Light Between the Lines

The morning sun in Las Veritas was nothing like Velmora's. It poured into my suite in lazy gold streaks, warming the marble tiles beneath my feet as I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring at the vast vineyards stretching to the horizon.

It was too early to be awake, but sleep had evaded me.

Yesterday's press conference and plant tour had gone smoother than I anticipated. Every detail executed with corporate precision. But it wasn't the schedule or the logistics that kept me awake last night—it was the way Blake had looked at me when I handed him that water bottle. Surprised. Grateful. Maybe even seen.

I wasn't sure what unnerved me more: the look or the way it made me feel.

I hadn't come to Las Veritas to connect with my husband. I came to do my job. Maintain our façade. Protect the Cater legacy. But despite every intention, the lines between roles and reality were starting to blur.

My phone buzzed.

Sarah: "Oliver sent the day's schedule. Joint meeting at 9:30 a.m. at the plant. Investor brunch at noon. Free evening."

Free evening.

A luxury I hadn't had in weeks. And one that felt increasingly dangerous with each passing hour around Blake.

I dressed deliberately—soft linen trousers and a muted olive blouse, casual enough for the vineyard tour scheduled later, sharp enough for investor brunch. My hair was pulled back in a twist. Professional. Calm.

By 9:15, I was in the lobby where Blake stood already waiting. No suit today—just a button-down and slacks, the sleeves rolled up, a watch glinting on his wrist. He looked like he belonged here. Effortlessly handsome, unbothered by the weight of a legacy.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

We walked together to the awaiting SUV. The drive to the plant was short, just ten minutes, and we didn't speak much. But it wasn't the silence of tension anymore. It was something quieter. More curious.

At the plant, we reviewed the production floor with the regional managers, took notes, and provided feedback. The team had worked hard preparing for our visit. I made sure to thank them by name. Blake did too. Together, we made a good front.

At one point, while inspecting the quality control section, I felt his hand graze mine when we both reached for the same file.

We both froze.

He glanced sideways, an apology in his eyes, but I only nodded and moved on. My pulse, however, refused to settle.

By noon, we were back at the resort for the investor brunch. The venue had been set up on the garden terrace, shaded by white canopies and framed by lavender bushes. Waiters weaved between the tables with crystal glasses and silver trays.

Blake and I were seated side by side at the head table, with various stakeholders scattered around us. The conversation was light but purposeful—merger updates, profitability forecasts, future expansions.

I spoke when prompted. Smiled when needed. Watched Blake handle questions with effortless charm. He made eye contact when I answered, as if silently acknowledging every insight I shared. He didn't interrupt, didn't correct. Just... listened.

And for the first time in a public setting, I felt less like his obligation and more like his partner.

After the brunch, as the guests mingled and the staff began clearing the space, Blake leaned over slightly.

"You handled that well."

"So did you," I replied, surprised by my own softness.

There was a pause. Then:

"Do you want to walk through the vineyard? It's open to guests."

I considered him for a moment. "It's part of the schedule?"

"No," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. "It's part of the view."

And against better judgment, I nodded.

We left the terrace and followed the stone path through the rows of sun-kissed vines. The afternoon breeze was light, and the smell of ripe grapes hung thick in the air.

For a while, we walked in silence, the gravel crunching beneath our steps. Then he said, "You were right. About the light here. It is softer."

I glanced sideways. "You remembered that?"

"I remember everything you say when it's not part of a corporate pitch."

That drew a reluctant smile from me.

We stopped near a wooden fence where the view opened wide. The hills, the vineyards, the rows of gold and green. It looked like a painting.

"Your mother brought you here once?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, eyes on the hills. "She said it was a place where time slowed. She wasn't wrong."

Blake didn't say anything. But he stood beside me, close enough for comfort, far enough for respect.

"She'd like you," I added before I could stop myself.

He turned to me. "You think?"

"She liked people who listened more than they spoke."

A smile ghosted across his lips. "She sounds wise."

"She was."

I looked up at him then, really looked. And for once, I didn't see Blake Aldridge—the rival, the arranged husband, the perfect PR mask. I saw the man who watched for signs of my discomfort, who remembered what mattered, who waited without pressure.

He wasn't perfect. But he was trying.

I stepped back slightly. "We should go. We have that strategy call at five."

He nodded. "Right."

We walked back to the resort, the same path, the same breeze. But something between us had shifted again.

Not dramatically. Not suddenly.

Just a little more light between the lines.