Cassia had planned to sit quietly in the back. A glass of sparkling water. A polite smile. Just observe the meeting and let Dorian handle the talking.
That lasted seven minutes.
Now, every eye in the room was on her.
The vineyard’s tasting room wasn’t huge, but the meeting felt bigger than the space could hold. A long rustic table ran the length of the floor, set with scattered notebooks, wine bottles, corkscrews, and laminated agendas that hadn’t been opened yet.
Cassia stood at the head of it now.
Not Dorian.
Not Elise.
Her.
She hadn’t planned to speak. But the moment Elise—head of operations, sharp blond bob, older than all of them—used the word "traditional," something in Cassia's chest flared.
So she spoke.
“Forget tradition,” she said, palms braced against the table.
Elise
