CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
JACK
The McKenzie Estate vineyard stretches before me, rows of carefully tended vines heavy with fruit ready for harvest. Normally, the sight would bring a sense of pride, of connection to this land that had sustained my family for generations. Today, it just reminds me of what I’d hidden from Sophia.
I’d been working since dawn, throwing myself into physical labor to escape my thoughts. My shoulders ache from pruning, my hands raw despite the gloves. The pain is welcome. It gives me something to focus on besides the memory of Sophia’s face.
“You look like shit, little brother.” Charlotte appears beside me, handing over a water bottle. “Though I can’t say you don’t deserve it.”
I take the water without responding. What is there to say? She is right.
“She took Madison to see the west vineyard with Lily,” Charlotte continues, watching my reaction carefully. “Avoiding you quite effectively.”
“Good,” I say, meaning it. “She needs space. I’m giving it to her.”
“Noble.” Charlotte’s tone makes it clear what she thinks of that. “And your plan beyond hiding among the vines is…?”
“There is no plan,” I admit. “I just…I need to respect what she asked for.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, heart racing stupidly at the thought it might be Sophia, then deflating when I saw Nate Crawford’s name instead.
Nate: Jack, mate. Nate Crawford here. Hope the trip's going well. Heard from Maria things might be a bit quiet on Sophia's end. Just checking in, make sure you're all showing her a good Kiwi welcome.
Christ. Even Sophia’s colleagues back home have noticed something was wrong. The ripples of my deception spread further than I’d imagined.
“Bad news?” Charlotte asks, noting my expression.
“Just…reality.” I type back a carefully vague response:
Jack: Bit of a hiccup, mate. Working through it. She's seeing the sights. Thanks for checking.
“Sophia’s friend from the hospital,” I explain, pocketing the phone. “They’ve noticed something’s off.”
“Of course they have,” Charlotte says. “That’s what happens when you mess with someone people care about.”
The reminder that Sophia has a support system, people who will notice if she isn’t okay, hits harder than I expected. She isn’t alone. If I can’t fix this, she’ll still have people looking out for her. The thought is simultaneously comforting and devastating.
“I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” The question is rhetorical.
Charlotte’s expression softens slightly. “Yes, you did. But fucking up is part of being human. The question is what you do next.”
“I don’t know what to do next,” I admit. “I’ve never…I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. And I’ve never screwed up this badly, either.”
“Start by being honest,” Charlotte says. “Completely honest. No more curated versions of yourself. The real Jack—with all the privilege and the baggage and the family complications.” She squeezes my shoulder. “If she can’t love that version, then it was never going to work anyway.”
I nod, watching a hawk circle over the distant hills. “I know.”
“Dinner’s at seven,” Charlotte says, turning to leave. “Don’t be late. And shower first, because you stink .”
I manage a weak laugh. As she walks away, my phone buzzes again—another message from Nate.
Nate: Hiccups happen. She's a tough one, our Sophia. You need anything, say the word. I've known her for years if you need advice.
The simple offer of support from a man who clearly cares about Sophia hits me hard. These are her people. The family she’s built for herself at Metro General. If I want to be part of that, I need to be worthy of it.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type:
Jack: Actually, mate, if you've got a minute, I could really use some insight. I lied to her about something really big. If you've seen her get really angry, what worked to get back in her good graces?
The moment I hit send, I regret it. What the hell am I thinking, dumping my relationship crisis on a colleague halfway across the world?
The minutes stretch as I wait for a response, each passing second confirming I’ve crossed a line. Then, finally:
Nate: What exactly did you lie about?
I stare at the question, at a loss for how to explain the magnitude of my deception without sounding like a complete asshole. How can I condense generations of family wealth, my deliberate concealment, and Sophia’s justified sense of betrayal into a text message?
I finally type:
Jack: Can't go into details. Just know it wasn't anything harmful but it was fundamental. An omission that changed how she sees me.
Even that feels inadequate. I add:
Jack: On a scale of 1-10, how fucked am I?
His response is immediate and brutally honest:
Nate: 11. But not necessarily permanently fucked.
I bark out a laugh despite myself. Leave it to an ER nurse to deliver the unvarnished truth.
His follow-up hits even harder:
Nate: Look, I'm the last guy who should give relationship advice. But I know Sophia. She doesn't do games. If you fucked up so bad it doesn't fit in a text, you better just own it and then pray as hard as you can to whatever deity will listen.
The straightforward assessment is like a splash of cold water. No platitudes, no false reassurance. Just the truth I need to hear.
Me: Thanks, mate. That actually helps. I can do that. I owe you.
I set the phone down, Nate’s words reverberating in my head. She doesn’t do games. You better just own it.
Wasn’t that what Charlotte had just been saying, albeit less bluntly? Own it. Take responsibility. No excuses.
I look down at my dirt-streaked hands, calloused from the vineyard work my family had done for generations. No more hiding either part of myself; not the paramedic who worked with his hands, not the heir who benefited from privilege. Both are real. Both are me.
Now I just need Sophia to give me a chance to show her all of it.
I trudge back toward the main house, muscles aching from the physical labor. In my cottage, I shower away the sweat and grime, watching the dirt swirl down the drain and wishing my mistakes could be as easily washed away.
Clean and dressed in fresh clothes, I sit at my small desk and pull out a sheet of paper. If I can’t speak to Sophia yet, I can at least prepare. Write down everything I need to say. Leave nothing unexamined.
Dear Sophia, I begin, then immediately cross it out. No letters. No distance. This has to be direct, raw, real.
Instead, I simply write: What I hid and why. No excuses.
And below it, I begin listing every instance, every moment where I’d deliberately concealed the truth about my background. Every opportunity I’d had to come clean but chose deception instead. Every rationalization I’d told myself to justify my cowardice.
By the time I’ve filled three pages, my hand is cramping and my eyes are burning. But I keep going, determined to unearth every buried truth, every hidden fear. If I am going to have any chance with Sophia, I need to understand myself first.
Pages later, exhausted and emotionally drained, I finally see the pattern. It isn’t just fear of being valued for my money. It is deeper, a fundamental belief that I just am not enough on my own. That without the McKenzie name and fortune, I’m not worthy of someone like Sophia.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I’ve projected my own insecurities onto her, assuming she would judge me the way I judge myself.
Nate was right. I am fucked. But maybe not permanently.
I folded the pages and tuck them away. Not as a script to follow, but as a reminder of the work I’d done today. The clarity I’ve found.
Tonight at dinner will be the first time I’ll see Sophia since she’d walked away with that devastating “Goodnight, Jackson .” I have no idea if she will even be willing to talk to me, let alone forgive me. But I will be there, respecting her space while making it clear I am not giving up.
And then, as Nate had suggested, I will pray harder than I ever have before.
Because a life without Sophia Mitchell isn’t a life I want to contemplate.