trying to figure out how to destroy my own life and his with the right words.
Tom set the invoices down carefully. And just like that, his expression changed. Because he knew me.
And men who have known each other for twenty years can smell disaster before it happens.
“What happened?”
I looked at him for a long moment. Then I said the hardest thing I’d ever said in my life. “It’s about Aria.”
Silence. Tom went still. Not confused. Not yet. Just still.
And suddenly I wished he’d yell already.
Instead, he slowly set his coffee down. “What about my daughter?”
I exhaled once through my nose, steadying myself for the impact. Then I told him the truth.
He whirled on me, face flushed, eyes blazing. “You’re too old for her, Marcus. Jesus Christ, she’s twenty. She has her whole damn life ahead of her. And you…” His voice cracked with betrayal. “You’re supposed to be her mentor. My partner. My friend.”
I took it. All of it. Because he was right. And still, I couldn’t back down.
“I know,” I said quietly. “Trust me, Tom, I know. I tell myself the same thing every night. But then I look at her, and all I know is this, I want her for the rest of my life.”
His laugh was harsh. “That’s selfish.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “It may be selfish. But I can give her everything she wants, everything she needs. More than she’s ever been allowed to ask for.”
Tom’s jaw worked, his hands balling tighter. “You’ll hold her back. She wants grad school. A career. To make something of her life. And you’ll chain her here to this vineyard, not because she wants to be here but because you are here.”
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “I would never stop her from anything. If she wants grad school, I’ll drive her there myself.
Support her financially, emotionally, whatever it takes.
I’m not asking her to plan her future around me.
I’m asking you to respect what’s between us right now. To let us see where it goes.”
His chest rose and fell, fast and uneven. “I don’t know if I can do that,” he muttered.
I nodded once, as I forced myself to stand steady. “Then don’t. Not yet. But I can. And I will.”
He turned his head, disbelief in his eyes. “You’d risk the company? You’ve spent your life building this, Marcus. And you’d throw it away for her?”
I held his gaze, no hesitation. “I’m taking that risk. She’s worth it.”
For the first time, he faltered. Tom Bennett, the man who never stopped moving, never second-guessed, looked at me like he didn’t know me at all.
Because the company had always been everything to me. Until her.
==========
(Aria POV)
The kitchen table was crowded with food, flowers, and a lopsided cake my aunt had dropped off. It wasn’t a party, not really, just a family gathering. Dad, a couple cousins, a few of the crew who had become like uncles over harvest.
And Marcus.
He sat at the far end of the table, sleeves rolled, his face unreadable. Since the barrel room, since my father’s anger, he’d kept his distance. No lingering touches. No stolen glances. Nothing but the cool professionalism of my boss.
It hurt more than I thought it would.
Dad cleared his throat, lifting a bottle of Chardonnay. His eyes flicked to mine, and for a heartbeat he looked… conflicted. Then he reached for a glass, poured.
“Happy birthday, Aria.” His voice was rough. He pushed the glass across the table to me.
My breath caught. Because it wasn’t just a drink. It was a gesture, his way of saying I see you now. You’re not a kid anymore.
I took it with both hands, blinking back tears. “Thanks, Dad.”
Everyone cheered, clinked glasses. I sipped the wine, crisp, bright, alive on my tongue, and felt something shift inside me.
I dared a glance at Marcus. He wasn’t looking at me. But his hand tightened around his glass, knuckles white, jaw clenched like he was holding something back.
Later, when the plates were cleared and people drifted out, I stepped onto the back porch, for some air. The vines stretched under a bruised twilight sky, neat and endless.
The door opened behind me. Marcus. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood close enough that I felt the heat of him.
“Happy birthday,” he said finally, low.
“Thanks.” My voice was barely a whisper. “You didn’t even look at me in there.”
His eyes burned into mine, steady, raw. “Because if I did, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.”
My pulse stumbled. “Stop yourself from what?”
He stepped closer, the porch boards creaking under his weight. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my face, fingertips grazing my cheek. “From this.”
And then his mouth was on mine. Not stolen, not hidden, not forbidden. Just his lips, warm and claiming, in the open air of my twenty-first birthday.
I melted into him, my glass still in my hand, the vines stretching away behind us, my father’s laughter faint through the walls.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. His voice was rough, certain. “To you. To us. No more hiding.”
I smiled, tears stinging my eyes, heart soaring. “To us.”
For the first time, I believed it.
Marcus kissed me again, this time slowly, like he was done apologizing for wanting me.
And for one perfect moment, I forgot everything except the feel of him. Then movement flickered through the kitchen window.
Dad.
He stood at the sink, dish towel slung over his shoulder, watching us through the glass.
My stomach dropped. Marcus felt it too. His body went still against mine.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then Dad looked away first. Not approval. Not forgiveness. But not war anymore either.
And somehow, that felt like hope.