He didn’t even register the meaning behind my words. His attention was glued to Natalia, completely blind to what I had planned.
When we reached the car, Natalia immediately reached for the front passenger seat as if it were hers by right. But Vincent gently grabbed her arm and held her back.
“Hold on, Natalia,” he said softly, then turned to me with a tentative, hopeful smile. “Althea, maybe you should take the front seat.”
“No way,” Natalia pouted, stamping her foot lightly. “I get so dizzy sitting in the back. And lately, the baby’s been making me feel awful, Vincent.”
I rolled my eyes, unimpressed.
Vincent looked stuck between us, clearly trying to navigate how to keep us both happy.
“It’s fine,” I said coldly. “Let her sit up front.” He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “I said it’s fine. Let her have the seat. I don’t care.”
A tense silence fell. Natalia beamed triumphantly, and Vincent frowned, but he didn’t argue.
I slid into the backseat, every muscle aching, and leaned my head against the cold window, staring outside as if I weren’t even there.
After a few minutes, Natalia started her usual act, fishing for a reaction.
Her hand found Vincent’s thigh, fingers slowly tracing circles. I didn’t turn to look, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught her smirk, smug and deliberate.
Vincent stiffened immediately. “Natalia,” he muttered under his breath, moving her hand away.
“What?” she said, feigning innocence.
When he said nothing more, she tried again, this time letting her fingers wander higher.
“I said stop!” Vincent snapped, his voice sharp now.
She flinched, and tears welled up in her eyes. She turned her face away and began quietly sobbing into her hands.
“Why are you yelling at me?” she whimpered. “I’m carrying your child, Vincent. And you’re yelling at me?”
Vincent ran a hand through his hair, his expression softening. “Sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to yell. Just… not with her here.”
He never said my name, never acknowledged I existed in the backseat.
Natalia sniffled and leaned forward to rummage through the glove box. “Just looking for tissues,” she murmured.
What she pulled out was far from tissues: a small piece of bright red lace panties. She giggled, holding them up like a trophy.
“Oh, Vincent,” she said playfully. “Remember when we couldn’t make it to the hotel? You just pulled me into your lap right here.”
“That’s enough,” Vincent said sharply, refusing to look at her.
“Oh, relax,” she rolled her eyes. “Althea gets it. Hormones make you crazy. Lucky you’re here to help.”
Her hand slid back onto his thigh. This time, he didn’t move it.
Vincent glanced in the rearview mirror, and our eyes met for a brief instant. I looked away before he could catch the storm brewing behind mine.
Once, that same glance could melt me. I remembered the first time we met: a charity dinner my parents hosted, him a last-minute stand-in for a flaky investor. Dark suit, broad shoulders, that half-smile that made my heart stumble.
“Do you always stare at people like that?” he’d asked. I’d been too stunned to answer. That night, he walked me to my car and kissed me under the moonlight. Back then, he saw me.
For the first two years, he treated me like I was the only woman alive. Friday night dinners at the vineyard, glass always full, always asking if I’d eaten, sneaking away among the vines to laugh like teenagers.
Then Natalia returned.
She claimed to be studying architecture abroad—a term she loved to toss around to sound impressive. The truth? She’d never finished a degree. Hated studying. Changed courses like trying on clothes she’d never buy. Paris, Rome, Tokyo—she’d been everywhere except where she was supposed to be.
Her return brought chaos, subtle at first: little laughs at my expense, innocent touches on Vincent’s arm at dinners. And now, here we were, her hand on his thigh.
The man who swore no one would ever come between us was now sitting next to the only woman who ever had.
**
By the time I reached the vineyard, I didn’t speak a word. I exited the car and walked past Vincent and Natalia without looking back.
The wrought-iron gates loomed as they always had, familiar yet heavy with memory. My parents had bought this land in the early 1980s, transforming bare soil into sprawling rows of vines that fed generations. They were gone, leaving the vineyard as the only tangible piece of their lives I had left.
My chest tightened with memory, but I pushed it down. I had business to take care of.
Mr. Santiago, the estate manager, looked up from his ledger as I entered the main house. His eyes widened, then softened into a warm smile.
“Miss Althea,” he said, rising quickly. “Welcome back.”
“I need to speak with you,” I said bluntly, cutting to the point.
We were wrapping things up when a sudden, terrified scream split the air.
My heart leapt into my throat. Something was wrong.
I bolted toward the door, Mr. Santiago right behind me.
The moment I stepped outside, the acrid sting of smoke hit me like a fist.
Shouts rose from the west fields.
I ran forward and froze. Flames were consuming the vines—my parents’ legacy, the lifeblood of their decades of work. My vision blurred, and my chest tightened as I watched fire devour everything my family had built.
