Alessia moves away, slipping through the crowd as water through outstretched fingers.
My name drifts to me—muffled, curious, concerned—but it sounds distant, drowned beneath the pulse in my ears.
“Nico, what’s going on?” Toni, I think, asks, but I’m still watching the horror show I created in front of me.
I want to go after her, but I don’t.
What can I offer her?
Cowardice draped in concern, plated excellently to look good but it doesn’t change what it is.
“Nico?” Renzo says and that gets through, probably because he claps his hand on my shoulder. “Someone should go after her, make sure she’s?—”
“She needs time,” I cut him off.
Chasing her would only shame her. This isn’t a scene for witnesses. She needs room to breathe after the gruelingharvest and what she reads as my betrayal. I have no right to demand anything now.
So, I don’t follow her.
“She lookedveryupset,” Renzo persists.
“She needs to be alone,” I snap. I’ve gotten to know my wife, and what I have learned is that she takes time to process things. If I spoke to her now, it would make zero impact.
“She does,” Alba confirms. She looks as devastated as her sister just did.
“What the hell is going on?” Toni grabs Renzo’s chin and forces him to look at her.
“Cara,” he murmurs, then sighs. “We’re interviewing Fontana for the head winemaker role.”
“I got that—and that Matteo is dying,” Toni says softly. “But why didn’t you just tell Alessia?”
Her innocence is both balm and blade.
I complicated everything when it was simple. Just tell Alessia. That’s it. Tell her Matteo is dying and that he doesn’t want her to know. Tell her Cesare is pressuring me to hire a winemaker—and that it can’t be her.
So fucking simple.
And I didn’t do it.
I should have trusted Alessia with the truth. With my fears. Instead of pretending I was in control, I should have treated her like a partner—leaned on her the way she leaned on me through harvest.
She wanted me to hold her at night so she could sleep for the few hours she allowed herself. She was vulnerable with me. She let me in.
I took what she gave.
And I didn’t give it back.
I set my glass down with exaggerated care.
“How much time does Matteo have?” Alba asks, her shoulders slumped.
“A few months,” I tell her.
“He’s her mentor. She sees him as a parent.” Alba pushes her hair back from her face and ties it into a ponytail with a hair tie she pulls out of her bag. “He’s not without flaws, our Matteo. He’d never stand up to Papà for her or anyone. But he loves Alessia—and more importantly, she loves him.”
Toni’s shoulders slump. “I still don’t understand why you hid this from Alessia? I thought you both…well, it looked like you’re having arealmarriage.”
“People can make mistakes in a real marriage.” The words are hollow as they spill out of me.
