Cassia sat at the head of the long walnut table, a silver fountain pen between her fingers.
The invitation cards were thick, creamy paper, unbranded but unmistakably elegant. Each envelope was sealed with deep red wax. Her wax. Her signature.
Across from her, Dorian watched.
“You’re handwriting everyone?”
She didn’t look up. “It matters.”
He smiled a little. “Of course it does.”
She finished the last name with a flourish—her fingers steady, her lips set.
This wasn’t just a wine tasting.
It was a declaration.
The vineyard would not whisper. It would seduce.
Low lighting. Silk drapes. Wine poured not by the bottle but by story. She wanted guests to sip and feel their breath catch. She wanted every note—every taste—to feel like an invitation to something they shouldn’t want but coul
