Chapter 18
Eighteen
Elise
It’s been nearly a week since I started following Sebastian around, and that’s long enough to learn that assistant vintner is just another way of saying do whatever he doesn’t want to bother with.
Some days, it’s endless grunt work—hoses, floors, hauling buckets until my arms feel like they might fall off.
Other days, it’s shadowing him while he turns on that polished charm for management and the one investor who stopped by, all smiles and cheek kisses, like he’s running for office instead of making good wine.
I don’t love it. I didn’t cross an ocean to be someone’s glorified errand girl. I came here to sharpen what I know. And yet here I am, clipboard in hand, checking off chores that feel more like busywork than real experience.
And Sebastian doesn’t make things any easier.
He tries to sweeten the load with his constant flirting—leaning too close when he explains a process, brushing against my shoulder as though by accident, throwing compliments about my “Canadian smile” like spare change.
He wants me to laugh, to soften, maybe to step into the space he keeps leaving open.
But I haven’t. Not once. Each time, I shift back.
I offer a polite smile, nothing more. It’s one of the few things I feel proud of here, that I’m keeping my boundaries intact, making my intentions clear, even when he seems amused by that.
This morning, he hands me a clipboard with a neat column of tasks written in his looping hand. “Nothing difficult,” he says, tilting his head just so, his usual smile tugging at his mouth. “You can handle it, non?”
I skim the list. Check the press to make sure yesterday’s washdown dried properly, record yeast activity in one of the fermenting tanks, take barrel readings in storage. I nod.
The press is first. It still smells faintly of wet iron and soap, sharp in the cool air.
I run my fingers along the inside, damp streaks visible on my skin, but the grates are clean.
No leftover skins, no pulp caught in the ridges.
I check the dials, finding the pressure gauge steady. I jot it all down. One task done.
The fermenting tank takes longer. Foam bubbles lazily beneath the glass port, rising and popping in thick, sticky bursts.
The yeast smells alive—sweet, tangy, a little like rising bread.
I crouch, thermometer in hand, waiting for the numbers to settle.
When they land exactly in the range Sebastian drilled into me earlier this week, I let out a breath.
One more box ticked. One more thing I didn’t mess up.
By the time I make my way to the barrel room, my arm aches from carrying the clipboard everywhere, like a schoolgirl clutching homework.
The air is cooler here, damp, the rows of barrels stretching into shadows.
This last task should be simple—temperature, humidity, note anything unusual.
“Routine,” Sebastian said, though the way his mouth curved around the word made it feel like a test.
I kneel by the first barrel, slip the thermometer probe into its slot, and jot the reading. Nothing unusual. The next two are the same. I fall into a rhythm—check, record, move on—until a sharp tang cuts through the usual oak-and-wine scent.
Vinegar.
I pause, nose wrinkling, and step closer to a barrel farther down the row. Dark liquid glistens at its seam, slipping down the side in thin rivulets. My stomach lurches. That’s not condensation.
I crouch, pressing my fingers near the leak. They come away stained deep red. Wine. There’s a gash in the top. The wood has split.
Before I can move, the trickle thickens, now streaming across the stone toward the drain. My throat tightens. I glance along the row. I can see three more barrels marked with the same clean, unnatural gash.
“Vite!” A voice barks behind me. Two cellar hands rush past, dropping cloths to the floor. One slaps his palm against the seam of a barrel, the other swings a vat beneath the leak. Their movements are fast, coordinated. No one shouts in confusion. No one hesitates.
Instinct jolts me forward. I grab a rag from the stack near the door and drop to my knees beside a barrel, pressing it against the leak. The wine seeps through instantly, soaking my palm, and before I can adjust, a man yanks the rag from my hand.
“Non!” he snaps, shaking his head. He motions me back, the urgency in his voice clear, even if I don’t catch the words.
Heat rises to my face. I stumble backward, clutching my clipboard to my chest as more men flood in. Their words are sharp. They spread resin paste over the cuts and chalk slashes across the heads of the ruined barrels. Buckets collect what can still be saved.
I press myself against the wall, watching. Useless. Out of place.
Back home, this kind of damage would stop everything.
People would rage, panic, call family meetings and perhaps file police reports.
Here, it seems to be another Monday, a problem to be patched before lunch.
Their casual efficiency in this situation unsettles me more than the sabotage itself.
They’ve done this before. They’re used to it.
The pen trembles in my hand as I scrawl a shaky note across the page. “Barrels fourteen through twenty-seven compromised. Gashes deliberate.” The ink blots as my grip falters.
I press my palm to the cool stone wall, grounding myself as workers mop the floor, red stains disappearing down the drain.
Sabotage isn’t just a Paradise curse. It’s everywhere.
And if Tarryn sent me here to learn, I have.
By the time the last bucket is hauled away, the air is thick with the sour tang of spoiled wine and resin.
I’ve done the math in my head, and that’s nearly three hundred and twenty-five cases of wine destroyed overnight.
My notes are smudged where my pen slipped, but I finish the readings anyway and make myself walk to Sebastian’s office.
He’s at his desk, glasses sliding low on his nose, scribbling something in a ledger. He doesn’t look up when I knock.
“The barrel room,” I say, holding out the clipboard. My voice shakes despite my effort to steady it. “Thirteen barrels were cut. I marked everything down.”
He finally lifts his gaze, takes the clipboard, and flips through my notes. One brow arches when he sees the word deliberate.
“Mmm…” He sets the board aside. “So you saw.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?” My pulse kicks. “Those barrels are ruined. That’s—what? Nearly three thousand liters gone?”
He shrugs, leans back in his chair. “It happens.”
I blink. “It happens?”
“Yes.” His tone sharpens. “You patch what you can, you mark what you can’t, and you move on. If you lose sleep over every cut barrel, you won’t last a season here.”
My stomach twists. “But this was deliberate. Doesn’t it—” I swallow. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
A thin smile ghosts across his face, but there’s no warmth in it. “Of course, it bothers me. But bothering doesn’t stop it, does it? Welcome to winemaking, mademoiselle. It’s like Voldemort said to Harry, Wine attracts envy, envy breeds spite, and spite spills easy.”
Harry Potter wasn’t in the wine business, but I get where he’s going. I bite the inside of my cheek, shaking my head. “At Paradise Hill, they’d never accept this. They’d fight until they found out who did it.”
His eyes flicker with impatience before he lets out a humorless chuckle.
“And in the meantime, the vines still need pruning, the tanks still need monitoring, and the wine still needs making. You see the problem?” He leans forward, tapping the list still clipped to the board.
“You finished the press and the fermentation readings?”
I nod stiffly.
“Good. Tomorrow, we’ll start on the south block, checking vines for mildew and beginning the spring trimming. I want to see what you know. This—what happened today—you’ll forget it. We don’t waste energy on what we can’t recover.”
My throat burns with words I don’t dare say. I do not understand his thinking at all. Instead, I nod again. “All right.”
His smile is back. “Bon. Then we understand each other.”
We absolutely do not. And I’ve been dismissed, again.
After a long dinner with everyone in the cafeteria, I climb the stairs to my room.
Exhaustion makes my limbs heavy, but I’m not ready to sleep.
I peel off my boots and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the ink still smudged across my fingertips.
At Paradise Hill, something like this is setting the whole valley on fire.
Sabotage is personal, a wound that carves into their pride.
Here, it’s shrugged off. Another mess to mop before lunch.
I hug my knees to my chest, restless and unsettled. Maybe Sebastian’s right. Maybe if you let yourself feel every loss, you’ll drown in it. But I can’t imagine living like that—bleeding and pretending not to notice.
I don’t know what’s worse, their indifference or the possibility that someday I’ll grow used to it too.
After I schlep myself back downstairs for a shower, I crawl into bed with my computer. I should sleep, but my thoughts keep circling, too loud, too sharp. So I begin to write.
Kingston,
Today, I saw something I can’t stop thinking about. Thirteen barrels ruined—slashed clean, like someone took an axe to them. The floor was slick with wine. Back home, something like that would stop everything. Here, they moved so fast it was almost routine.
No outrage, no shouting. Just mops and resin and chalk marks. Sebastian told me not to waste energy on what can’t be recovered. He acted like it was just part of the business.
Maybe I’ve been na?ve to think sabotage was only a Paradise problem.
The truth hit me hard today. The bigger the vineyard, the bigger the target.
It doesn’t start and stop with someone like Zach.
This happens everywhere. The difference is how people respond.
Here, they shrug and move on. At Paradise Hill, you’re tearing the operation apart until the culprit is found.
Neither way feels right, but at least Paradise cares enough to bleed.
I don’t know if this makes me feel stronger or just more unsettled. Maybe both. But I needed to share.
—Elise
I hover over the send button, heart hammering. Then I press it before I lose my nerve. I need to talk to Tarryn. We exchange emails often, but I miss her, and instead of sending her what I sent to Kingston, I FaceTime her.
The screen flickers, and after a moment, Tarryn’s face fills it, sunlight spilling through her office window. For me, it’s nearly midnight, the only light in my room the lamp on the nightstand.
“You look exhausted,” she says. “Still on Canadian time?”
“Somewhere in between,” I murmur, pulling my hair back.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Well, check your inbox. I sent you something better than vines and barrels—bridesmaid dresses. Tell me which one won’t make me hate the photos in ten years.”
I open the email and scroll down to a pale sage dress. “This one works. Classic, flattering. You’ll still love it later.”
“Thank God.” She exhales. Then her eyes sharpen. “Now, tell me what’s going on. You’ve got that look.”
I hesitate, and then say quietly, “I saw thirteen barrels slashed today. Wine everywhere. And no one even blinked. They just cleaned it up and moved on.”
Her mouth tightens. “Sabotage?”
“Routine sabotage,” I clarify. “And it made me realize something. What we’ve been dealing with at Paradise? It isn’t unique. The bigger the vineyard, the bigger the target.”
She pauses for a moment. “But for us, it isn’t business. It’s personal.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Exactly. Maybe that’s what keeps us bleeding—and maybe it’s what keeps us alive.”
For once, she doesn’t argue. She just nods again, her jaw firm. “I wish you were here,” she says. “But you’re learning so much. I know we’re going to benefit, but I just wish you were here.”
I smile. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”