Chapter 8

The heavy oak door of the private tasting room clicked shut behind us, the sound echoing like a period at the end of a long, breathless sentence. We had spent the last hour surrounded by the quiet dignity of aging wine, the air thick with the scent of tannins, old wood, and the faint, metallic tang of potential. But for me, the wine had been nothing more than a prop, a liquid distraction to keep our hands busy while our eyes drank in every inch of him. Now, the real work began. The dismantling of the fantasy, at least on the surface. We had to slip back into the skin of strangers, of colleagues, of the man who was merely a mentor and the woman who was merely his protégé. I watched him move through the shadows of the cellar, his silhouette tall and broad against the flickering candlelight. He was unpacking the small selection of reserve bottles we had been reviewing, placing them into their individual boxes with a precision that bordered on ritualistic. I stayed close, my fingers brushing against the cool stone walls as I followed his path, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs