I woketo frost coating the windows. It was New Year’s Day—a fresh start.
I made coffee and sat at the small table, watching the sun rise over the hills. The view was breathtaking—golden light spilling across dormant vines, and mist rising from the valley floor.
I left my phone off so Baron’s anger couldn’t reach me here.
But the guilt could. It sat heavy in my chest, a constant companion.
I pushed it away as best I could and got dressed.
The estate was quiet on the holiday. No crews were working, no trucks carrying wine for distribution moving in and out. Just me, the vines, and the cold morning air.
I grabbed shears from the equipment shed and started working, hoping the physical labor would helpquiet my mind. Select. Cut. Remove. The rhythm calmed me.
Hours passed, the sun climbed higher, and the day grew warm.
I worked until my hands ached and my back screamed. Until sweat dampened my shirt despite the cold. Until I was too tired to think about Kick or Baron or the mess I’d left behind.
When I finally stopped, the sun was setting. I’d cleared three full rows.
I walked back to my cottage, muscles trembling with exhaustion. Once inside, I collapsed on the sofa.
My phone sat on the table where I’d left it, battery removed. Silent. Safe.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I got up, made dinner, and tried not to think about what I’d given up.
The days blurred togetherafter that. Work became my anchor. Mornings in the field, afternoons developing marketing strategies. I threw myself into both with equal intensity.
Thomas called me into his office on January third to review my preliminary marketing plan. I presentedmy ideas—social media strategy, experiential events, influencer partnerships. Campaigns targeted at millennials who wanted authenticity, not just legacy.
He asked hard questions, and I answered with confidence, backed by research and data.
“This is excellent work, Isabel. I’m pleased.”
It was simple praise, but it meant everything to me. The first time in my life someone had valued my work for what it was, not who I was.
Walking back to my office, I passed the crew working in the east section. Miguel waved and called something out in Spanish that made the others laugh. Maria shook her head at him, grinning and motioning for me to join them.
I’d been accepted. As Isabel. As one of them. It should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt hollow.
That evening, I sat at my window with a cup of chamomile tea. The sun set behind the western hills, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and my thoughts drifted to Kick. Always to Kick.
What was he doing tonight? Was he at that same bar where we first conversed in something more than small talk? Where our friendship began? Did he wonder why I’d disappeared?
The questions had no answers. And I had no right to ask them.
I’d made my choice. Now, I had to live with it.
On Sunday,January fourth, I woke early despite having the day off.
The cottage felt too small. Too quiet. The walls were pressing in.
I changed into work clothes and walked to the Pinot Noir section. Dawn was just breaking, and the air was cold and sharp in my lungs.
Once I got started, I lost myself in the repetition, letting my mind go blank. No thoughts of Kick. No guilt about Baron. No questions about whether I’d made the right choice.
The sun climbed higher, the frost melted, and my breath no longer formed clouds in the air.
