The Turn of the Vine

It wasn't often that meetings wrapped up ahead of schedule. But by three-thirty that afternoon, we had cleared the final call, addressed the last-minute supplier concerns, and signed off on the strategy deck for next week's board review. Celine, still crisp and composed in her soft olive blouse, was already closing her laptop when I leaned against the edge of the table and cleared my throat.

"Do you have plans for the rest of the day?" I asked casually.

She looked up, brow arched. "Other than responding to the hundred emails piling up while I was pretending to be approachable? No."

I smiled. "Good. Then come with me."

Her gaze narrowed suspiciously. "Where?"

"Las Veritas has a few local gems worth seeing. A historical basilica, a local vineyard with private tastings, and a lake that supposedly turns gold at sunset. I figured, since we're here and technically done working…"

"You want to go sightseeing."

I shrugged. "You're allowed to enjoy things occasionally, Celine."

She tilted her head, visibly torn between practicality and curiosity. Then, with a sigh of mock resignation, she stood. "Fine. But if this turns into a PR stunt, I'm throwing you into the lake."

"Noted," I said, already texting Oliver to arrange a discreet driver and low-key security.

By four, we were seated in a sleek convertible, courtesy of the resort's luxury concierge. The wind tugged gently at Celine's hair, and she didn't try to restrain it. She just let it move.

Our first stop was the basilica—old stone archways covered in ivy, narrow towers, and hand-painted glass windows that caught the sunlight like a kaleidoscope. We walked through the quiet corridors, our steps echoing. Celine didn't say much, but her eyes lingered on the murals and carvings.

"It's beautiful," she said finally, pausing before a stained-glass depiction of a woman holding scales and a sword.

"Justice and strength," I said, reading the Latin beneath it.

"Two things I was told I had too much of growing up."

I turned to her. "Whoever said that clearly feared you."

She gave me a side glance. "Fear isn't the same as respect."

"No," I said softly, "but you command both."

Her expression flickered, but she didn't respond. We stood there a moment longer before moving on.

Our next stop was the private vineyard on the hilltop. The owner, a woman in her sixties with sun-tanned skin and a laugh that shook her entire frame, greeted us with fresh apricot juice and a tour of the property.

"You two are newlyweds?" she asked, eyeing our matching energy with amused suspicion.

I opened my mouth, but Celine answered first. "Something like that."

The woman chuckled. "Well, you walk like strangers, but you watch each other like lovers."

Celine blushed, and I pretended not to notice.

We wandered through rows of grapevines, stopping occasionally to taste from the clusters. Celine laughed—really laughed—when I bit into one that turned out sour.

"Serves you right for picking the darkest one," she teased.

"You told me dark meant ripe!"

"I lied."

And just like that, the distance we'd always carefully maintained began to shrink.

As the sun dipped lower, casting the vineyard in molten gold, we drove to the lake. It was quieter here. No tourists, just still water and a stretch of smooth stones along the edge.

We didn't talk much at first. Just sat side by side, watching the reflection of the sky change.

"I never did this," she said quietly.

"Did what?"

"Let myself stop working long enough to actually see things. The cities I flew to, the deals I closed… it all blurred together."

"Same," I admitted. "I thought it was discipline. But maybe it was fear."

She turned to me, her profile lit in soft rose light. "Fear of what?"

"Of caring too much. Of someone seeing all the parts I kept hidden to stay sharp."

Celine studied me for a moment. "I get that. I think I've been wearing armor for so long, I don't know who I am without it."

"You're still her," I said. "But with the option to take a breath now."

There was silence again. A kind that didn't weigh heavy. Then she said, "This is nice."

I smiled. "It is."

We watched the lake shimmer into gold under the setting sun, the hills casting long shadows. The world seemed quieter here. Slower. Kinder.

Then she surprised me.

She reached for my hand.

Not fully. Just her fingers grazing mine, enough to tell me that something in her had shifted too.

I didn't say anything.

I didn't have to.

When we returned to the resort, it was late. The stars were out. We stood outside her suite for a moment longer than necessary.

"Thank you," she said, voice low.

"For what?"

"For showing me something real."

Then she disappeared behind her door, leaving me staring at it, wondering when exactly this arrangement had begun to feel like something I didn't want to lose.