She’d planned to go to every single intern this morning, apologize for wasting their time, and offer to change their plane tickets to allow them to leave early. But before she’d had the chance, working her way down Namrita’s methodical list of to-dos to plug a leak in a crumbling dam, Amelia Hill found her. Acting as emissary for the group, she’d told her that not one of the nineteen interns believed that Sofia had handed over the flash drive. They would stay until the internship was over. They would support her once they were home.
Sofia had replied that the interns should support the winery and the Monte. Supporting her was a lost cause. The IT techs had called to report a dangerous surge in server activity as people canceled their hospedería reservations. A major American wine distributor, who’d been willing to work around the Consejo to get the wine out of Spain, had emailed to say he was no longer interested. And Mateo had begrudgingly revealed, after Sofia had harangued him that she needed to know the full impact, that two new fruit buyers had pulled their contracts.
Was there any use in finishing the wine that right now sat in the steel and oak vats on the quiet processing floor if no one was going to drink it? The quiet that had settled over the Monte didn’t feel like rest, Sofia thought as she settled her forehead against the cool of the glass.
It felt like mourning.
Mourning the fact that their princess’s desperate bid for attention was every bit as destructive as their queen’s. She’d tried to make herself necessary and valuable and, as a result, damaged her kingdom. The queen’s blowups and affairs had never netted a result this disastrous.
“They’re bringing him over now,” Namrita said from behind her, her voice strained. Acting as the kingdom’s mouthpiece, trying to set the story straight, had worn it out. It had been a useless effort. The international media had the story they liked. Sofia was a betraying bitch who—in the midst of a royal temper tantrum—tried to ruin the legacy of one man who’d sacrificed himself to the Mississippi River and the career of another man who’d been working hard to save hers. She’d poured gasoline on the world’s favorite love story and lit the match.
It was funny; Sofia had invited the world press to her home because she thought she could manipulate it. She couldn’t cry over shattered grapes when Aish proved to be the better manipulator.
They’d packed up his room—apparently the prima donna had refused to help—and kept him away from his electronics all day. Roman’s security team was escorting him here and then straight to the airport. Namrita felt they should try to discover what he was going to say to the media, what he planned next.
He had no reason to lie to them now; he’d accomplished what he’d come here to do.
She’d been dumbfounded by the information Namrita gave her this morning while she’d stood in a T-shirt in her childhood bedroom doorway, her dress in the closet and her face washed clean but her hands still tingling from Aish’s scruff, from the way she’d cradled his face as she let him see every irretrievable emotion in her eyes. She’d been so intent on defying her mother’s curse that she’d actually allowed herself to ignore her vow and believe that maybe...for a second....
She’d sent him home before that second could stretch any further.
Or at least, she’d thought she’d sent him home. Instead, it looked like he’d escaped. Let himself free so he could unleash this story that Namrita relayed, dark eyes full of sorrow, just after dawn: the contents of the flash drive leaked, blame heaped on Sofia for the reveal, Aish and John somehow left blameless for the theft. Sofia had actually been shaking her head in the doorway, no, he couldn’t have...there’s no way he would have...when she’d first seen the box, made in the fifteenth century and purloined from another part of the house by a little girl who hated her pink room, sitting on the floor out of its hiding place in the dresser.
He’d had so much time in her room before she’d shown up. She wondered how many of her private spaces he had searched—her office, her suite—before finding the box.
She’d trusted him in all of them. Her craving for him once again had made her peel off restraint and skepticism so she could warm herself with his fire. The shock that she’d done this to herself—again—left her dispassionately cool as she sat in the ashes.
She felt nothing as she heard a winery door open, turned to watch Aish take huge strides toward her office, her brother and two of his men hustling to keep up. Carmen Louisa, Namrita, and Henry had been keeping silent vigil by her desk. Henry moved to stand in front of her. She could just see Aish over his shoulder.
He looks terrible, she thought before she put her hand back against the glass and soaked in the cold.
He was in old jeans, a dirty long-sleeve shirt, and flip-flops. His black hair was standing on end. He appeared to be going for the insanity defense; she felt sorry for whoever had to sit next to him on the plane.
He jerked her door open and got out, “Sofia, I didn’t do this—” before her brother and another guard caught him by the biceps.
“Not a fucking word,” Roman growled. She turned around and watched them walk him into the room, shove him down on the couch.
Aish’s eyes, black and sparkling, never left her over Henry’s big shoulder.
Namrita and Carmen Louisa looked equal parts furious and ill at ease. But her PR representative walked until she was standing directly in front of Aish. “Mr. Salinger, what do you intend to do once you leave the Monte?”
“Leave?” he shot back. “Fuck you, I’m not leaving. You can drag my ass out and I’ll be on the next fucking plane back
