Chapter 4 Secrets of the Estate
The helicopter ride from London to Tuscany gave me three hours to contemplate how quickly life can change. A month ago, I was elbow-deep in grape pulp, worrying about frost patterns and oak barrel shortages. Now I was the scandalous Mrs. Blackwood, returning to my childhood home with a husband who barely spoke to me since our photograph splashed across London's tabloids.
Damien sat across from me in the private helicopter, his attention fixed on his laptop. We hadn't discussed the kiss again. He'd returned from his meeting with the Sheikh two days ago, tersely informing me that he'd handled the situation, but that we needed to maintain an even stronger public image going forward.
Hence this impromptu visit to your vineyard, he'd explained, all business. It shows commitment to family tradition. Stability. Values the Sheikh appreciates.
I'd been too stunned by the prospect of going home to argue. Now, as the familiar Tuscan landscape unfolded beneath us—rolling hills striped with vineyards, cypress trees standing like sentinels against the blue sky—I felt a knot in my chest loosen for the first time in weeks.
We're beginning our descent, the pilot announced. Please secure any loose items.
Damien closed his laptop, finally looking at me. Remember, this is a business trip. I need to understand the operation I've invested in.
It's my home, I corrected him. Not just an operation.
Something flickered in his eyes—perhaps annoyance, perhaps something else. It's both. And right now, it's the cornerstone of our public image as a devoted couple with shared interests.
The helicopter touched down on the small landing pad at the edge of the estate. Through the window, I could see Matteo waiting, his weathered face squinting against the wind from the rotors. My heart swelled at the sight of him—the closest thing to family I had left.
As we disembarked, Damien placed his hand at the small of my back, the gesture now automatic whenever we were in public. Matteo stepped forward, enveloping me in a bear hug that smelled of earth and tobacco.
Piccola, he murmured, using his childhood nickname for me. We've missed you.
I've missed you too, I whispered, fighting back unexpected tears.
He released me, turning to Damien with a more reserved expression. Mr. Blackwood. Welcome to Rossi Estate.
Thank you for accommodating us on short notice, Damien replied, his tone polite but distant. He surveyed the property, taking in the stone villa with its terracotta roof, the ancient oak trees, the neat rows of vines stretching toward the horizon. It's... quaint.
I bit back a retort. This land had been in my family for generations. There was nothing quaint about it—it was history, legacy, life itself.
I've prepared the master suite for you both, Matteo said, leading us toward the house. And Cook has been baking since dawn when she heard you were coming.
The familiar scent of home enveloped me as we stepped into the villa—rosemary and lemon, old wood and sunshine. The floors were worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, the walls hung with faded photographs of Rossi ancestors. It wasn't grand like Damien's London townhouse, but every stone, every beam told a story.
This is the main house, I explained as Damien looked around. The wine production facilities are behind the villa, and the cellars extend underneath.
Impressive bones, Damien commented, running a hand along an ancient wooden beam. The property has potential.
It's not a fixer-upper, I snapped. It's a working vineyard that's been producing award-winning wines for over a century.
He raised an eyebrow at my tone but said nothing, following as Matteo led us upstairs to the master bedroom. The room had been my parents' before their accident, and I'd left it largely unchanged—the same heavy wooden furniture, the same faded blue curtains framing windows that overlooked the vineyard.
I'll let you get settled, Matteo said, placing our bags by the door. Lunch will be ready whenever you are.
After he left, an awkward silence fell between us. Damien stood at the window, hands in his pockets, surveying the land.
There's only one bed, he observed.
Yes, well, we are supposedly married, I replied. But don't worry—I'll sleep in my old room down the hall. No one will know.
He turned, his expression unreadable. That won't be necessary. The staff will talk if we sleep separately.
The staff are like family. They don't gossip.
Everyone gossips, Elena. He loosened his tie—a small concession to the casual environment. We'll maintain appearances, even here.
Before I could argue, a bout of violent sneezing overtook him. Three, four, five sneezes in rapid succession.
Are you... okay? I asked, startled by this crack in his perfect composure.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, his eyes watering. I'm fine, he managed, before another sneeze contradicted him.
You don't seem fine.
It's nothing. He moved away from the window, sneezing twice more. Perhaps some dust.
I hid a smile. Damien Blackwood, master of the universe, undone by a simple allergic reaction. There was something oddly humanizing about it.
After lunch—a simple but exquisite meal of homemade pasta with truffles and local wine that even Damien seemed to appreciate—I offered to show him the production facilities. He accepted with what almost looked like genuine interest.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as we walked through the vineyard. Workers nodded respectfully as we passed, curious glances following the unfamiliar figure of my husband.
The harvest will be in about three weeks, I explained, running my hand along the leafy vines. These are Sangiovese grapes, our primary varietal. We also grow some Merlot and Cabernet for blending.
Damien nodded, studying the clusters of darkening grapes. And your annual production?
About fifty thousand bottles in a good year. We're small by industrial standards, but our focus has always been quality over quantity. I couldn't keep the pride from my voice. Our 2015 Riserva won the gold medal at the International Wine Challenge.
I know, he said, surprising me. I have a bottle in my cellar.
We reached the production building—a combination of centuries-old stone architecture and modern equipment. Inside, the space was cool and shadowed, dominated by massive steel fermentation tanks and oak barrels stacked along the walls.
This is where the magic happens, I said, running my hand along a barrel. After crushing and fermentation, our best wines age here for at least two years before bottling.
Damien approached one of the barrels, examining the markings burned into the wood. French oak?
For the reserve wines, yes. We use a mix of French and Slovenian oak, depending on the character we want to develop.
He nodded, seeming genuinely interested. Then, without warning, another fit of sneezing overtook him—this one even more violent than before.
It's the oak, I realized, watching his eyes water. You're allergic to oak dust.
Don't be ridiculous, he managed between sneezes. I'm not allergic to anything.
But as his sneezing continued, his denial became less convincing. I couldn't help but laugh—the mighty Damien Blackwood, felled by sawdust.
It's not funny, he muttered, his perfect composure thoroughly shattered.
It's a little funny, I replied, handing him a clean cloth to wipe his streaming eyes. The man who controls half of Europe's hedge funds, defeated by a wine barrel.
To my shock, the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. Perhaps we should continue this tour outside.
We stepped back into the late afternoon sunshine, Damien's sneezing gradually subsiding as we walked toward the oldest part of the estate—the underground cellars where our most precious bottles were stored.
These cellars date back to the 16th century, I explained as we descended worn stone steps into the cool darkness. Some of the architecture is even older—possibly Roman.
The temperature dropped as we entered the cavernous space, illuminated by soft lighting that cast a golden glow over rows of bottles resting in their niches. The air was heavy with the scent of aged wine and earth. Here, deep underground, time seemed to slow, each breath connecting us to centuries of winemakers who had walked these same stones.
This is incredible, Damien said quietly, genuine appreciation in his voice. You can feel the history.
This is my favorite place on the estate, I admitted. When I was little, my father would bring me down here and tell me stories about each vintage—the weather that year, the challenges they overcame. He said wine is just time captured in a bottle.
I moved deeper into the cellar, to a section where our oldest and rarest bottles lay. These are our library wines—one bottle from every vintage going back to 1892, when my great-great-grandfather rebuilt after a fire.
Damien examined the bottles, his fingers hovering over the dusty glass without touching. Remarkable preservation.
We're missing a few years—during the wars, production sometimes stopped. But otherwise, it's a complete history of Rossi wines. I pointed to a gap on one shelf. The 1946 is gone, though. My father always said it was the finest vintage we ever produced. The last bottle was... well, it disappeared years ago.
Something changed in Damien's expression—a slight tightening around his eyes, so brief I might have imagined it. Before I could question him, he moved on to another section of the cellar.
And these? he asked, indicating a separate area where newer-looking bottles were stored.
Experimental blends. I've been trying some different approaches—traditional methods but with modern understanding of tannin management. I pulled out a bottle, dusting it off. This one is promising. Would you like to try it?
He hesitated, then nodded. I selected two glasses from a nearby cabinet and opened the bottle, allowing it to breathe before pouring. The ruby liquid caught the light as I handed him a glass.
To new beginnings, I offered.
He met my eyes, something unspoken passing between us. To history, he countered, then sipped the wine.
I watched his face, oddly nervous for his verdict. After a moment, he nodded. It's good. Complex. There's something... unexpected in the finish.
Wild fennel, I explained. It grows along the south field. I believe it influences the soil composition there.
As we stood in the ancient cellar, sharing wine and momentary peace, I could almost forget the contract that bound us, the business arrangement that had brought us together. Here, with the weight of history around us and the taste of my family's legacy on our tongues, we were just a man and a woman, connected by something as simple and profound as a glass of wine.
The moment shattered when Damien's phone rang. He checked the screen, his expression immediately shifting back to the businessman I knew. I need to take this, he said, already moving toward the stairs. Sheikh Abdullah's office.
Left alone in the cellar, I sighed, returning the bottle to its place. Whatever brief connection we'd shared was gone, replaced once more by our contractual reality.
Dinner was a quiet affair, served in the villa's ancient dining room. Damien was distracted, checking his phone frequently, responding to emails between courses. By the time dessert arrived—my favorite lemon tart—I'd given up on conversation.
I need to review some documents before tomorrow's call, he said, standing abruptly. Don't wait up.
I watched him leave, frustration bubbling inside me. Even here, in my sanctuary, he couldn't stop being Damien Blackwood, financial titan. I finished my wine slowly, savoring the connection to my land that each sip provided, before finally heading upstairs.
The house was quiet as I climbed the old wooden staircase. A light glowed from beneath Damien's study door—the room we'd given him as a temporary office. I paused, considering knocking, then decided against it. Whatever warmth had briefly existed between us in the cellar had clearly evaporated.
I was halfway to my bedroom when a sound stopped me—not from Damien's study, but from the library at the end of the hall. Curious, I followed the noise, pushing open the partially closed door.
Damien stood with his back to me, studying something on the wall. He'd removed his tie and jacket, his white shirt glowing in the dim light. He was so absorbed that he didn't hear me enter.
The wall he faced held my family's collection of framed photographs—generations of Rossis captured in sepia and black and white, documenting the vineyard's history. As I watched, Damien's hand reached out, fingers lightly touching one frame.
I stepped closer, floorboards creaking beneath my feet. He turned, startled, his expression unguarded for once.
Elena, he said, dropping his hand. I thought you'd gone to bed.
What are you doing? I asked, moving beside him to see which photograph had captured his attention.
It was a picture of me at five years old, sitting astride a small pony, my hair in pigtails, gap-toothed smile wide with delight. My father stood beside the pony, one hand on the bridle, the other on my small back to keep me from falling.
I was looking for a book and got... distracted, Damien said, his voice oddly strained. You have a comprehensive family archive here.
My mother was obsessive about documenting everything. I studied him, confused by his interest in this particular photo. That was my fifth birthday. The pony was a surprise from my father.
Damien nodded, his eyes still on the photograph. You look happy.
I was. It was before... I trailed off, the familiar ache of loss rising in my chest.
Before your parents died, he finished quietly. Car accident, wasn't it?
Yes. I was fifteen. I looked at him curiously. How did you know?
Background check, he replied, too quickly. Before our arrangement. Standard procedure.
Something didn't fit. His interest seemed too personal, too focused. My eyes moved to the wall beside the photograph, where dozens of wine labels had been framed and arranged chronologically—a visual history of Rossi Estate's changing aesthetics over the decades.
You seem very interested in my family's history for someone who claims this is just a business arrangement, I observed.
His expression closed like a shutter falling. Know your investments. First rule of business.
Right. I stepped back, the momentary connection broken. Well, don't stay up too late studying your investment. We're visiting the south fields tomorrow.
As I turned to leave, a thought struck me. Damien, I said casually, what do you know about the fake wine scandal from twenty years ago? The one that nearly ruined several Tuscan vineyards?
The sound of shattering glass made me whirl around. Damien stood frozen, looking down at the broken remains of a crystal tumbler at his feet, whiskey spreading across the ancient floorboards.
I... apologize, he said, his voice tight. Clumsy of me.
But there was nothing clumsy about Damien Blackwood. And in that moment, watching him carefully compose his features as he knelt to gather the broken pieces, I knew with absolute certainty that there was far more to his interest in Rossi Estate than he was telling me.
Don't worry about the glass, I said, studying his face. Some things, once broken, can never be perfectly restored anyway.
His eyes met mine, something dark and unreadable in their depths. No, he agreed quietly. They can't.
As I left him there, surrounded by my family's history and broken glass, the question that had been forming since Lady Whitmore's cryptic comments grew stronger. Who was Damien Blackwood really? And what did he want from me beyond our contractual arrangement?
The answer, I suspected, hung somewhere on these walls, in the history of my family and the vineyard we'd tended for generations. Whatever it was, I was determined to discover the truth—before our year was up, and before I lost my heart to a man who might be using me for purposes far beyond a simple business marriage.
