Chapter 25 #3
“If Blackwood misses minimum quarterly casing volume for two consecutive reporting periods, Mercer gets automatic exclusive regional rights for ten years with first refusal on expansion markets. Ten years, Bennett. That is a chokehold.”
His eyes flicked to the page.
“I know what it says.”
“Did Mabel?”
The question landed like a slap.
Bennett’s face hardened.
“Careful.”
“No. Did she?”
“Yes,” he said sharply. “Mabel knew what she signed.”
“Then why was she pulling old distributor files the week before she died?”
That stopped him.
For half a second.
Only half.
But enough.
Aubrey saw it. The flicker. The shift.
“Who told you that?”
“Walter.”
Something unreadable crossed his face.
“Of course he did.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Walter knows every file in this building. Doesn’t mean every file is a murder motive.”
Aubrey stepped closer, pulse climbing.
“Mabel dies. Blackwood goes into legal chaos. I walk away. You’re left holding together a winery with a homicide investigation, a frozen estate, staff panic, and disrupted production. Miss two quarters, and Mercer gets permanent control of your distribution pipeline.”
Bennett stared at her.
She lifted her chin.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.”
The answer came too fast. Too hard.
Aubrey’s eyes narrowed.
“That was automatic.”
“Because I know Vanessa.”
“And I know contracts.”
"You know commercial real estate."
“I know predatory agreements when I see them.”
“You don’t know Vanessa.”
“No,” Aubrey shot back. “But apparently you do. Very well.”
His eyes darkened.
The air in the office changed instantly.
Bennett stepped closer.
“Is that what this is?”
“This is about motive.”
“No.” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “This is about you seeing her at The Overlook and smelling her perfume in your kitchen.”
He was too close now. Too accurate.
She hated him for it. And hated herself a little for how much her body noticed him when they fought. The way his voice roughened when he was angry. The way heat rolled off him, tightening the space between them.
“I am looking at numbers,” she said.
“You’re looking at Vanessa.”
“She benefits.”
“Mercer benefits,” Bennett snapped. “Not Vanessa.”
“Oh, so now there’s a difference?”
“Yes.” He crowded another step closer, anger rolling off him. “There’s a damn big difference.”
Aubrey refused to step back, even though every nerve in her body lit up at his proximity.
“She had access to Blackwood. She knows the contracts. She knows the buyers. She knows how much chaos Mabel’s death would cause.”
“She was at the funeral,” Bennett said through his teeth. “She cared about Mabel.”
“People kill people they care about all the time.”
His eyes flashed.
“Vanessa didn’t murder Mabel.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know her.”
“You knew Mabel too,” Aubrey said, her voice dropping before she could stop it. “And somebody who knew her put a pillow over her face.”
The office went dead silent.
Bennett’s expression changed so fast she wished she could take the words back.
Not anger.
Pain.
Raw and immediate.
Then the walls slammed down.
His voice went flat.
“Get out.”
Aubrey swallowed.
“Bennett—“
“I said get out.”
Her grip tightened around the binder.
For one awful second, neither of them moved. She was acutely aware of the distance between them—two steps, maybe three. Close enough that if she reached out, she could touch his chest. Feel the thud of a heart still carrying Claire, Mabel, and more grief than one man should have to hold.
Idiot, she thought. Not about him.
About herself.
She’d meant to talk about contracts.
Instead she’d gone for the one wound they shared.
She stepped back. Not because he scared her. Because she had hurt him, and she knew it.
She opened the office door.
Behind her, Bennett spoke again, his voice rougher this time.
“You want to chase Mercer? Fine. Give it to Burke. But don’t confuse a bad contract with a killer.”
Aubrey looked back.
His hands were braced on the desk now, head bowed between his shoulders, the gold band on his left hand catching the morning light.
The sight stole some of the fight from her.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she said quietly.
He didn’t look up.
“No,” he said. “You’re trying to survive.”
The words hit too close.
Survival she understood. Trust? Not nearly as well.
Aubrey stepped out and closed the door behind her.
On the mezzanine, the winery had begun to wake beneath her. Voices rose from the tasting room. A forklift beeped. Somewhere below, Savannah laughed at something Chloe said, bright and normal and impossibly distant.
Walter stood near the railing, a ledger tucked beneath one arm as he watched the production floor.
He turned when Aubrey emerged.
His eyes moved briefly to Bennett’s closed office door. Then back to her.
“Everything all right, child?”
Aubrey looked down at the Mercer contract in her hands.
Her throat felt tight, her pulse a frantic, unhelpful drum.
“No,” she said.
Walter’s expression softened with almost perfect concern.
"No," he said gently. "Not much is these days."
What she didn’t say—what she refused to say—was that the numbers were finally starting to make sense.
It was the people who didn’t.