Read Chapter 16: Pressure

The knock came at nine in the morning, three sharp raps that carried through the stone walls of the manor. Alex looked up from the estate ledgers, his pen still hovering over a column of figures that refused to balance. Léa was in the press house, cataloguing the condition of the barrels. He was alone.

He opened the door to a man in a charcoal suit that cost more than a month of cellar wages. The cut was Parisian, the tie a deep burgundy silk that felt like a deliberate provocation. The man smiled with perfectly maintained teeth and extended a hand Alex did not take.

“Alexandre Moreau,” the man said, lowering his hand without embarrassment. “I’m Étienne Leclerc. I represent interests that would like to speak with you. May I come in?”

“Interests,” Alex repeated. “That’s a careful way of putting it.”

“I find that precision in language prevents precision in other matters.” Leclerc gestured at the doorway. “It’s a lovely morning. Perhaps we could walk the grounds? I’ve heard the vines are exceptional this year.”

Alex stepped aside. He didn’t want the man inside his home, but he wanted him standing on the doorstep even less. The village had eyes, and ears, and a remarkable talent for turning small moments into large rumors.

“The courtyard,” Alex said. “Five minutes.”

Leclerc’s smile didn’t waver. “I’ll take ten if you’re offering.”

In the courtyard, the morning sun cut low across the rows of pinot noir, throwing long shadows between the trellises. Alex led Leclerc to a wrought-iron bench beneath the old chestnut tree, deliberately avoiding the press house and the second cellar hidden beneath it. He didn’t want Léa walking into the middle of whatever this was.

“You’ve made quite an impression in Burgundy,” Leclerc said, smoothing his trousers before sitting. “The English banker who came to claim his inheritance. Very romantic. The local papers have been kind to you.”

“What do you want?”

“Directness.” Leclerc nodded approvingly. “I appreciate that. It saves us both time.” He reached into his jacket and produced a folded document, crisp and official-looking. “My clients wish to purchase the domaine. All of it—the estate, the vines, the cellars, the name. They are prepared to be generous.”

Alex took the document. The offer was on letterhead he didn’t recognize, but the figure was substantial. More than double what the estate was worth on the open market. Enough to walk away clean, to return to London with his savings intact and his conscience only lightly bruised.

“Who are your clients?”

“I think you know.”

“Humor me.”

Leclerc’s smile thinned by a fraction. “The Bouchard family. They’ve long admired the Moreau label. They see this acquisition as a natural consolidation of regional interests.”

Alex set the offer on the bench between them, untouched. “The estate isn’t for sale.”

“Everything is for sale, Monsieur Moreau. It’s only a matter of finding the right price.” Leclerc paused. “Or the right pressure.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s an observation.” Leclerc crossed one leg over the other, casual as a man discussing the weather. “You see, my clients hold a fifteen percent share in the Domaine Moreau through a holding company. A minority stake, to be sure, but a legal one. Acquired years ago, when your father was still alive.”

Alex felt the words land like stones in his chest. Fifteen percent. His father had never mentioned outside investors. But then, his father had never mentioned a great many things.

“I’d like to see the documentation,” Alex said.

“I thought you might.” Leclerc produced a second envelope, slimmer than the first. “Original signatures, notarized, dated. Your father’s handwriting is quite distinctive—I’m told you’ve seen examples of it recently.”

The comment was a needle slipped between ribs. Alex kept his face still, but Leclerc was watching him with the patience of a man who had read the file on every skeleton in the Moreau closet.

“A fifteen percent share doesn’t give you control,” Alex said.

“No. But it gives us standing.” Leclerc stood, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. “Standing to request audits. Standing to demand board meetings. Standing to raise questions about the estate’s recent accounting practices.”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “What accounting practices?”

“That’s the elegant part.” Leclerc’s smile returned, wider now. “We don’t need to specify. We merely need to ask. And in the current climate—with a skeptical inspector poking around, with the memory of your predecessor’s abrupt departure still fresh—questions have a way of multiplying. Doubts, too. The kind of doubts that make banks nervous. The kind that make suppliers demand payment upfront. The kind that make buyers hesitate.”

He paused, letting the weight of it settle.

“You could sell the estate at a handsome profit and walk away with your reputation intact,” Leclerc continued. “Or you could keep it, and spend the next several years proving to everyone—the banks, the authorities, the wine world—that you weren’t complicit in whatever your father was doing.”

“Complicit,” Alex repeated. The word tasted bitter. “That’s a strong accusation.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Monsieur Moreau. I’m simply observing that perception is a powerful thing.” Leclerc gestured toward the house. “You’ve been seen with Inspector Delacroix. You’ve made inquiries in Geneva. You terminated a cellar master under circumstances that remain unexplained. These are all facts. They could be arranged into any number of narratives.”

“Are you threatening to frame me?”

“I’m threatening to tell the truth,” Leclerc said softly. “A selectively arranged truth, but a truth nonetheless. You came to Burgundy with a suspicious transfer of records. You’ve made unusual banking trips. You fired a woman who may have witnessed improprieties.” He spread his hands. “If I were a prosecutor, I could build a case. If I were the press, I could build a scandal. The difference is academic.”

Alex stood. His legs felt steady, which surprised him. “You have fifteen percent of my father’s estate. You have a lawyer’s talent for insinuation. But you don’t have the domaine, and you don’t have me.”

“No,” Leclerc agreed. “Not yet.” He retrieved the offer document from the bench, folding it neatly and returning it to his jacket. “But I’ll leave the documentation with you. Review it at your leisure. My clients are patient, but not infinitely so. They’d like an answer by the end of the month.”

“You’ll have it,” Alex said. “And it will be no.”

“We’ll see.” Leclerc turned toward the drive, then paused. “One more thing. My clients were concerned about your cellar master. The new one. Fontane, is it?”

Léa. Alex’s stomach tightened. “What about her?”

“Nothing specific. They merely noted that she arrived quite suddenly, quite conveniently, just as your previous cellar master departed.” Leclerc’s eyes held a flat, knowing glint. “They wonder if she might be an asset you’ve acquired, or a liability you haven’t yet discovered.”

He walked toward the black sedan waiting at the gate, leaving Alex standing alone beneath the chestnut tree. The air was still, but Alex felt the pressure building, a storm front pressing against his ribs.

Fifteen percent. His father had known. Vincent Moreau had laundered money for the Bouchards, and in return he’d given them a toehold in his own legacy. Alex had spent weeks trying to uncover the truth, and now the truth had walked up his driveway wearing a silk tie and a lawyer’s smile.

And Leclerc had mentioned Léa. That wasn’t a warning—it was a message. They knew about her. They were watching the estate, watching everyone who entered it. If Alex pushed back, they wouldn’t just come after him. They’d come after anyone who stood beside him.

He pulled out his phone. The microfilm was in Beaune, scheduled for development Saturday morning. Delacroix was still an unknown quantity, a possible ally or a possible trap. And now there was a fifteen percent stake in his own inheritance that could be weaponized against him at any moment.

He typed a message to Léa: *We need to talk. Not at the estate. Café in Nuits-Saint-Georges, noon.*

He hit send, then stood watching the dust settle on the empty road where Leclerc’s sedan had disappeared. The offer had a deadline. The Bouchards had patience. And somewhere in a bank vault in Beaune, his father’s final message was waiting to be developed into something that could change everything.

Or end it.