Anaïs.
The name settled into my chest and stayed there, warm and certain.
It was perfect for our daughter.
But I didn’t say it. Not yet. That moment would come when the time was right, when we knew for certain.
For now, I just stood beside the woman I loved, in the house that would become our home, looking at the face of her grandmother, and held the name close to my heart.
19
ISABEL
We continued through the house, room by room, and with each doorway I crossed, the weight on my chest lifted a little more.
Kick held my hand as we climbed the stairs to the second floor. The banister was dusty beneath my free palm, the carpet runner faded and worn, but this house was waiting for someone to bring it back to life. I could feel it.
The first bedroom had a view of how the estate got its name—Miremont’s direct translation was “look at the mountain.” The second overlooked what had once been a rose garden, now overgrown with wild tangles of thorny branches. The third door stood partially open, and when I pushed it wider, I stopped breathing.
A nursery.
The walls were painted a soft yellow that had aged to cream. A crib stood against one wall, its white spindles dusty but intact. A rocking chair sat near thewindow, positioned to catch the morning light. Above the crib, someone had painted a vine of delicate flowers that wound across the ceiling, each petal rendered with such care it made my heart swell.
A small dresser stood against the opposite wall, and on top of it, there was a porcelain music box shaped like a carousel.
“Isabel?” Kick said from behind me.
I stepped into the room. My hand found the edge of the crib, and I traced the smooth wood with my fingers. The grain was worn where countless hands must have gripped it during late-night feedings and early-morning risings. A mobile of dancing angels hung above it.
“I’ve never been in here,” I said. “At least not that I remember.”
Kick moved to stand beside me. He gazed around the room, then his hand came to rest on my lower back. “Do you think it was your mother’s?”
“I do.”
He stood behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and rested his chin on my shoulder. “Our baby will be so well loved, Isabel.Soloved.”
Something broke open in my chest. I turned into him, pressing my face against his shoulder, and let myself feel the enormity of what was happening. This house. This man. This baby growing inside me. For so long, I had believed I didn’t deserve any of it—that wanting too much would only lead to losing everything.
But Kick was here. He hadn’t left. And maybe that meant I could finally stop bracing for inevitable pain.
All of this was mine. Ours. But not because it was property, because it was a home.
“Show me the rest,” he said against my hair. “I want to see everything.”
As the afternoon stretched toward evening, we walked through the vineyards that climbed the gentle slope of the hillside up to the mountain. The vines were dormant and neglected, the trellis wires sagging in places, but I could see what they had been. What they could be again. So could Kick. I knew it without him needing to say so. Resting vines were a luxury few could afford. These had ten years of maturation in them. The fruit they produced would be exquisitely rich, and the wine, magnificent.
“Pinot Noir, mostly,” I said as we walked between the rows.
Kick crouched down and examined a gnarled trunk, running his fingers over the bark. “Old vines. Good root systems. They’ve survived this long without care. With the right attention, they’ll produce amazing juice.”
I watched him study the vineyard the way a doctor would study a patient—looking for signs of life, assessing what could be saved.
“Did you mean it when you said this place was perfect?” The question came out smaller than I intended.
He stood and turned to face me. The late-afternoon light caught the angles of his face, and I saw nothing but certainty in his eyes.
“I meant it.”
