Chapter 4 Sounds like a disaster

The wind clawed at the windowpanes like a restless ghost. I sat in the center of my apartment, surrounded by wine-stained notebooks, reports with red flags, and the glow of my laptop screen, where a folder titled Operation Cloverleaf stared back at me like an open wound.

It wasn't just some quirky project name.

It was something far more sinister.

I scrolled through the decrypted files, my eyes devouring each line, my pulse quickening with every new revelation. "Marketing expansion," the files claimed, "collaborative ventures with foreign investors." But the evidence suggested something entirely different. Hidden payments. Diversions of vineyard research. Confidential Laveldi wine formulas-harvest cycles, blending percentages, fermentation techniques-all shared with companies abroad under vague "consulting" partnerships.

My stomach turned.

They were copying Laveldi. Not just mimicking-they were replicating it down to the soil type. But the worst part? The narrative being crafted in the background made it appear like Laveldi was the one stealing their work.

A smear campaign.

Fabricated lawsuits were being prepared, drafted in advance. Blogs and niche wine publications had been fed subtle but damning pieces about Laveldi's "suspiciously similar blends." Whoever orchestrated this wasn't just stealing.

They were erasing Laveldi from the industry.

And someone on the inside was helping them.

I stared at the screen, the implications punching holes through every assumption I'd had. This wasn't about family rivalry. This was strategic sabotage, cold and calculated.

I needed answers.

***

The next morning, Laveldi's headquarters pulsed with quiet luxury. I walked briskly through the glass doors and up to the executive floor, not bothering to announce myself. I stormed into Stephan's office just as he was buttering a croissant, coffee steaming beside him.

"You need to see this," I said, tossing the flash drive onto his desk.

"Morning to you too," he muttered, eyeing the device warily. "Am I about to regret hiring you?"

"Most likely," I said. "Plug it in."

He slid the drive into his laptop, and within minutes, the color drained from his face.

"This... this can't be real."

"It's very real," I said. "Someone from your company has been leaking Laveldi's internal wine profiles to an overseas group. They're replicating your wines and positioning Laveldi as the fraud. When they go public with this, it's going to look like your entire vineyard is a counterfeit operation."

He dragged his hand down his jaw, stunned. "No one told me about any of this."

"Then whoever's behind it didn't want you to know," I said. "This isn't just business malpractice. It's deliberate. Precise."

"Do you know who-"

"Not yet," I cut in. "But I will."

He leaned back in his chair, looking like the ground had just shifted beneath him. "You really think they're trying to take Laveldi down?"

"I think they've already started."

A long silence passed. Then he nodded once, eyes hardening. "Alright. Keep digging. I'll make sure no one notices."

"You're trusting me?"

"I'd be stupid not to." He gave me a tight smile. "You're clearly smarter than I am."

I raised an eyebrow. "You finally figured that out?"

Over the next few days, we became something resembling a team. He cleared paths. I did the digging. And the more we worked together, the more I realized how wrong I'd been about Stephan Lautner. He was sharp, but not ruthless. Confident, but not cruel.

And frustratingly human.

That Friday, just as I was packing my bag to leave the office, Stephan leaned in the doorway of my office, a space he had created for me so we can work together and I'll be able to keep an eye on some things. His tie is loosened and a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Drink?"

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You've been tolerating me all week. I think that earns you a drink."

I hesitated. "I don't mix business with... distractions."

He stepped in, resting one arm on the doorframe. "It's not business. It's a thank-you. And I promise not to be a distraction."

I gave him a long look. "You always promise that. Then your face does something infuriating."

He smirked. "Is that a yes?"

I sighed. "One drink."

The bar he chose was tucked away on a quiet street. Exposed brick, amber lighting, jazz humming low through the speakers. The kind of place that felt like a secret.

We settled into a corner booth. He ordered a bottle of Gamay. Laveldi. I didn't know whether to be flattered or amused.

"To temporary truces," he said, lifting his glass.

"To uncovering the truth," I replied, clinking mine against his.

The wine was excellent, of course. Familiar and warm on my tongue. Comforting, like a memory you didn't know you missed.

"So," I said, leaning back, "you always keep secrets from your employees?"

He scoffed. "I didn't even know these secrets existed. My father... he kept everything compartmentalized. I was always on the outside. Smiling for investors, playing the part."

"You make it sound like a performance."

He looked away. "It was."

There was a vulnerability in his voice I hadn't heard before. A softness.

"I spent most of my life trying to prove I could be more than just his son," he said. "But now that he's retired, all I'm left with are pieces I don't know how to fit together. Delilah is doing everything to take over the company."

Something in me shifted.

I studied his profile-the rigid jaw, the furrow between his brows, the exhaustion just beneath his sharp exterior. There was no cockiness now. Just a man unraveling the legacy he'd inherited.

"Why stay?" I asked. "Why not walk away?"

He turned to me, his voice quieter. "Because if I do, then everything he built... everything I thought I believed in... was for nothing."

I swallowed hard. "Maybe you're trying to fix something that's already broken."

"Maybe," he said. "But I'm glad to have you here now."

I didn't respond to that.

He poured another glass and tilted his head, the wine catching the light.

After a moment, I asked, "You ever think about starting over somewhere else? Another vineyard, another country?"

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But the past doesn't leave you just because you leave the place."

I smirked. "It's a relief that is coming from you. At least now you know why my family never moved away."

He smiled. "Touche."

My lips parted slightly into a small smile.

He laughed, and I noticed it then-the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, the way his shoulders relaxed when he forgot to be the polished heir for a second.

And God help me... my heart fluttered.

No.

Not now. Not for him.

But even as I looked away, I felt it. The dangerous warmth settling in my chest. I was starting to see him not as an enemy.

But as a man.

One drink turned into two. The conversation dipped and turned, unraveling years of resentment and assumption.

He rolled up his sleeves, wine-stained at the cuffs. "You think we'll actually figure it out? Who's behind it?"

"I always figure things out," I said.

He smiled lazily. "Confident."

"Honest."

He leaned forward, voice suddenly softer. "I'm really happy you're here, Paisley."

The words hit harder than they should have.

And as he leaned back again, hand brushing mine in passing, I let the silence linger.

Just a second too long. What am I doing?