Chapter 19 William
William
The Chateau Rochelle wine estate sits forty minutes outside Zurich, perched on rolling hills that look like something from a postcard. I've been planning this for days, making calls, pulling strings, ensuring everything will be perfect. And it’s a total surprise to everyone but me.
"Where are we going?" Carine asks for the third time as our driver navigates the winding mountain roads. "Not knowing is killing me."
"Patience," I tell her, smiling at her eagerness. She's practically bouncing in her seat, Knox's enthusiasm clearly rubbing off on her.
"Will doesn't do surprises," Knox informs her from the back seat where he's sitting next to Travis. "This is unprecedented. Historic, even."
"I do surprises," I protest. "I surprised you with that trust fund audit last year."
"That's not a fun surprise, asshole. That's just you being you."
Carina laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. She's wearing a dress I had delivered this morning—a deep shade of blue that complements her skin, sophisticated enough for where we're going but comfortable enough that she doesn't feel out of place.
The way she'd looked at me when she opened the box, like I'd given her something precious instead of just fabric and thread. ..
"Holy shit," Knox breathes as we pull through the estate's gates. "Will, is this—"
"Chateau Rochelle," I confirm. "Founded in 1782. Their 1947 Chateau d'Yquem is considered one of the finest wines ever produced."
"And costs about thirty grand a bottle," Travis adds dryly. "You're showing off."
"I'm sharing," I correct. "There's a difference."
The estate manager meets us at the entrance. "Herr Montclair, everything is prepared as you requested. The private tasting room awaits."
"Private tasting room?" Carina looks at me. "William, what did you do?"
"What he does best," Knox interjects. "Throws money at something because he wants it to be perfect."
I want to argue, but he's not entirely wrong.
I did reserve the entire tasting facility.
I did request their rarest vintages. I did make it clear that price was no object.
But watching Carina's face as we're led through centuries-old stone corridors to a room that overlooks the entire valley—it's worth every franc I spent.
"This is incredible," she breathes, moving to the windows. The late afternoon sun turns the vineyards gold, stretching as far as the eye can see.
"Wait until you taste the wine," our sommelier says with a smile. He's an older gentleman who's clearly seen everything but treats us with professional warmth. "Shall we begin with the Riesling? It's from our oldest vines, planted in 1856."
What follows is an education in indulgence.
Each wine comes with a story—the year Napoleon's army passed through, the harvest that nearly failed until a miraculous late rain, the vintage that was thought lost until they found a cache in the cellar walls.
Carina listens with rapt attention, asking intelligent questions that make the sommelier beam with approval.
"You have an excellent palate," he tells her after she correctly identifies the notes of apricot and honey in a particularly complex white. "Have you studied wine?"
"Just what I've learned working in restaurants," she says, but I can see her glow at the praise.
"She's being modest," I interject. "Carina's one of the most talented chefs I've encountered. Her understanding of flavor profiles is impeccable."
The look she gives me—surprised, pleased, something deeper—makes my chest tight.
By the fourth tasting, we're all feeling the effects.
Knox has gone from sitting properly to draping himself over his chair like a content cat.
Travis's usual expression has softened into easy smiles.
And Carina... Carina is radiant, cheeks flushed from wine and laughter, completely at ease in this world I've introduced her to.
"This one," she says, savoring a particularly excellent Pinot Noir, "tastes like drinking rubies."
"Poetic," Travis murmurs, watching her with affection.
"And accurate," the sommelier agrees.
"We'll take a case," I say without thinking twice.
"William!" Carina protests. "You can't just—"
"I can and I did." I catch her hand. "Let me do this. Let me spoil you."
"You've been spoiling me all week."
"And I'm just getting started."
Knox makes a gagging noise. "God, you're sappy when you're drunk."
"I'm not drunk," I protest with as much dignity as I can muster. "I'm... relaxed."
"Will being relaxed is like seeing a unicorn," Travis tells Carina in a stage whisper. "Rare and slightly unbelievable."
"I can be relaxed," I insist, then ruin it by checking my phone for the restaurant reservation. "We should go. Our table is at seven."
"Our table where?" Carina asks.
"Le Jardin étoilé," I try to say casually, like it isn't the most exclusive restaurant in Switzerland.
"The place with a two-year waiting list?" Travis raises an eyebrow. "How did you—never mind. I don't want to know what favors you called in."
"No favors. Just a standing reservation."
"Of course you have a standing reservation at an impossible restaurant," Knox laughs. "Because you're William fucking Montclair."
In the car, Knox won't stop playing with Carina's hair while she traces patterns on my hand, all of us loose and touchy from the wine.
Le Jardin étoilé is everything its reputation promises. Hidden in a converted monastery, it's all candlelight and ancient stone, with a menu that changes based on what the chef dreamed the night before. Our table is in a private alcove, intimate but not claustrophobic.
"I can't believe I'm here," Carina whispers as we're seated. "I used to read about this place in culinary school. Chef Dubois is a legend."
"Then you'll appreciate this," I say as the man himself appears at our table.
"William!" Chef Dubois greets me warmly. "And this must be the talented chef you mentioned. Carina, yes?"
She just stares at him for a moment before remembering to shake his hand, looking like she might faint.
"I hear you have an excellent palate," he continues. "I've prepared something special for your table. If you'll trust me?"
"Of course," she manages.
What follows is less dinner and more like a religious experience.
Each course is a revelation—flavors I didn't know could exist, combinations that shouldn't work but do, presentations that are art as much as food.
Carina analyzes each dish with the appreciation only a professional chef would have, discussing techniques with the chef when he stops by between courses.
"She's remarkable," Chef Dubois tells me quietly during one visit. "If she ever wants to stage here, the door is open."
"I'll pass that along," I say, pride swelling in me.
The wine continues flowing—perfectly paired with each course—and by the time we reach dessert, we're all thoroughly, pleasantly and completely drunk. Knox is telling embarrassing stories about my college years. Travis is actually giggling. And Carina... Carina looks happier than I've ever seen her.
"Thank you," she says suddenly, reaching for my hand. "For this. For showing me that I deserve beautiful things."
"You deserve everything," I tell her, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
"Sappy Will returns," Knox announces. "Someone document this. No one will believe us tomorrow."
"I should be offended by that," I say, "but I'm too happy to care."
"Will said he's happy!" Travis mock-gasps. "Alert the media!"
If only we'd known how prophetic those words would be.
We leave the restaurant in high spirits, spilling onto the quiet street still laughing at something Knox said.
The night air is crisp, sobering but not enough to kill our mood.
Travis has his arm around Carina's shoulders.
Knox is walking backward, still telling his story, when he trips on a cobblestone.
"Whoa!" Carina catches him, laughing. "Careful, you're going to—"
Travis kisses her. Right there on the street, pulling her close with wine-loosened inhibition. She responds immediately, melting into him while Knox steadies himself with a hand on her waist.
"Get a room," Knox teases, but his hand doesn't move, thumb stroking the curve of her hip with a casual sort of possession.
The flash comes from nowhere. Then another. And another.
"Shit," Travis pulls back, but it's too late.
A photographer emerges from the shadows, camera still clicking. "Mr. Montclair! Care to comment on your unusual relationship?"
Everything in me goes cold despite the wine buzz I have. This is it. My worst fucking nightmare. The thing I can't control, can't manage, can't strategize away.
"No comment," I say sharply, moving to block Carina from view. But there are two photographers now, maybe three, circling like sharks.
"Is this a polyamorous situation?" one calls out. "How long has this been going on?"
"Does your board know about your... arrangement?"
"Miss, what's your name? Are you with all three of them?"
Carina looks stricken, pressing closer to Travis while Knox puts himself between her and the cameras. But it's too late. They got the shot—Travis kissing her, Knox's hand possessive on her waist, me standing close enough to make our group dynamic obvious.
"We're leaving," I announce harshly. "Now."
The car appears—thank god—and we pile in, but the photographers follow, still shooting through the windows until we're finally moving.
"Fuck," Knox says eloquently. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"It'll be fine," Travis says, but his diplomatic voice can't hide his concern.
"Fine?" I'm already on my phone, scrolling through contacts. "They got photos. Of all of us. Together. This is going to be everywhere by morning."
"William—" Carina starts.
"I need to call the lawyers. The PR team. The board will need to be notified." My mind races through protocols and procedures. "We can try to kill the story, but if they've already uploaded—"
"William." Carina's voice cuts through my spiral. "Stop."
"I can't stop. This is a disaster. The company's image, the shareholders—"
"Will… breathe," Knox says. "It's just photos."
"Just photos?" I turn on him. "Photos that show us in compromising positions. Photos that will be in every tabloid by morning. Photos that—"
"That show four consenting adults who care about each other," Travis interrupts firmly. "Not a crime, Will."
"The board won't see it that way." My phone is already buzzing. How is it already buzzing? "This is... this is exactly what I was afraid of. Losing control of the narrative."
"There was never a narrative to control," Carina says quietly. "We're just people, William. Messy, complicated people trying to be happy."
"The business world doesn't care about happy. They care about image. About stability. About—" Another alert on my phone. The photos are already online. That was fast, faster than I anticipated. "Fuck."
"Let me see," Travis reaches for my phone, ever practical. His face goes carefully neutral as he scrolls. "Okay. It's not ideal."
"Not ideal?" I laugh bitterly. "We look like we're running some sort of... of..."
"Loving relationship?" Knox suggests. "Because that's what I see. Carina being cherished by three men who adore her."
"Again, the board won't see it that way."
"Then fuck the board," Knox says.
"Easy for you to say. You're not CEO. You don't have shareholders to answer to."
"You're right," he says quietly. "I just have a brother who's so terrified of judgment that he's willing to throw away happiness for appearances."
The car goes silent except for my phone's incessant buzzing. Carina hasn't said anything else, just sits there looking smaller by the second, and that's worse than any board censure.
"I'm not throwing anything away," I say finally. "I just... I need to think. To plan. To figure out how to protect us."
"Protect us or protect the company?" Travis asks.
It's a fair question. One I don't have an answer to.
By the time we reach the chalet, I've fielded six calls from board members, two from reporters, and one from my head of PR who sounds like she's having a nervous breakdown. The wine's effects are completely gone, replaced by the familiar stress of crisis management.
"I need to work," I say as we enter. "The Tokyo markets open in three hours. I need to get ahead of this."
"William—" Carina reaches for me.
"Later," I promise, kissing her forehead quickly. "Let me fix this first."
But as I lock myself in my office, phone already ringing again, I can't shake the image of her face in the car. The way she'd shrunk into herself as I spiraled out.
I wanted to protect her. To keep her safe from the ugliness of public scrutiny.
Instead, I might have just shown her that when push comes to shove, I'll choose the company over her every time.
The thought sits like lead in my stomach as I answer the next call, slipping back into CEO mode like armor.
"William Montclair. Yes, I'm aware of the situation..."
Outside my window, snow begins to fall. Inside my office, I do what I do best—control what I can, even as everything I actually care about slips through my fingers.