Read Chapter 6: The Uncles' Ultimatum

The dining room had not changed in twenty years. Same long oak table, same worn tapestry of the harvest sagging above the sideboard, same smell of woodsmoke and old wine that had followed Camille through every dream of this house. She sat at her father's place—the head, nearest the window—and watched her uncles take their positions like actors in a play they had rehearsed without her.

Laurent carved the duck with the precision of a man who enjoyed cutting things. Bernard poured wine without asking, filling her glass to the rim as if daring her to drink.

"We'll keep this simple," Laurent said, setting down the knife. "Sign the deed over by the end of the month, and we'll make sure the estate passes without a legal fight. You walk away with a modest settlement—enough to return to Paris with your pride intact."

Camille looked at the duck on her plate. She had not touched it. "And if I don't?"

Bernard sighed, the sound of a man forced to explain something obvious to a child. "Then we contest the will. We have grounds. Your father was not of sound mind in his final months—the debts alone prove that."

"The debts he incurred trying to save this estate," Camille said. "The same estate you're trying to sell out from under me for a quick payout."

Laurent's jaw tightened. "That estate is bleeding money. The conglomerate's offer is generous. More than generous. And you—" he pointed at her with the carving fork, "—you've been gone for years. What do you know about running a vineyard? About the frosts, the buyers, the constant pressure of a bad harvest?"

"I know more than you think."

"You know bottles and labels," Bernard cut in. "You've never worked these vines. Never sweated through a harvest. Your mother—"

He stopped himself. Camille's hand tightened around her glass.

"My mother what?"

Bernard exchanged a glance with Laurent, who gave a barely perceptible nod. This was rehearsed. They had planned this.

"Your mother left in shame, Camille." Laurent's voice softened into something that was almost kind, which made it worse. "She didn't just vanish. She was driven out. There was a scandal—something to do with the wine. Your father never spoke of it, but the village still whispers."

"What scandal?"

Laurent shrugged. "They called it 'the sweetness of wine.' That's all I know. She was involved in something that shamed the family, and she fled rather than face the consequences. The fact that your father left this estate to you—the daughter of a woman who nearly destroyed it—is an insult to our name."

Camille felt the ledger's weight in her memory. The 1982 vintage, chaptalized. The deliberate fraud. Her mother's letter, exposing it. And now her uncles were using that same scandal as a weapon, twisting it to make Élise the villain instead of the truth-teller.

"The sweetness of wine," Camille repeated slowly. "Is that what you're calling it? All these years, you've been hiding behind that phrase like it's a prayer. But you don't even know what it means, do you?"

Laurent's composure cracked. "I know it drove your mother out. I know it blackened this family's name. And I know that if you force us to court, we will bring it all into the light. Every detail. Every shameful act. The press will have a field day with the Delacroix scandal—and the vineyard's reputation will never recover. Is that what you want? To destroy what's left of your father's legacy because you're too proud to accept a fair settlement?"

The door creaked. Camille looked up to see Jean-Marc standing in the doorway, his face pale, a bottle of wine in his hand. He had heard. From the look in his eyes, he had heard everything.

"It's not what you think," Jean-Marc said quietly. "It was never what they think."

Laurent sneered. "The hired help speaks. How charming."

Jean-Marc didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on Camille. "Your mother didn't leave in shame. She left to protect you. There's a difference."

The room went silent. Even Laurent seemed caught off guard.

"Protect me from what?" Camille asked.

Jean-Marc's mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head. "Not here. Not with them."

He set down the bottle and walked out. Camille rose, but Laurent's hand shot out and caught her wrist.

"One month," he said. "That's all you get. Sign the deed, or we take you to court and drag your mother's name through the mud. You'll have nothing left to inherit—not the house, not the vineyard, not even the memory of her honor."

Camille pulled her wrist free. She looked at her uncles, these two men who had spent their lives resenting her mother, her father, and now her.

"Then I'll see you in court," she said.

She walked out of the dining room, her heart hammering, and found Jean-Marc waiting in the hallway. He was holding something small—a rusted key on an old iron ring.

"I found this," he said quietly. "In your father's desk, years ago. He told me to keep it safe—to give it to you if you ever came home and needed the truth."

Camille took the key. The cellar key. The one that would bypass Laurent's padlock.

"Jean-Marc," she said, "what exactly happened to my mother?"

He looked at her for a long moment, then down at the key in her palm.

"I'll tell you what I know," he said. "But you're not going to like it."