Instead, I’d bought a ticket to San Francisco and checked my single suitcase. I’d liquidated what I could from my personal accounts before my father could freeze them. It wasn’t much—he’d never given me full control of my trust fund, always keeping medependent. But it would be enough to get me through a few months if I was careful.
My phone buzzed with a text from my father.Let me know when you arrive.
I stared at the message for several seconds, trying to decide whether or not to respond.
I eventually turned the phone off.My guilt twisted tighter, but I forced it down. This was survival. Self-preservation. If he knew where I was really going, he’d find a way to interfere. To control me. To remind me that I was his daughter and Van Orrs didn’t run away from their responsibilities.
But I wasn’t running away. I was running toward something. A fresh start. A chance to prove I could be more than my last name. More than the spoiled princess everyone saw when they looked at me.
I’d heard through the wine industry grapevine—the network of gossip and information that flowed through every tasting room—that the Whitmore family was looking for a marketing director. Marketing had been my degree, though my father never took it seriously.
“You don’t need a job,” he’d said when I graduated from Berkeley. “You’re a Van Orr. That’s enough.”
As if I didn’t need purpose or meaning beyond being his daughter.
My timing was absurd, showing up, looking for work, during the holidays. But where else could I go? And there was a certain poetic justice in it—Thomas Whitmore and my father had had a massive falling out five years ago over a piece of property. Some bitter dispute neither would ever forget. He would never contact my father. Would never reveal where I was. I’d be safe there. Hidden.
When the boarding call came over the speaker, I picked up my carry-on and joined the line of passengers shuffling toward the gate.
Kick’s face flashed through my mind. How he’d looked at me before he drove away—concerned, confused, searching for answers I couldn’t give him. He’d seemed to be memorizing every detail of my face, as if he knew something was wrong.
The other thing that kept replaying in my mind, that hadn’t stopped since our one night together, was the way he’d kissed me. None other had made my toes curl or heat spread through my body the way his did. It was like a promise. I used to wonder if that kind of kisseven existed outside of books and movies—the kind that made you feel seen, cherished.
I forced the thought away before it could take root. Kick Avila had made his choice the following morning when he called me a spoiled brat who only cared about herself. When he’d made it clear that any feelings between us—if they’d ever existed—were done.
He’d treated me the way everyone else did. Like a disaster. A liability. Someone who hurt people without meaning to and caused chaos wherever they went.
Maybe this fresh start would change that. Maybe it could be the place where I figured out how to be someone worth knowing. Someone who built things instead of destroying them.
The plane lifted off, and I watched Paso Robles disappear beneath the clouds.
I landed in San Francisco,rented a car, and drove to the Russian River Valley. It took less than two hours, winding through hills covered in winter-bare vineyards. The landscape reminded me of home—rolling terrain, neat rows of dormant vines, and the occasional stone winery tucked into a hillside. But this wasn’t home.This was somewhere I could be mostly anonymous. Somewhere few knew my history or my mistakes.
The rental cottage I’d found online was small but clean. I unpacked my suitcase, trying not to think about my father’s threat or the precarious future I was constructing.
Instead, I re-read the email I’d drafted last night.
Dear Thomas,
I understand you’re looking for a marketing director for Whitmore Estate. As Sebastian may have told you, I have a degree in marketing from Berkeley, and as you know, I grew up in the vines. I’d like to discuss the position with you at your earliest convenience.
I’m currently in the Russian River Valley and available to meet in person.
Best regards,
Isabel Van Orr
My finger hovered over the send button. This was it. The moment where I either committed to this new path or backed out and slunk home to face my father’s judgment.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
The response came faster than I expected. Twenty minutes later, I received a reply, not from Thomas, but from his son Sebastian, who everyone called Bas.
Izzy! You’re here? Tried to call, but got your voicemail. Ring me, sweetheart. I can’t wait to see you.
Bas had always been like this—excited to see me and genuinely happy when I was around.We’d been friends since we were kids, back when our fathers were close too. And our mothers. Tragically, his mom passed away three months after mine had. It was something else he and I had bonded over.
The other positive thing about being here, about potentially working for Whitmore, was my relationship with him. He’d always liked me exactly the way I was. Our friendship was unconditional, and right now, I needed that more than ever.
