Chapter 3
ISABEL
Istood at the airport departure gate, watching planes take off through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Kick had dropped me off at the curb an hour ago.
I’d lied and told him I was going to Italy. The same thing I’d told my father.
The guilt of those mistruths pressed against my chest, but what else could I have told them? The truth? That I was running away to the Russian River Valley, hoping to start over? That I needed to disappear before anyone discovered my secret?
While my father wouldn’t have bothered, Kick would have asked questions I couldn’t answer. So I’d let him believe the lie.
Instead, I’d bought a ticket to San Francisco and checked my single suitcase.
I’d liquidated what I could from my personal accounts before my father could freeze them.
It wasn’t much—he’d never given me full control of my trust fund, always keeping me dependent.
But it would be enough to get me through a few months if I was careful.
My phone buzzed with a text from my father. Let me know when you arrive.
I stared at the message for several seconds, trying to decide whether or not to respond.
I eventually turned the phone off. My guilt twisted tighter, but I forced it down. This was survival. Self-preservation. If he knew where I was really going, he’d find a way to interfere. To control me. To remind me that I was his daughter and Van Orrs didn’t run away from their responsibilities.
But I wasn’t running away. I was running toward something. A fresh start. A chance to prove I could be more than my last name. More than the spoiled princess everyone saw when they looked at me.
I’d heard through the wine industry grapevine—the network of gossip and information that flowed through every tasting room—that the Whitmore family was looking for a marketing director. Marketing had been my degree, though my father never took it seriously.
“You don’t need a job,” he’d said when I graduated from Berkeley. “You’re a Van Orr. That’s enough.”
As if I didn’t need purpose or meaning beyond being his daughter.
My timing was absurd, showing up, looking for work, during the holidays.
But where else could I go? And there was a certain poetic justice in it—Thomas Whitmore and my father had had a massive falling out five years ago over a piece of property.
Some bitter dispute neither would ever forget.
He would never contact my father. Would never reveal where I was. I’d be safe there. Hidden.
When the boarding call came over the speaker, I picked up my carry-on and joined the line of passengers shuffling toward the gate.
Kick’s face flashed through my mind. How he’d looked at me before he drove away—concerned, confused, searching for answers I couldn’t give him. He’d seemed to be memorizing every detail of my face, as if he knew something was wrong.
The other thing that kept replaying in my mind, that hadn’t stopped since our one night together, was the way he’d kissed me.
None other had made my toes curl or heat spread through my body the way his did.
It was like a promise. I used to wonder if that kind of kiss even existed outside of books and movies—the kind that made you feel seen, cherished.
I forced the thought away before it could take root. Kick Avila had made his choice the following morning when he called me a spoiled brat who only cared about herself. When he’d made it clear that any feelings between us—if they’d ever existed—were done.
He’d treated me the way everyone else did. Like a disaster. A liability. Someone who hurt people without meaning to and caused chaos wherever they went.
Maybe this fresh start would change that. Maybe it could be the place where I figured out how to be someone worth knowing. Someone who built things instead of destroying them.
The plane lifted off, and I watched Paso Robles disappear beneath the clouds.
I landed in San Francisco, rented a car, and drove to the Russian River Valley.
It took less than two hours, winding through hills covered in winter-bare vineyards.
The landscape reminded me of home—rolling terrain, neat rows of dormant vines, and the occasional stone winery tucked into a hillside.
But this wasn’t home. This was somewhere I could be mostly anonymous.
Somewhere few knew my history or my mistakes.
The rental cottage I’d found online was small but clean. I unpacked my suitcase, trying not to think about my father’s threat or the precarious future I was constructing.
Instead, I re-read the email I’d drafted last night.
Dear Thomas,
I understand you’re looking for a marketing director for Whitmore Estate. As Sebastian may have told you, I have a degree in marketing from Berkeley, and as you know, I grew up in the vines. I’d like to discuss the position with you at your earliest convenience.
I’m currently in the Russian River Valley and available to meet in person.
Best regards,
Isabel Van Orr
My finger hovered over the send button. This was it. The moment where I either committed to this new path or backed out and slunk home to face my father’s judgment.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
The response came faster than I expected. Twenty minutes later, I received a reply, not from Thomas, but from his son Sebastian, who everyone called Bas.
Izzy! You’re here? Tried to call, but got your voicemail. Ring me, sweetheart. I can’t wait to see you.
Bas had always been like this—excited to see me and genuinely happy when I was around. We’d been friends since we were kids, back when our fathers were close too. And our mothers. Tragically, his mom passed away three months after mine had. It was something else he and I had bonded over.
The other positive thing about being here, about potentially working for Whitmore, was my relationship with him. He’d always liked me exactly the way I was. Our friendship was unconditional, and right now, I needed that more than ever.
I turned my phone on and called him.
“Man, is it good to hear your voice. What are you doing here? Wait, don’t answer that. What are you doing right now?”
I laughed inwardly at his exuberance. Like his unconditional acceptance, I needed someone who was excited to see me. “Nothing at the moment.”
“Do you have plans for dinner?”
I checked the time, surprised to see it was almost six. “I’ll probably just grab something simple in town.”
“Not a chance, Isabel. Dad and I are here alone, and dinner is almost ready. Get on over here. Wait, do you need a ride?”
I chuckled again. “No, I have a car.”
“How long will it take you to get here? We’ll hold off eating.”
I told him I’d be there in ten minutes, and when I arrived, Bas met me at the door before I could knock. He hugged me hard, and I let myself enjoy how good it felt.
“You look exhausted,” he said, studying my face.
“Long day.” I smiled. “Long week, actually.”
“Come on. Dad’s inside. He’ll be thrilled to see you.”
I followed him through the house, taking in the warm wood floors and the photos lining the walls. The Whitmore family looked happy in those pictures. Bas and his four siblings at various ages and their mother, Kim, smiling in all of them. A family that clearly loved each other.
His father stood when we entered the dining room.
“Isabel, welcome. This is an unexpected surprise.” His expression shifted from curiosity to genuine warmth before he embraced me the same way Bas had.
He was in his late fifties, with silver threading through his dark hair.
Unlike my father, his presence was commanding without being intimidating.
He’d aged since I last saw him, but he still had that sharp intelligence in his eyes that had made him one of the most respected figures in the wine industry.
“I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Are you kidding? You’re welcome here any time. You know that, right? What happened between your father and me has no bearing on how important you are and always have been to our family.” He looked over at Bas, who draped his arm around my shoulders.
“Izzy’s looking for a job,” he blurted.
I elbowed him. “Bas!”
“Is that so?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, but I’d hoped to handle our discussion about it professionally rather than crashing your dinner.”
“Come on. Let’s have a seat. We’ll eat, and you can fill me in on what’s going on in your life.”
I settled into the chair, grateful when Bas poured me a glass of water when I rested my hand over the wineglass.
After a few minutes of small talk—memories of past holidays, updates on Bas’ siblings—he grinned at me across the table.
“Remember when we were kids? Years ago, before everything went sideways between our families?” He shook his head, still smiling. “We had some good times at Miremont.”
Something tightened in my chest. Miremont had belonged to my mother’s parents. It was the one place that was supposed to be mine.
“My father sold it,” I said, steeling my emotions. If I started to cry, it would be impossible to stop. Few things hurt as much as what my father did with that property.
Bas’ brow lifted. “He sold Miremont? I didn’t know that.” He studied me, clearly wanting to ask more, but something in my expression must have warned him off. “I’m sorry, Izzy. I know how much it meant to you.”
I shrugged, not knowing how to respond. It had been five years, and the wound still felt fresh.
Thomas cleared his throat gently, steering us to safer ground. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Isabel, but does your father know you’re here?”
“He does not,” I admitted. “We had a…falling out, so to speak.”
He nodded like he understood—because he did.
“I’ve decided I need to make some changes in my life. Start fresh somewhere new.”
“What kind of changes?” he asked as he cut into a piece of chicken.