Chapter 10 The Lemon Tree Blossoms
The Sheikh's call came at 6 AM, rousing me from a fitful sleep. Damien was already awake—or perhaps had never slept—his side of the bed cool when I reached across. I found him in his office, surrounded by papers and illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop screen.
Sheikh Abdullah, I said, holding out the phone. He's asking for you.
Damien took the phone, immediately shifting into professional mode. I watched his expression change as the conversation progressed—surprise, then concern, then something close to alarm.
Yes, Your Excellency, I understand the urgency, he said, making notes as he listened. We can certainly accommodate a meeting today.
When he ended the call, his eyes met mine. The Sheikh is flying in this morning with his entire negotiating team. He wants to finalize the contract today—not next week as planned.
Why the rush?
He didn't say. Only that circumstances have changed, and he needs immediate resolution. Damien ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I now recognized as genuine agitation. This could be good or catastrophic. If he's rushing to close the deal, it might mean another investor has made a competing offer.
Or? I prompted, sensing there was more.
Or James has reached out to him with damaging information about us. About Rossi Estate.
The investigation into James's connection to my parents' accident had been ongoing for three weeks, with Damien's private investigators uncovering disturbing patterns but no definitive proof. Meanwhile, the market attacks had ceased after the regulatory intervention, but James remained a lurking threat.
What do we do? I asked.
Damien was already dialing his office. We prepare. The Sheikh will be at Heathrow in two hours. I need all contract documents ready for signature, and— He paused, looking at me. And I need you to come with me.
Me? Why?
Because the Sheikh specifically requested your presence. He said, and I quote, 'Both partners must be present for such an important decision.'
Four hours later, we were seated in Damien's conference room, surrounded by lawyers and financial advisors. The contract that would secure the billion-euro investment—saving both Blackwood Group and Rossi Estate from future vulnerability—lay on the polished table, waiting for signatures that seemed increasingly uncertain.
They're late, Damien observed, checking his watch for the third time in five minutes.
Only by fifteen minutes, I said, trying to project a calm I didn't feel. International flights, London traffic...
The Sheikh is never late. Damien's fingers drummed against the table. Something's wrong.
As if summoned by his words, his assistant appeared at the door. Mr. Blackwood, there's been a change of plans. The Sheikh's delegation is requesting that you and Mrs. Blackwood meet them at the estate.
The estate? You mean Rossi?
Yes, sir. They landed an hour ago and proceeded directly to Tuscany. Their representative says it's essential you join them there immediately.
Damien and I exchanged alarmed glances. This makes no sense, he muttered. Why go to Tuscany when we're here with the contracts?
There's only one way to find out, I replied, already gathering my things. How quickly can we get the jet ready?
Three hours later, our helicopter descended toward the familiar landscape of Rossi Estate. From the air, I could see several black SUVs parked near the main house, confirming the Sheikh's presence. What I hadn't expected was the flurry of activity around the property—people moving between buildings, equipment being unloaded.
What on earth is happening? I wondered aloud as we touched down.
Matteo was waiting for us, his expression a mixture of confusion and excitement. Elena, Mr. Blackwood—thank God you're here. They arrived hours ago, the Sheikh and his people, asking questions about the vineyard, the soil, the production methods...
Slow down, Damien said, placing a calming hand on the older man's shoulder. Where are they now?
In the south field, near where the new lemon trees were planted. They've set up some kind of... I don't know what to call it. A tasting station? A laboratory?
We hurried toward the south field, my mind racing with possibilities, none of them making sense. Why would Middle Eastern investors, primarily interested in Damien's financial services, suddenly take such interest in vineyard operations?
The scene that greeted us was surreal. Sheikh Abdullah, dressed in traditional robes despite the cool Italian weather, stood amidst the young lemon trees Damien had planted. Around him, various members of his entourage operated what indeed looked like a mobile laboratory—equipment for measuring soil pH, analyzing plant samples, and what appeared to be a small-scale juice extraction system.
Tariq noticed us first, breaking away from the group to greet us. Damien, Elena—thank you for coming so quickly.
What's going on? Damien demanded, his professional courtesy strained by confusion. We were expecting to sign contracts in London.
Plans change, Tariq replied cryptically. My uncle will explain. He's been... inspired.
Sheikh Abdullah approached, his dignified bearing commanding attention even in this unusual setting. Ah, the Blackwoods arrive! Excellent. Now we can proceed.
Your Excellency, Damien began, I must admit we're confused by this change of venue.
All will become clear, the Sheikh assured him. First, I must ask Elena a question. He turned to me, his expression serious. The lemons from these trees—they are special to you, yes?
Startled by the unexpected query, I nodded. My mother planted lemon trees like these. Their scent reminds me of her.
And what did she do with the fruit?
She made limoncello, mostly. And a special lemonade during summers—an old family recipe with honey and herbs.
The Sheikh's eyes lit up. This lemonade—you can make it?
I glanced at Damien, who looked as bewildered as I felt. Yes, of course, but—
Wonderful! The Sheikh clapped his hands. Show us. Now.
What followed was perhaps the strangest business meeting in corporate history. At the Sheikh's insistence, I led the entire delegation back to the villa's kitchen, where I gathered the ingredients for my mother's lemonade: fresh lemons, honey from our own hives, sprigs of rosemary and thyme, mineral water.
You'll need to forgive the equipment, I apologized, pulling out an ancient hand-juicer my mother had used. It's not exactly state-of-the-art.
It is perfect, the Sheikh declared, watching intently as I began cutting lemons. Authenticity cannot be manufactured with modern conveniences.
Damien stood to the side, his expression cycling between confusion, concern, and growing curiosity as I worked. I fell into the familiar rhythm of my mother's recipe—the squeezing of lemons, the gentle bruising of herbs to release their oils, the precise measurement of honey.
The kitchen filled with the bright scent of citrus and herbs, a fragrance that always transported me back to childhood summers. For a moment, I forgot about contracts and investors, about family feuds and market manipulations. I was simply a daughter recreating her mother's recipe, honoring a tradition that predated all our current complications.
When I finished, I poured the cloudy, fragrant liquid into glasses and offered the first to the Sheikh. He took it with ceremonial solemnity, studying it before taking a careful sip. The room fell silent as he considered the flavor, his expression unreadable.
Then, to my astonishment, he smiled broadly. This, he announced, is what I have been searching for.
Lemonade? Damien couldn't hide his incredulity.
Authenticity, the Sheikh corrected. Sincerity. The taste of tradition and love. He turned to his advisors. This is what I told you was missing from the other proposals. This connection to the land, to family heritage.
One of his advisors stepped forward, opening a leather portfolio. Your Excellency, shall we proceed with the revised terms?
Yes, yes. The Sheikh waved him forward, then addressed us. Mr. Blackwood, Mrs. Blackwood—or may I call you Damien and Elena? I believe we are beyond formalities now.
Of course, Your Excellency, Damien replied automatically, though his expression remained cautious.
Good. Damien, Elena—I must explain. Three days ago, we received a most interesting visitor in Dubai. A Mr. James Blackwood, who presented some... concerning allegations about Rossi Estate and your family history.
My heart sank. So James had approached them after all.
Whatever he told you— Damien began, but the Sheikh raised a hand.
He told us many things. About wine fraud and family vendettas. About accidents that perhaps were not accidents. About a marriage of convenience for business purposes only.
The kitchen seemed to grow colder with each word. I set down my glass, hands trembling slightly.
What he did not understand, the Sheikh continued, is that such history makes an investment more interesting, not less. In my culture, we believe that true character is revealed through hardship and how one overcomes it.
He gestured to Tariq, who handed him a document. This is why I have made a decision. Our investment will proceed, but with one significant change. The contract will be with Rossi Estate directly, with Elena as the primary signatory.
What? Damien and I spoke in unison.
The Sheikh smiled at our surprise. My family has been in business for centuries, through desert storms and political upheavals. We recognize resilience when we see it. And we invest in people, not just companies.
He handed the document to me. Your estate has survived fraud, tragedy, and attempts at hostile takeover. You personally have navigated a complex marriage that began as business but has clearly become something more authentic. His eyes twinkled. Like your lemonade—simple ingredients transformed into something extraordinary through care and tradition.
I scanned the contract, understanding dawning slowly. You want to invest directly in Rossi Estate? To expand our production?
And distribution. Your wines are excellent but unknown in many markets. With proper investment, they could rival the great houses of France and Spain. The Sheikh looked to Damien. Of course, Blackwood Financial will manage the investment portfolio, as originally planned. But the primary relationship will be with the estate and its rightful heir.
Damien's expression was unreadable, his businessman's mask firmly in place. I searched his face for any sign of disappointment or frustration—this was, after all, a significant deviation from his original goal. But when our eyes met, I saw only pride.
It's a sound decision, he said, surprising me. Rossi Estate has greater growth potential than many of my existing investments. Elena's knowledge of viticulture is unparalleled.
Then we are agreed! The Sheikh beamed. Let us celebrate with more of this excellent lemonade before we sign. And perhaps you might show me these famous cellars I've heard so much about?
As the group moved toward the cellar stairs, Damien held me back with a gentle touch on my arm. When we were alone in the kitchen, his professional facade dropped.
Are you okay with this? he asked quietly.
I'm... stunned, I admitted. I never expected...
That someone would value your expertise above mine? His lips quirked in a half-smile. I'm not surprised at all. You've always been the heart of this operation, Elena. I was just too blinded by my own agenda to see it at first.
The simple acknowledgment—so at odds with the controlling businessman I'd first met—made my throat tighten with emotion. This changes everything, I said. The estate will be secure. Independent.
Yes. His eyes held mine steadily. You'll be financially independent. From me. From our arrangement.
The implication hung between us. With this investment, I no longer needed our marriage contract—which we'd already burned—or Damien's financial support. The vineyard would thrive regardless of our personal relationship.
Is that what you want? I asked carefully. Independence from our arrangement?
His hand found mine, fingers intertwining naturally. What I want, he said slowly, is for you to choose me because you want to, not because a contract or financial necessity requires it.
Before I could respond, Tariq called from the cellar stairs. Elena! The Sheikh is asking about your reserve Sangiovese!
Go, Damien said, squeezing my hand before releasing it. Your investor awaits.
The next few hours passed in a whirlwind of cellar tours, impromptu wine tastings, and contract discussions. The Sheikh's enthusiasm was infectious, his vision for Rossi Estate's future both ambitious and respectful of its traditions. By late afternoon, we had signed preliminary agreements, with formal contracts to be finalized once our respective legal teams reviewed the terms.
As the Sheikh's entourage prepared to depart, he pulled me aside for a private word. Your husband, he said, nodding toward where Damien stood discussing logistical details with Tariq. He has changed since I first met him.
We both have, I acknowledged.
Indeed. When we first discussed this investment, he spoke only of numbers and returns. Today, I watched him advocate for your estate's interests above his own. The Sheikh's wise eyes crinkled with understanding. That is the difference between a business partner and a true husband.
After the delegation departed, a strange quiet settled over the villa. Damien and I found ourselves alone for the first time since the whirlwind meeting had begun, standing amid the remains of our impromptu hospitality—empty glasses, scattered papers, the lingering scent of lemon and herbs.
I should call London, he said, breaking the silence. Update the team on these developments.
Of course. I began gathering glasses, needing physical activity to process the day's events. Use the study if you need privacy.
He nodded, but didn't move toward the door. Instead, he watched me, something unspoken in his expression.
What? I asked, self-conscious under his scrutiny.
You're remarkable, he said simply. The way you handled today—adapting to the Sheikh's unexpected requests, presenting your family's legacy with such natural pride. You were in your element.
I was terrified, I admitted with a small laugh. Making lemonade while a billion-euro deal hung in the balance? Not exactly standard business practice.
No, but it worked because it was authentic. You were authentic. He moved closer, taking a glass from my hands and setting it aside. That's what drew me to you from the beginning, even when I was fighting it. Your genuineness. Your connection to this place, to your roots.
The setting sun streamed through the kitchen windows, bathing us in golden light. Outside, the newly planted lemon trees cast long shadows across the south field—trees Damien had brought here as a gesture of... what? Apology? Affection? Perhaps both.
I never thanked you properly, I said, nodding toward the grove. For the trees.
They were selfish as much as generous, he admitted. I wanted to give you something meaningful, something that connected to your mother. But I also wanted to leave a mark here. Something that would remain even if...
Even if I sent you away? I finished when he trailed off.
He nodded, uncharacteristically vulnerable. Even then.
We stood in silence, the air between us charged with possibility and unspoken feelings. So much had changed since our first meeting in his London office—the cold businessman and the desperate vineyard heiress, entering a contract that neither had fully understood.
Come with me, I said suddenly, holding out my hand. I want to show you something.
Curious, Damien followed as I led him through the villa and out to the lemon grove. The evening air was cool but not cold, filled with the scent of earth and the faint, promising fragrance of citrus leaves. We walked between the young trees until we reached the oldest one—the first he had sent, now centered in the grove.
This one's already flowering, I said, pointing to tiny white buds appearing among the glossy leaves. It's early—they usually don't bloom until spring.
Damien reached out, gently touching one of the delicate buds. I know nothing about cultivating lemons, he admitted. I just told the grower to send the best, most mature trees available.
You chose well. These are Femminello Santa Teresa—the same variety my mother grew. I stepped closer, our shoulders almost touching. They're resilient. Adaptable to different soils. They can survive cold snaps and drought.
Like you, he said softly.
Like us, I corrected, turning to face him fully. We've both had to adapt, haven't we? To circumstances neither of us anticipated.
His eyes met mine, searching. Are you glad? That things didn't go according to the original plan?
The question hung between us—simple words containing all the complexity of our journey. Was I glad that a marriage of convenience had become so inconveniently complicated by real feelings? That revenge had somehow transformed into partnership? That contracts had given way to choice?
Yes, I said finally, the truth as clear and bright as the emerging stars above us. I'm glad the plan failed, Damien. I'm glad we found something better than what either of us was looking for.
His hand reached up, hesitant, to touch my cheek. And what did we find, exactly?
Instead of answering with words, I closed the distance between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss unlike our previous encounters. This wasn't the desperate, angry passion of the parking garage or the performative affection of our public appearances. This was deliberate, chosen—a statement of intent rather than a surrender to impulse.
Damien responded instantly, his arms encircling me, drawing me closer as the kiss deepened. I tasted the faint sweetness of lemonade on his lips, felt the solid strength of him against me, real and present in a way that transcended all our careful boundaries.
When we finally broke apart, breathless, the first evening star had appeared above the grove. Damien rested his forehead against mine, his voice rough with emotion.
Elena Rossi, he said, my maiden name a deliberate choice, you have completely dismantled every plan I ever made.
I laughed softly, my hands still resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. And you've replanted every certainty I thought I had.
Like these trees, he murmured, glancing at the budding flowers surrounding us.
Yes, I agreed. Something new, growing from what we thought was lost.
We stood together in the grove as darkness fell completely, neither rushing to define what was happening between us, content for once to simply be present in the moment. Whatever came next—whether facing James's threats, building Rossi Estate's future with the Sheikh's investment, or navigating our evolving relationship—we would approach it as we stood now: side by side, rooted in truth, reaching toward something neither of us had dared to imagine when we signed that now-forgotten contract.
As a night breeze stirred the leaves around us, carrying the promise of blossoms to come, Damien's words from the kitchen echoed in my mind: You've taught me the sourness of life, and also its sweetness. Perhaps that was the perfect description of our journey—a complex flavor, bitter and sweet together, creating something unexpectedly perfect in its contradictions.
