When I finished, Lucy took my hand and led me through the villa, speaking and gesturing in a way that, surprisingly, I began to follow by context. She showed me rooms I hadn’t seen the night before-a library with shelves that reached the ceiling, a sitting room with enormous windows overlooking the vineyards, a terrace covered with flowering vines.
In each space, she pointed to old silver-framed photographs, telling me Kensington family stories in a torrent of Valentian. I didn’t need a full translation to understand. In many photos, I recognized a dark-haired, serious- eyed boy who could only be Christian.
One especially charming picture showed him around eight years old, holding a bunch of grapes nearly as big as his head, grinning broadly-a smile I rarely saw in the man he had become. Lucy pointed to the photo and then to herself proudly, saying something I guessed meant “I was there.”
“Did Christian smile more as a child?” I asked slowly, miming a grin to make myself clear.
Lucy seemed to understand. Her face grew briefly sad. She pointed to another photo-Christian with Joseph and a woman who must have been Sophie-then to one with Lawrence and Isabelle, where his posture was noticeably stiff.
“Genitori… non buono,” she said, shaking her head. “Piccolo Christian…” She hugged herself, then pointed to her heart and to Joseph in the picture, as if to say his grandfather had filled the void his parents left.
Something tightened in my chest. It was easy to forget that behind Christian’s controlled façade was a boy once wounded by neglect. I’d glimpsed that pain in his eyes before, when he spoke of his parents-or when he thought no one was watching.
Chopar 84
Lucy noticed my thoughtful expression and patted my hand gently, saying something that sounded like “Ora è felice”-now he is happy. She pointed to me, then made the universal gesture for “love,” smiling,
My heart raced. If only she knew the truth…
By noon, I heard a car pull up outside. Moments later, Christian came in, looking more relaxed than I had ever seen him in Verdania. He wore dark trousers and a simple rolled-sleeve shirt, casual in a way that suited him almost too well.
“I see you’ve met our family historian,” he said, finding me and Lucy still in the photo gallery.
“She’s been showing me a side of you I never knew,” I replied, gesturing to the childhood pictures.
Christian exchanged a few words in Valentian with her, and she answered animatedly before leaving us.
“I hope she didn’t share anything too embarrassing,” he said, stepping closer.
“Nothing I could fully understand, unfortunately.” I smiled, then grew more serious. “She seems to really care about you. Like a grandmother.”
“Lucy is family,” he admitted quietly. “More than many who share my blood.”
Something in his tone, a rare simplicity, touched me deeply. It was a side of Christian he rarely allowed to show.
“I was thinking,” he said, changing the subject, “tonight there’s a Harvest Festival in the nearby village. It’s a local tradition. Would you like to go?”
“Harvest Festival? In July?”
“In Castoria, every village has its own calendar of celebrations that goes back centuries,” Christian explained. ” This one is based on a medieval tradition-it has nothing to do with the actual harvest. There’s music, local food, dancing… Nothing sophisticated like the events I’m used to in Verdania, but-“
“I’d love to,” I interrupted, genuinely intrigued. “It sounds wonderful.”
A faint smile lit his face.
“Good. It’s very informal, so you don’t need to worry about what to wear.”
The festival was in full swing by the time we arrived in the little village at sunset. Narrow stone streets were strung with colorful pennants, and torches lit the central square, where local musicians played traditional instruments. Long wooden tables were set up outdoors, where entire families shared meals and wine.
Christian greeted people as we passed, introducing me as his wife with a pride that felt almost real. To my surprise, many of the locals had known him since childhood and treated him as one of their own, not the billionaire vineyard heir he was.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” I remarked as we wandered past food stalls.
“Like what?”
“So… at ease. Natural.” I studied his relaxed face, glowing in the torchlight. “It’s like you’re a different person.’
“Maybe this is the truest version of me,” he said, handing me a cup of local red wine. “Here no one expects me to be the ruthless CEO or the perfect heir.”
As night fell, the music grew livelier and couples began to dance. Christian pulled me onto the makeshift dance floor, one hand holding mine, the other settling at my waist.
“I don’t know how to dance this!” I protested, laughing as I tried to mimic the steps.
“I’ll guide you,” he promised, his eyes sparkling in a way I had never seen before.
Beneath the Valentian stars, with the taste of sweet wine on my lips and the music weaving around us, Christian spun me, led me confidently among the other dancers, our bodies drawing closer with each turn.
Eventually, we slipped away from the crowd in search of a quieter moment. Christian led me to a small stone bridge arching over a stream, where the music drifted faintly in the distance.
“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Seeing this place through your eyes… ..it’s like rediscovering it.”
Moonlight glimmered across his face, carving out angles that had become painfully familiar to me. He leaned in slowly, his eyes locked on mine, giving me every chance to pull away if I wanted. But I didn’t. My heart hammered as his lips drew closer.
“Hey, lovebirds!”
The voice sliced through the air like a knife, instantly shattering the intimacy that had built between us. Christian stiffened beside me, his entire body going rigid. When I turned, I came face to face with the familiar figure of Francesca Montgomery.
She was as stunning as ever: perfectly tousled waves of dark hair, sun-bronzed skin, a summer dress that looked deceptively simple but no doubt cost a fortune. Her smile didn’t reach the calculating eyes that assessed
“Francesca,” Christian greeted, his voice reverting to that cold, controlled tone I’d rarely heard since arriving in Valentia. “What a surprise to see you here.”
She laughed, a musical sound laced with false charm.
“Surprise? You know very well my family always spends summers here, Christian. Just as yours does.” Her gaze flicked to me. “Zoey, darling, how lovely to see you again. The wedding was so… unusual. I barely had a chance to speak with you.”
“Francesca,” I replied with a nod. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’
“Valentian summers are a family tradition,” she said, stepping closer. “Christian surely remembers a few we enjoyed together, don’t you, amore?”
Christian remained impassive, but I could feel the tension radiating off him.
“That was a long time ago,” he said curtly.
“Not that long.” Francesca’s smile curved, her eyes never leaving his. “Remember this very festival, last year? That night in my family’s wine cellar?”
A muscle ticked in Christian’s jaw.
“How could I forget?” he shot back, his voice icy. “It was the same night I found Kensington files on your computer.”
Her smile faltered briefly before returning.
“Details, details. Business aside, we always had something special.”
“That’s over, Francesca,” Christian said firmly. “As you well know, I’m married now.”
“Yes, such a sudden marriage.” Her eyes slid back to me, scanning me head to toe. “I barely knew her name, and suddenly you’re at the altar with her.” (
“When you meet the right person, there’s no reason to wait,” I said, threading my fingers deliberately through Christian’s.
Francesca laughed, the sound sharp as shattering glass.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.