CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
SOPHIA
The McKenzie Estate’s main house is a masterclass in understated luxury.
No gaudy displays of wealth, just the quiet confidence of people who have never questioned their place in the world.
Every piece of furniture, every artwork, every subtle design choice speaks of generations of taste and privilege.
I move through the space on autopilot, nodding and making appropriate sounds of appreciation as Helen McKenzie—not the friendly “call me Helen” but the imperial “Helen McKenzie”—points out architectural features and family heirlooms.
“This painting was commissioned for Jackson’s great-grandfather,” she explains, gesturing to a massive landscape dominating one wall. “The artist captured the original homestead perfectly, don’t you think?”
“Beautiful,” I murmur, though what I really want to say is Who the hell is Jackson?
Madison has no such filter. “Wait, is Jack short for Jackson?” she asks, turning to Emma. “I didn’t know that.”
Emma’s eyebrows rise slightly. “You didn’t? It’s always been Jackson Charles McKenzie on all the official—” She stops abruptly, catching Jack’s warning look. “Sorry,” she adds, not sounding sorry at all.
Jackson Charles McKenzie. Another piece of the puzzle I haven’t known I was solving.
My mind is working overtime, cataloging each new revelation, mapping them against what I’d thought I knew.
The “family business” is not some modest vineyard where Jack had learned about grapes as a child; it is a massive commercial operation spread across multiple properties.
The “picking grapes” stories take on an entirely new context—not a boy helping with the family farm but the heir to an empire, perhaps indulging in a carefully cultivated narrative of humble beginnings.
And all those “points” for our flight upgrades? I am beginning to doubt they have anything to do with paramedic conferences.
“And this is the formal dining room,” Helen continues, leading us into a space that could comfortably seat twenty. “Though we usually eat in the smaller family dining room unless we’re entertaining.”
Smaller. Family. Dining room. Each word a little dagger.
His own cottage. While I’d been budgeting for a yard service to maintain my modest suburban home, the man I am falling in love with apparently owns a cottage on a family estate that looks like something out of a travel magazine.
As the tour continues, I find myself watching Jack as much as the surroundings. He hangs back, shoulders tense, a look of barely contained dread on his face. Good , a bitter part of me thinks. At least he knows how badly he’s screwed up.
We move outside to the vineyard portion of the tour.
Helen keeps up a steady stream of information about grape varieties, soil composition, and the history of the estate.
Under different circumstances, I would have found it fascinating.
Now, each fact feels like further evidence of Jack’s deception.
“Of course, Jackson was always more interested in rugby than viticulture,” Helen remarks as we walk between rows of carefully tended vines. “Though he did earn his sommelier certification before running off to America to play at being a paramedic.”
I stumble slightly, caught off-guard by both the casual dismissal of Jack’s career and the revelation of yet another qualification I’d known nothing about.
Jack is at my side instantly, a hand at my elbow to steady me. I flinch away from his touch.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
The hurt in his eyes is genuine, but at that moment, I can’t bring myself to care.
“Mom,” Madison calls from up ahead, where she is walking with Lily and Emma. “Lily says we’re going to see the kiwi sanctuary Jack started! Is that true?”
“Apparently,” I call back, unable to keep a hint of sharpness from my voice.
“It’s quite remarkable,” Michael says, falling into step beside me. “Not many sixteen-year-olds would convince their parents to set aside fifty acres for endangered birds. But Jack was always…different. In the best way.”
I glance at him, surprised by his supportive tone. “Fifty acres,” I repeat. “That’s…substantial.”
“For the birds? Yes. For the estate? A small corner.” Michael’s eyes crinkle. “Though Helen threw a fit about the location. Prime grape-growing slopes, you see. Jack insisted it was the perfect microclimate for the kiwis.”
I can’t help but picture teenage Jack, standing up to his family for a wounded bird. That part, at least, feels like the man I know.
Helen has moved ahead with Madison and the sisters, giving us a moment of relative privacy. Michael seems to sense the tension and discretely increases his pace, leaving Jack and me briefly alone.
“Sophia,” Jack begins, his voice low and urgent. “I know this is overwhelming. I should have—”
“Yes, you should have,” I cut him off. “But not here. Not now.”
“When?” The naked plea in his voice almost breaks through my carefully maintained composure.
“I don’t know.” I look straight ahead, focusing on Madison’s animated gestures as she talks with Emma. “I need time to process…all of this.”
“Of course,” he says, defeat evident in his tone. “Whatever you need.”
The tour continues, with Helen proudly showcasing the winery operations, the temperature-controlled storage caves, the tasting rooms where visitors sample McKenzie Estate’s award-winning Pinot Noir.
The scale is staggering—not just a business but a small empire that has clearly been built over generations.
By the time we reach the guest house—a “simple” structure that is larger and more luxurious than any home I’ve ever lived in—I am emotionally exhausted from maintaining my facade of polite interest.
“We thought you and Madison would be comfortable here,” Helen says, gesturing to the guest house. “It has its own kitchen, though you’re expected at the main house for meals, of course. Jackson’s cottage is just beyond those trees.”
The assumption that we would be staying separately should have bothered me, but at that moment, I am actually grateful. I need space from Jack, from this whole situation.
“Thank you,” I say. “It looks lovely.”
Madison appears at my side, her eyes bright with excitement. “Mom, can I have the room with the mountain view? Emma says it’s incredible!”
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile for her sake.
“I’ll help you with your bags,” Jack offers, clearly searching for any opportunity to speak with me alone.
“That’s not necessary,” I say coolly. “I’m sure one of the staff can assist us.”
Hurt flashes across his face, but he nods. “Of course. Whatever you prefer.”
Helen beams, oblivious to the tension. “Well! I’ll leave you to settle in. Dinner is at seven in the family dining room. Nothing formal, just the immediate family.”
As they depart—Jack lingering until I pointedly turn away—I finally allow myself a moment of vulnerability. My hands are trembling, and I clasp them tightly to hide it from Madison.
“Isn’t this AMAZING?” she enthuses, spinning in a circle in the guest house’s spacious living room. “Jack’s family is like…I don’t even know! It’s like we’re in a movie or something!”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“The WiFi password is on the coffee table,” she continues, already tapping at her phone. “I’m going to FaceTime Chloe. She’s never going to believe this!”
As Madison disappears into her chosen bedroom, I sink onto a nearby chair, finally alone with my thoughts.
The carefully constructed image of Jack McKenzie—Jackson Charles McKenzie—I’d carried in my heart shatters into a thousand pieces. The humble paramedic with the charming accent. The man who brings me coffee. Who taught Madison to make pasta. Who looked at me like I hung the moon.
Was any of it real?
The familiar sensation of betrayal washes over me, bitter and nauseating. I’d been here before with Troy—that gradual realization that the person I’d given my heart to wasn’t who I thought they were. Different circumstances, same gut-wrenching feeling of having been played for a fool.
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I am Sophia Mitchell, charge nurse at Metro General, who handles the worst without breaking a sweat. I’m not going to crumble.
But a small, wounded part of me whispers: You did it again. You trusted the wrong man. When will you learn?
I stare out the window at the perfectly manicured grounds, the mountains rising majestically in the distance, feeling more alone than I had in years.
And somewhere beyond those trees is Jack— Jackson —in his private cottage on his family’s multi-million dollar estate, waiting for me to process a betrayal I am not sure I can forgive.