“Please don’t sell the place, Jack.”
Rosie’s voice came through the phone like a breeze trying to soothe a wildfire—too soft, too tender, completely ill-timed. It scraped against the raw, frayed edges of my composure.
I signed the bottom of the check with the kind of precision that betrayed how tightly I was holding the pen. Natalie waited in silence. I handed it to her without looking up, and she took it like she knew better than to speak. The door clicked shut behind her. I leaned back in my chair, the leather groaning under me, the phone pressed between my shoulder and jaw. “You can’t keep asking me for favours like this, Rosie,” I said, flatly. “The vineyard’s a corpse we keep dressing up. It’s been bleeding money for years. I’ve bailed Ben out over and over. He’s had every damn cha
