The vineyard stretched for miles in every direction.
Row upon row of grapevines, their leaves turned golden and red with the changing season, covered the rolling hills like a patchwork quilt.
The estate sat at the highest point, overlooking it all—a grand structure of pale stone and dark wood that had stood for generations. Three stories tall with wide balconies and arched windows, it spoke of old wealth and careful stewardship.
This was the ancestral home of House Solvienne, one of the most respected wine-producing families in the eastern provinces. Their vintages were sought after by nobility across the realm, their reputation built over centuries of dedication to their craft.
Emma had bought this house for her grandson.
And it was here, in this place of peace and beauty, that Jaenor Arkwright had been hiding for the past weeks.
The afternoon sun was warm despite the autumn chill.
