Chapter 3

Isabella

The first week after moving out, I thought I’d drown in silence.

But the condo was different from the mansion. The quiet here didn’t press down on me like a suffocating weight—it was lighter, freer. It was mine.

I could leave the TV on all night if I wanted, the static hum filling the background. I could sing off-key in the shower without worrying about staff overhearing. I could burn toast at two in the morning and laugh about it without James, the butler, appearing with that disapproving tilt of his head.

The condo wasn’t big—just two bedrooms, a living room that opened to a small balcony, a kitchen with countertops worn from use. The building wasn’t new, but I liked that. The creaks in the pipes, the hum of neighbors through the walls—it made me feel less alone.

Still, freedom had its price.

Some nights the silence turned sharp, like glass cutting through me. I would crawl into bed, stare at the ceiling, and find myself listening for sounds that weren’t there. Gabriel’s footsteps. His low voice on a late call. Even the subtle scent of his cologne that used to linger on the sheets.

But the bed beside me stayed cold.

I threw myself into work to avoid thinking. My interior design clients kept me busy, their requests sometimes ridiculous, sometimes inspiring. I worked until my eyes blurred and my back ached, until I was too tired to think of him.

But inevitably, he slipped in anyway. In a color palette that reminded me of his suits. In a scent—cedar, leather, whiskey—that made my chest tighten. In the hollow ache of the bed I now claimed fully for myself.

I hated myself for missing him.

And then, three months later, everything shifted.

It was a Tuesday morning when the letter came.

I shuffled to the kitchen, barefoot, hair still tangled from sleep. The countertop was cluttered—coffee mugs, sketches for a project I hadn’t finished, a vase with wilting flowers Mia had dropped off the week before. The air smelled faintly of the lavender candle I’d burned down to its last inch.

I brewed coffee, humming tunelessly as I leaned against the counter. The knock on the door startled me.

A courier stood there with a cream-colored envelope, sealed with a lawyer’s crest.

“Ms. Reyes?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said slowly, taking it.

The envelope was heavy, official. I carried it back to the kitchen, set my mug down, and carefully tore it open.

I scanned the letter once, twice, then a third time before the words sank in.

A vineyard.

The estate in Napa that belonged to my Aunt Celia—mine now.

My hand shook, nearly spilling my coffee as I whispered aloud, “A vineyard?”

As if summoned, my phone rang. Mia.

“You got it, didn’t you?” she said, not even bothering with hello.

“Got what?”

“The inheritance. I told you your Aunt Celia was serious about it. She left you the vineyard, Isa.”

I blinked at the papers. “This can’t be real. I don’t know anything about vineyards.”

“Please. You didn’t know anything about running a business when you started freelancing, either. And now look at you.”

“This is different, Mia. This isn’t fabric swatches and lighting fixtures. This is acres of land, equipment, staff—”

“And maybe a second chance,” she interrupted softly.

The words stilled me. A second chance. Not at marriage, not at Gabriel, but at something that was mine.

I pressed a hand to my forehead. “I’ll fly out,” I murmured.

“You’d better. And take me with you. I want free wine tastings for life.”

I laughed despite myself. “Deal.”

Two weeks later, I stood on the balcony of the old estate.

The air was thick with the scent of earth and grapes, sun warming the vines until they released something sweet and sharp into the breeze. The land stretched in rows of green and gold, endless, as if the horizon itself bowed to it.

The house behind me was old but proud. The kind of place that creaked when you walked, its bones telling stories of the people who had lived there. The wooden shutters needed repair, the paint was peeling, but there was history in the walls. My aunt had loved this place.

A lawyer in a stiff suit led me from room to room.

“As you can see, the property is… well, charming,” he said carefully.

Which was polite for: falling apart.

He cleared his throat. “Your aunt struggled financially. There are debts. Unpaid wages. Equipment in need of replacement. If you choose not to take it—”

“What happens then?” I asked, pausing in a hallway where sunlight slanted across faded wallpaper.

“It will likely be sold. Most likely to a corporation looking to repurpose the land.”

“Repurpose,” I repeated, lips twisting. “Meaning tear it apart.”

He adjusted his glasses. “That’s the reality, Ms. Reyes.”

“And if I do take it?”

His gaze sharpened. “Then it’s yours. Every acre. Every debt. Every responsibility.”

Later that evening, I walked through the vines with Antonio, the head vintner. He was wiry, with weathered skin and eyes that missed nothing.

“You think you can save this place?” he asked, skeptical.

I bristled. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “Most people who inherit land like this, they sell. Quick money, no headaches. A vineyard is sweat and risk. Wine takes years, not months. Are you ready for that?”

I stared out at the fading light over the rows of grapes. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I know I don’t want to let it die.”

Something softened in his expression. “Then maybe we’ll make it work.”

Back in the condo, the estate’s financial documents were spread across my dining table. Numbers glared at me in red ink. Repairs would drain everything I had saved. Paying staff was nearly impossible.

I pressed my palms to my eyes, whispering, “What am I doing?”

A memory of Aunt Celia surfaced—her voice warm, her laughter filling summers when I’d visited her vineyard as a child. This land will outlive me, Isa. Promise me you’ll never let it be forgotten.

When my phone rang, I answered without looking. Mia’s voice burst through. “So, future wine queen of California. Are you keeping it?”

I stared at the papers. At the debts. At the possibility.

“Yes,” I said, surprising even myself.

Mia squealed so loud I had to pull the phone from my ear. “I knew it! Isa, this is amazing!”

“Or insane,” I muttered. “I don’t have the money. Not enough. I’ll need partners. Investors.”

Her voice turned cautious. “And you know what that means, right?”

“What?”

“You’re going to have to deal with people in that world again. People who know Gabriel.”

My throat tightened.

“I don’t care,” I said, firmer than I felt. “This is my chance. For me, and—” My hand drifted unconsciously to my stomach. “—for my future.”

Mia’s silence told me she understood, even if I hadn’t said the word baby.

The weeks that followed blurred together.

Meetings. Proposals. Investors who smiled politely and declined. Others who made offers that felt more like vultures circling, eager to swallow the vineyard whole.

I dressed in my best suits, pitched until my throat went dry, and tried not to flinch when someone mentioned Gabriel’s empire in passing.

At night, I dragged myself home exhausted. One evening, after my third rejection of the day, I sat at the kitchen table with takeout noodles and a bottle of cheap wine.

I poured a glass, sniffed it, and laughed bitterly. “Antonio would kill me for this.”

The doorbell rang. Mia swept in, carrying popcorn and a stack of DVDs.

“You need a break,” she declared.

“I need funding,” I countered.

“You’ll get it,” she said, plopping onto the couch. “You’re stubborn enough to wear them down.”

I sat beside her, exhaustion heavy. “What if I can’t, Mia? What if I lose the vineyard? What if I fail—”

She threw popcorn at me. “Stop. You left Gabriel. You survived that. Compared to him, saving a vineyard is child’s play.”

I laughed despite myself, leaning on her shoulder.

It was a Tuesday when everything unraveled.

I was at my desk, drafting another proposal, when my phone buzzed. Mia’s message: Check the news.

Frowning, I clicked the link.

My breath caught.

There he was. Gabriel. Perfect suit. Cold smile.

Thorne International Expands Into Luxury Wines: New Acquisition Plans in California.

Words leapt at me: strategic purchase, prime vineyard location, exclusive export contracts.

I didn’t need to read further. I knew.

My vineyard.

The one thing that was finally mine—he wanted it.

The phone slipped from my hand, clattering to the floor.

I pressed both palms to the table, breathing hard, heart hammering.

After months of silence, after letting me go so easily, Gabriel was coming back into my life.

Not for me. For the vineyard.

But I knew him. And nothing Gabriel touched ever stayed simple.