Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Morning arrived languidly on the Aurelle estate.
Breakfast had been served in the formal dining room from six thirty sharp and ceased, just as precisely, at half past nine. Porcelain clinked. Linen whispered.
Guests wandered in without announcement, choosing a seat anywhere along the thirty-six-seater marble table. A member of staff would appear with a quiet, “What may I bring you?” Ten minutes later, the order arrived: piping hot, flawlessly plated.
Each guest lingered for exactly long enough to seem relaxed. They stood, left, and the staff swept in—clearing, resetting, realigning the cutlery until the table looked untouched.
Bea had never seen anything so choreographed.
Gage had come to her room to pick her up. Nate West, who had driven up that morning instead of yesterday, gave her a once-over as he sliced into his bacon.
“You look like you’re surviving.”
Bea lifted her coffee cup. “I’m acclimating.”
“Stay hydrated,” Nate advised. “Headaches will make you too honest.”
She pressed her lips together, failing to hide her smile. “Can’t have that.”
He glanced at Gage. “She’s learning.”
Learning fast. And praying no one asked her which fork was for melon.
They ate in something that resembled comfort. It no longer felt surreal to sit between Gage King and Nate West, just unlikely. Like waking up between a diadem and its bodyguard. Casual.
“There’s a vineyard tour and wine tasting. You up for it?” Gage asked.
She nodded. “Sounds fun.”
It looked like almost all the guests had decided to join the tour, well over a hundred of them, each dressed like they had brought a personal stylist. Bea knew that every single one was being housed onsite, which meant the estate was enormous, the kind of sprawling that could only exist when money had been old for a very long time.
A small number of security personnel moved with the group, mostly unnoticeable.
Neat paths crisscrossed the hills, sun catching on leaves and gravel, thick and flaxen as poured honey. The grapes were ripe, dark with sugar and ready to be cut, clusters heavy, their skins dusted with bloom. Every step released the scent of earth and fruit.
Bea walked carefully between the gravel dividers, the hem of her dress skimming her calves, Gage’s hand resting lightly at her spine. Someone was explaining the elevation of the vines and the soil quality.
“You sleep alright?” he asked.
“I did.” She ran her hand lightly along the vines.
“Bed okay?”
“Amazing.”
His mouth curved—if you knew him well enough to notice. “Pity it’s wasted.” He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just kept walking. She was not going to blush over vineyard innuendo before lunch. She was not.
Naomi was a few steps in front of them, arm looped through Charles’, talking to Isabel in a low voice. Mason trailed behind them, tapping into his phone. Georgina had veered off to speak to her father.
The group was turning now, drifting toward the edge of the upper vineyard. A wide stone arch marked the entrance to the cellar. Its arched iron doors were already open, candles lining the stairwell.
Down.
Down.
The moment she stepped inside, her lungs caught.
It was beautiful.
Rows of oak barrels stacked high in warm golden light. Garlands of dried herbs hanging between the rafters. Tasting tables set with raw linen and tiny glass tumblers, their rims catching the glow of antique fixtures overhead.
It was cooler there. Bea walked slowly, eyes adjusting. People were beginning to gather in small clusters, low murmurs, soft laughter, the pop of a cork pulled from a bottle.
And then she heard it. Catherine's voice.
Long dress. Hair twisted into something so immaculate it looked lacquered. Already laughing with Carine and Gustave Aurelle, one hand resting on Gustave’s arm like she’d done it every summer since birth.
Bea’s stomach dipped.
She hadn’t seen her at the welcome dinner. Or breakfast. There’d been a flicker of hope—she was still in London, maybe. A family emergency. Some unanticipated delay.
But no. Catherine was here.
Gustave’s voice rose then, calling the men to the far end.
Gage gave Bea a glance before moving toward the group. Gustave began the tasting with their first vintage, gesturing with the kind of ease that only came from owning a vineyard and knowing its produce was first class.
The older generation had been invited to wander through the barrels with Carine, looking for the evening’s refreshments.
The younger women, around twenty of them, clustered around a long oak table where an artisan cheese-pairing board spanned the center like a still life, and four bottles of wine were being poured and passed from hand to hand.
Bea stayed by Georgina. Naomi and Isabel stood just across.
“Bea,” Catherine said, suddenly beside her. The smile was all surprise. The tone was all blade. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“She’s with Gage,” Isabel said flatly. “Of course she’s here.”
“Of course,” Catherine echoed, as if it had only just occurred to her. Turning casually to the group, she continued, “Can you imagine how hard this weekend must be for her? All those little things you don’t know you don’t know?”
“I didn’t expect to be here, either,” Bea said, evenly. “Gage insisted.”
Catherine’s lashes dropped. “Yes, he can be very convincing,” she said, as if she knew every method he’d ever used. Then, loud enough to know she was including the group: “We got up to all sorts of things in these vines over the years. So many memories.”
Her smile was all innocence. But the words weren’t. Not with an audience. Not with Bea standing there in borrowed confidence, holding a glass that suddenly felt too heavy.
A few of the younger women tittered.
Bea sipped her drink. “I’ve not heard. Gage only reminisces when he’s bored.”
Catherine’s smile thinned, as if trying not to hiss audibly. “Well he used to love this place,” she said, sweetly. “Always said it brought out a wilder side.”
“Strange. I’ve only seen his self-control improve.” Bea didn’t blink. “But maybe that’s just age. Or taste.”
A few of the girls went still, their hands paused above their plates. The charcuterie was disappearing at a respectable pace, but the real feast was the conversation they were eavesdropping on.
Catherine’s hand drifted to her glass. Her fingers tightened just slightly on the stem. Her smile stayed in place but the warmth was gone.
“We practically grew up in these rooms together,” she continued. “I supposed that’s why he offered to bring me back on the jet from London. To make sure I didn’t miss it.”
There it was. The first cut that bled.
Bea smiled.
Because that was what you did. You smiled like it didn’t sting. Even when the wine turned sour on your tongue. Even when the girl beside you reminded the room that she’d been there before you. That he’d flown her in with him to make sure she didn’t miss it.
“Your memory of Harvest Summits is full of artistic license,” Georgina interjected, dry as stone.
Catherine didn’t miss a beat. “Gage doesn’t share everything with you, Georgie.
” Then, dreamily, “One year he got it in his head to teach me how to ride properly.” Her voice was gentle, wistful.
“I could barely stay on the horse, but he was convinced I had potential. I was up at dawn every day with him practicing.”
A sip of wine. A smile that gleamed. “He’s always been like that. Once he takes something on, he doesn’t let go until it’s perfect. Or until he’s proven it can’t be.” Catherine looked at Bea pointedly. “Gage always did have a thing for projects.”
Bea felt it at that moment.
Not rage, not even hurt.
Shame.
The slow, burning kind. The kind that crawled up your spine and settled behind your eyes, telling you that maybe they’d all seen something you hadn’t.
That maybe you weren’t a guest. You were an experiment.
She needed air. Silence. Space. She needed to leave.
But she wouldn’t run.
“So did you become a good rider?” Bea asked quietly.
Catherine blinked as if caught. She laughed, trying for nonchalance. “Not really. I guess…I wasn’t born for it.”
Bea held her gaze. “Not everyone is.”
Catherine’s smile didn’t drop, but her eyes were sharp.
“Excuse me,” Bea said. Then she turned, skirt brushing her legs as she walked out through the side door of the cellar.
She walked up the stairs. Past the limestone arch.
She didn’t care where she was going. Just that it was away.
She turned the corner—and hit a chest. Rafael steadied her with both hands. His eyes cut over her face once. “What happened?”
She didn’t answer. Just kept walking.
He didn’t follow.
Somehow, she ended up inside the ladies’ bathroom at the top of the path.
She wasn’t crying. Not yet. Her throat was tight. Her hands were shaking. She stared at the sink. The room was stunning of course, bronze fixtures, antique soap tray, and towels rolled like they’d been sculpted.
The door opened, and without a word, Georgina stepped in. Her heels clicked once on the tile, then paused.
“You’ve got three minutes before this becomes The Story,” she said.
Bea didn’t answer.
Georgina crossed to the mirror and opened her clutch. She pulled out blotting paper and dabbed at Bea’s forehead without asking. “Catherine gets to you,” she said.
Bea huffed a breath. Half a laugh. Half something else. “I don’t belong here, Georgie.”
Georgina met her eyes in the mirror. Her voice was calm. “No, you don’t, but Catherine’s still afraid of you. Do you know why?”
Bea shook her head.
“Because you know how to throw a party with chicken nuggets and charades, and make a man like Gage King feel like a person, not just an heir.”
Bea’s eyes filled with tears.
“No crying. We don’t have time to reapply,” Georgie said sharply.
Bea tilted her head back, fanning her face. Blinked rapidly until the tears receded.
Georgina passed her a fresh lip gloss. “Touch up.”
Bea nodded, throat thick. She did as instructed. “Do we have to go back?”
“Yes. Smiling.”