Chapter 24
Twenty-four
Kingston
Saturday mornings are supposed to be slower, but I don’t know how to live that way.
I am up before the sun, pounding out a long run around the property.
Dew clings to my shirt, and the vineyard rows glow faint green as the light comes up.
Everything looks good. The vines are showing signs of coming back to life, and the lake below is glassy and still.
Even after I’ve showered and settled into my office, the house is quiet. My desk faces the big windows, the vineyard stretching toward the hills, Black Bear Lake catching the last strands of mist. I could almost believe this view is enough to settle me. Almost.
I open my laptop. It’s the first thing I do every morning when I reach my desk since Elise left. I have to check for her name in my inbox. And there it is, waiting.
My pulse jumps, same as it always does. I click.
She writes about her workday, about a mildew scare in one of the barrels, about the hands rushing to get ahead of it.
Then she pivots, almost too neatly, to Paradise Hill.
She writes the word home like she’s reminding herself what matters most, like she needs to anchor herself in what’s real while surrounded by Bordeaux.
My Elise,
I ran the ridge this morning, the air sharp in my lungs, the vines lined up like a worn brown quilt, each row a seam waiting for spring to fill it in.
Your father and his team have pruned them well, and they're waking up from their winter sleep.
They never falter, never lean, never doubt their place in the soil. I wish I could say the same.
When I got home, Renew Motion was waiting for me, the way it always is.
I don’t think I’ve ever told you how heavy it feels—this responsibility.
Every blueprint I sign, every line I approve, stretches far beyond me.
Engineers, welders, designers, accountants—hundreds of families I’ll never know are tied to the choices I make.
If I stumble, they stumble. If I break, they break.
That truth keeps me awake when the house is silent.
The board presses harder every week. Their words sting more than I’ll ever admit to anyone but you.
They want answers, numbers, perfection, and some nights, I lie here wondering if I can keep carrying it all without shattering.
I don’t say that out loud because the world needs me steady.
But you’re the one place I don’t have to pretend.
Forty-two days. That’s all that stands between now and the moment I open the door and find you there—not just visiting, not just passing through, but home. I can’t wait for the day I don’t have to count anymore.
Always yours,
Kingston
When I finish, the email seems a little too polished, measured. The kind of note a CEO would send if he were trying to sound in control, even when vulnerable. I close the laptop for a second, stare out at the vineyard, then reopen it and hit send before I can talk myself into more honesty.
Her emails have doubt and longing tucked between the sentences. This one had reassurance and restraint.
She leans into vulnerability. I pull back. But the fact that I’m writing to her is a miracle in itself, I have to remember.
Still, as the screen goes dark, the truth twists in my gut. Our letters are no longer balanced. She’s giving me more than I give her. The difference is small now, but I can feel it stretching wider with every truth I don’t reveal.
I rub at the tightness in my chest, promising myself I’ll tell her my feelings for her are changing—next time. I can at least hint at it. But I already know I likely won’t.
The phone buzzing across my desk catches my attention. Tarryn’s name flashes.
I answer. “What’s wrong?”
For a second, all I hear is wind whipping through the speaker and the scrape of her boots on gravel. She’s breathing hard, like she’s been running. Voices echo faintly in the background, men shouting instructions, the grind of machinery.
“King,” she says at last, catching her breath. “The waterline. North block. It’s jammed solid—full of gravel. If we hadn’t caught the leaves curling, we would have lost a whole section. It’s nearly May, Kingston. Prime growth. Do you understand what that would have done?”
The picture forms in my mind—vines drying out, fruit shriveling before it even sets. I close my eyes. “I understand.”
She barrels on, voice sharp with fatigue, “We thought it was just a low-pressure issue at first, so we dug the valve box, checked the pumps, and flushed the filters. Nothing. Finally, one of the guys split the pipe. It was packed tight with gravel, like someone poured it straight from a bucket. Not a natural clog. Took us half the morning to clear it, replace the section, and flush the lines. Half the morning, King. That’s time we should have spent thinning shoots and prepping for bloom. ”
Her words rattle through me. Sabotage isn’t just destruction. It’s theft. Theft of time, energy, and resources we can’t afford to lose.
Would Elise have caught this sooner? She knows the water lines better than her father.
“It’s always something,” Tarryn continues, her voice rising. “The fire at the cottage, the pump house last month, the broken trellis, now this. One thing after another. It never stops. Sometimes, I wonder if I should hire security to patrol the place at night, just so I can sleep.”
“You should not have to think about security,” I say. “This isn’t supposed to be part of the job.”
“Well, it is now.” Her voice cracks, then steadies. “I’m trying, Kingston. But every time I fix one problem, another pops up. And I can’t help wondering if it would be different if someone else was running the vineyard.”
I know she’s talking about me. Our father once raised me to take over the vineyard, as if it were already decided.
It wasn’t until I left for university that I finally found the courage to tell him I didn’t want it.
One by one, my brothers said the same. Then Tarryn stepped forward and claimed it for herself.
Did she do that because she wanted it or because none of us did?
The guilt is instant, sharp. I look out at the vineyard stretching below my office window, rows neat and calm from this distance, and wish I could split myself in two.
“You have been preparing for years,” I remind her. “You know the vines better than anyone. No one else would have spotted those curling leaves in time. Not even me.”
Silence. Then a shaky laugh. “You always know what to say.”
“Not always.” I hesitate, and then add, “But I’ll be honest. We’ve never seen sabotage at this level. Elise has mentioned that they deal with it at Chateau too—different forms, same idea. Maybe it’s a symptom of growth, of standing out.”
“Elise mentioned that?” Her tone lifts, curious.
I swallow. “Well, yes. We’ve been emailing. Keeping in touch.”
“She’s my best friend,” Tarryn says softly.
“I know. And that is between you two. I would never step in the middle. But I’ve known her a long time as well, and lately, our connection feels…different.”
“Huh…” Tarryn says. “Okay. Thank you,” she adds quietly after a moment. “For backing me up. For reminding me I can do this.”
I’m grateful that she’s shifted gears. “If you want me there, just say the word,” I tell her. “You know I can fly over in less than ten minutes.”
“No. Not yet. Just promise you’ll come soon, walk the rows with me, see for yourself.”
“I promise.”
“Good. I’m going to go now because I need to talk to Elise,” Tarryn says. “I need to get to her while the timing still works.”
When our call ends, I set the phone down and stare out my office window. To her, I sounded steady. Inside, I feel pulled in two directions—my company, my family. And no matter how much I give, it never feels like enough.
I busy myself with catching up on things, losing myself in the rhythm of organization until the phone rings again later that afternoon. Unknown number.
I answer. “Hello?”
“Kingston Paradise?”
“Yes, this is he.”
“Cal Hawthorne. You got a minute?”
The private investigator. My stomach tightens. “Sure. Go ahead.”
“I found your man, Zachary Paradise. Puerto Vallarta. Marina-side condo with a view. Gym membership, golfed twice last week and has been having dinners at a place that flambés dessert at the table.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “With what money?”
“You may want to sit down for this part.” Paper rustles. “Condo lease and HOA fees are paid via a shell LLC out of Nevada. I followed the filings. Took a detour through a trust, but the wire trail is clean enough if you know what you’re looking at.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Maximus Paradise.”
My breath leaves me on a whoosh. Last Sunday, Max sat at the dinner table with us, palms up, eyes glassy, swearing he didn’t know where Zach was. He even excused himself to the porch to pull himself together. Actor.
How would I write that to Elise? my mind wonders idly. How do I tell her the man I call uncle bankrolls betrayal? I want her comfort, but I don’t want her looking at Paradise and seeing only rot beneath the roots. I need her to believe in this place.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“I have screenshots of ACH confirmations from an account that resolves to the Maximus Paradise Revocable Trust. Dates line up. Rent due the first business day of each month. Additional wires labeled consulting retainer hit on the fifteenth.”
“How generous?”
“Twenty-five K a month, plus the rent and extras.”
“Do you have any proof Zach’s been flying back to Canada?”
“I’m not sure he is,” Cal hedges.
“The sabotage is still happening. I need to know who’s behind it.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” Cal assures me.
“Thank you.” I stand, the chair skidding back. “Email everything you can.”
“It’s already in your inbox. One more thing—Zach isn’t laying low. He’s wearing a Panerai watch that retails north of fifty grand, and he has a tan I would bottle if I could. If he’s worried, he isn’t showing it.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Thanks, Cal. Keep watching. If he moves, I want to know before he finishes zipping a suitcase.”
“You got it.”
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, and then click Cal’s email open.
Receipts. Wire memos. The condo’s cash purchase.
Deposits line up with the dates for every hit of sabotage we’ve taken.
I suspected Zach and let it slide. My siblings were less certain, but our restraint feels like negligence now.
My hands hover over the keyboard. I want to send Elise everything, so we can talk through how I’m going to tell my dad about his brother.
But this is ugly. It doesn’t belong in her inbox, sandwiched between tank readings and Simone’s recipes.
I should consult my brothers and sister first anyway.
Elise doesn’t owe me anything, and I don’t want to scare her with this.
I close the laptop.
By nightfall, the house feels too quiet.
Simone has left me a covered plate in the fridge—chicken fajitas wrapped in foil, still carrying the smoky bite of peppers and onions.
I heat them and eat standing at the counter, my chewing loud in the empty kitchen.
The flavors are bold, filling, but still feel hollow when I’m done.
The silence leaves too much room for memory.
Elise’s laugh drifts through me—the way she leaned against this same counter once, shaking her head at my lack of cooking skills, stealing peppers straight off the pan.
But then my mind shifts further back to Cara and the searing pain of being lied to. Am I opening myself up to that again?
I pour a glass of wine and sit in the darkened living room.
The lake is a strip of silver through the window.
I should call someone. I’m not ready for my siblings yet, but I have old teammates in Vancouver, business friends who would meet me for a drink if I asked.
I scroll through my phone, stop at a name, and then lock the screen without dialing.
Whoever I sit across from will not be Elise.
And that’s the problem. I don’t want distraction. I want her here. I want her laugh echoing down this hall, her hand stealing bites of my dinner, her voice softening this silence. Instead, I have four walls and the weight of secrets I can’t send her.
I shift my focus to tomorrow. How on earth will I put this truth on the table in front of my family? I think about watching my father’s face as I say Max’s name. The dread sits like stone in my chest.
I carry my half-finished glass upstairs, set it on the nightstand, and stretch out in the dark. Sleep doesn’t come easy.