Lila's P.O.V
Back at the vineyard house that night, I confronted Ethan fully.
"Tell me everything about Felicia," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. We were in the old kitchen, the one with the scarred oak table where my father used to sketch irrigation plans. The air smelled of earth and faint lavender from the fields outside, but tension hung heavy, like a storm cloud over the vines.
Ethan poured wine from one of our bottles—deep red, from last year's harvest—and slid a glass toward me. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper in the dim light. "Okay," he said finally, sitting across from me. "No more holding back."
He told me then: Felicia had called him weeks ago, right after we'd left for Paris. She'd spun a tale about "misplaced documents," letters from my dad that s
