“Francesca and I weren’t just neighbors. We were childhood friends who became… more. As teenagers, we started a relationship. We were young, reckless, thought we could change the world.” His eyes softened in a way
I’d never seen before. “My mother, ironically, supported us. But our grandfathers… they were bitter rivals. They saw us being together as a betrayal of the family.”
I picked up my glass again, needing something to hold while I absorbed his revelation.
“When we were seventeen, Francesca got pregnant.”
It felt like the world stopped. Of all the things I had imagined, this one had never even made the list.
“Pregnant?” I whispered.
Christian nodded, the pain written all over his face.
“But I only found out weeks later, when it was already too late.” His voice cracked. “Her grandfather forced her to… end the pregnancy. Then he sent her away to a boarding school run by nuns. All to ‘protect the honor of the Montgomery family.””
A heavy silence fell between us. I tried to imagine teenage Christian hearing that news. A child he would never meet.
“The families decided to bury the whole case completely. Pretend it never happened, that Francesca and I never had anything more than neighborly politeness. The story of the child and the forced abortion was never meant to come out.” He swallowed hard. “We didn’t see each other for years. I never knew what became of her. Until I saw her again…”
“Four years ago, at that wine fair…” I ventured.
“When I told you about Francesca… I instinctively leaned on that same lie. Saying I met her at the fair meant I didn’t have to relive that pain.”
My initial anger started to ebb, replaced by a reluctant understanding.
“I get why you didn’t want to tell me all this,” I said at last. “But I can’t help wondering how many other things you’re hiding from me. How many more buried stories are out there. Every time I think I’m finally seeing the real Christian Kensington, I find another layer, another secret.”
“Zoey…” He moved a little closer, hesitant. “I never wanted to lie to you. It’s just getting harder and harder…”
“What? To keep up appearances? To stick to our contract?” My voice came out sharper than I meant. “I’m drowning in a marriage with a man I barely know, Christian. And the more I find out, the more I realize the only person who’s probably going to get hurt in this is me.”
“It’s not like that,” he protested. “I like you, Zoey. I really do.”
My heart skipped, but I forced myself to stay realistic.
“How can I believe that? How can I trust anything you say?”
Christian reached out, touching my face with a gentleness that broke through my defenses.
“I’m not asking you to believe words. Just… give time. To whatever this is between us.”
Night had already swallowed the Castorian sky, casting long shadows over the vineyards. Just like our situation -full of dark and undefined spaces.
Christian stood slowly and offered his hand to me in silent invitation.
I accepted, still torn between empathy for his pain and the fear of losing myself in this tangle of half-truths.
We stood there beneath the timid glow of the first Valentian stars, caught in a silence heavy with everything that had been said-and everything still left unsaid between us.
I felt we were teetering on the edge of a cliff.
On one side, the safety of our original deal: a temporary marriage, free of emotional entanglements.
On the other, something far more dangerous: the possibility that my heart had never wanted to obey the terms of the contract. And no matter how much I tried to deny it, something told me Christian’s hadn’t either.
As we walked back to the festival, a comfortable silence settled between us. The revelations about Christian’s past with Francesca still weighed on my mind, but somehow, I felt he had truly opened up to me, showing a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see.
The village’s central square was even livelier now, lit by hundreds of colorful lanterns strung between centuries- old buildings. A local band played traditional Valentian music, and the aroma of regional food mingled with the sweet scent of ripe grapes.
“Do you still want to stay?” Christian asked, his cautious look suggesting he half-expected me to want to return to the villa after our conversation.
“Yes,” I answered with more firmness than I’d anticipated. “I’m not letting anything ruin our night.”
A genuine smile lit up his face-that rare kind that reached his eyes and softened his features.
“In that case, I think we arrived just in time,” he said, pointing toward a small crowd gathering around a huge wooden vat. “It’s almost time for the pigiatura.”
“The pi-what?”
“Pigiatura. The tradition of stomping grapes with your feet to make wine,” he explained, guiding me through the crowd with a hand at my waist. “An old practice hardly anyone keeps anymore, but at this festival it’s preserved as part of the celebration.”
When we got closer, I saw the vat brimming with plump, dark grapes. An elderly man in a straw hat was speaking animatedly in Valentian, gesturing toward the audience.
“He’s saying that, as every year, we need a couple to begin the pigiatura,” Christian translated, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “Traditionally, it has to be a couple in love, to bring luck to the harvest.”
Before I could process what was happening, people around us started pointing and calling out, their eyes fixed on us.
“Kensington! Kensington e sua sposa!” several voices cheered.
“What’s going on?” I asked, feeling my cheeks heat as every gaze in the square turned toward us.
“They want us to be this year’s couple,” Christian said, looking almost shy-an expression I had never seen on his face before. “Do you mind?”
I hesitated only a second.
“Why not?” I replied with a smile. “When in Rome, do as…”
“Actually, we’re in Castoria,” he teased with a half-smile, as the crowd practically pushed us toward the vat in their excitement.
The old man welcomed us warmly, showering us with rapid Valentian. Christian replied in the same language, and soon the crowd erupted in applause.
“We need to take our shoes off,” he explained, already bending down to remove his.
I slipped out of my sandals as a few older women approached with basins of water for us to wash our feet. There was something almost sacred about the ritual in its simplicity.
“Ready?” Christian asked, extending his hand to help me climb the small steps leading up to the vat.
The moment we stepped inside, the fresh grapes burst beneath our feet, their cool, sticky juice staining my skin at once. The sensation was strangely delightful, the soft fruit yielding under our weight.
The crowd began clapping in a steady rhythm while the band struck up a cheerful melody. Christian took my hands, guiding me into a kind of circular dance inside the vat.
“The trick is to step firmly, but gently,” he instructed, his eyes shining under the lantern light. “Like a dance.”
Laughing, I tried to follow his lead. The crushed grapes made the bottom of the vat slippery, and with one overly enthusiastic turn, I lost my balance. I grabbed for Christian, but we ended up tumbling together into the grapes, me practically landing in his lap.
The crowd burst into laughter and applause, taking our fall as part of the fun. My white dress was now completely stained purple, as was most of my skin. Christian didn’t look much better, with grape juice smeared across his chest and arms.
“I think I just ruined another dress,” I said, still laughing as he helped me up.
Christian leaned in, his lips brushing my ear.
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.