Heiress of Ashes and Grapes by Nina Soelian
Heiress of Ashes and Grapes
Description
Renee Pasquier is the ghostwriter of her own life, the hidden genius behind a global wine empire while her abusive husband steals the spotlight and her achievements. When a public betrayal leaves her birthright in the hands of a rival, Renee stages a daring escape, seeking refuge at the one place her husband would never look: the struggling estate of Estienne Cote. He was the boy who captured her heart during a single formative summer twenty years ago, before a bitter family feud tore them apart. As an undeniable connection sparks between them, Renee must navigate a treacherous path of redemption and risk: can she reclaim her legacy without destroying the only man who truly sees her, or will her past with the Pasquiers poison their chance at a new vintage?
Chapter 1
Apr 9, 2026
Renée's POV
"The Château Margaux goes on the left, not the right. Unless you want our guests to think we pair bordeaux with the fish course like savages."
The server freezes mid-step, bottle clutched to his chest like a shield. I don't wait for his response. There's no time for hand-holding today—not when everything I've built for the past four years is about to be celebrated under someone else's name.
"And those hydrangeas need to move six inches to the left," I call to the florist arranging the centerpiece. "They're blocking the sight line to the award display."
She nods quickly, already adjusting.
The August heat presses against the windows of the estate's grand hall, thick and unrelenting. It reminds me of another summer, twenty years ago—the last time I remember being happy.
I was ten years old. The vineyard rows stretched endless and green, and I ran between them barefoot, dirt caking between my toes while my grandfather pretended not to notice.
That was the summer I met the boy from the neighboring estate—the one with the wild dark hair and the laugh that made my stomach flip in ways I didn't understand yet. His name was Estienne.
"You're holding the grape wrong," he'd said, plucking it from my fingers with theatrical exasperation. "You have to feel the skin first. Here." He pressed my thumb against the fruit, gentle. "If it gives too much, it's overripe. If it doesn't give at all, it needs more time."
"How do you know so much?" I asked, genuinely awed.
He shrugged like the world had never given him a reason to second-guess himself. "My grandfather says wine is patience. You can't rush it, and you can't force it. You just have to pay attention."
I paid attention to him instead. The way his blue eyes squinted against the sun. The smudge of dirt on his cheekbone. The careful way he handled each grape, like it mattered.
He was beautiful. He was beautiful and I was too young to know what that meant.
My grandfather spotted us three weeks later. I remember the exact moment—Estienne was showing me how to tie a vine back to its stake, his fingers brushing mine as he guided the twine, and I heard the crunch of boots on gravel behind us.
I'd never seen Grand-père's face like that before. His jaw tight, his eyes hard, a vein pulsing at his temple.
"Go home, boy," he said to Estienne.
Estienne looked at me once—confused, a little scared—and then he ran. I wanted to run after him. I wanted to ask what was happening, why Grand-père's hands were shaking, why the air suddenly felt ten degrees colder despite the August sun.
"You will not see that boy again," Grand-père said once we were alone, his voice heavy with something I now recognize as grief. "There are things you don't understand, ma petite. That family is not our friend."
"But he's my friend," I protested, tears streaming down my face. "He's my only friend."
Grand-père's expression softened, just slightly. "Then say goodbye. I will give you that much. But after tomorrow, it ends."
I waited at our spot—the old stone wall where the two properties met—for five hours the next day. The sun burned my shoulders red. He never came.
Then the summer ended, and I never saw him again.
Would he recognize me now?
The question surfaces unbidden as I catch my reflection in a polished silver tray.
The nose is different, straighter, more refined, the surgeon had said, though we both knew refinement had nothing to do with it.
Refinement doesn't explain the way my husband's fist connected with cartilage two years ago, or the hospital visit I told the staff was a riding accident.
Refinement doesn't explain why I've mastered the art of foundation and concealer, or why I know exactly how long it takes for swelling to subside.
"Renée."
My husband's voice cuts through the memory. I turn slowly, composing my features into pleasant neutrality.
Frank stands in the doorway, his silver hair immaculately styled, his tailored suit worth more than most workers here make in a month. He looks every inch the successful vintner, the industry leader, the man of vision.
He is none of these things. But the world doesn't know that.
"The 2019 reserve," he says, his voice carrying that particular edge I've learned to recognize. "Someone replaced it with the 2018."
"I did," I say calmly. "The 2018 has better tannin structure for the lamb we're serving. The pairing will be more complementary to the menu, and the critics attending tonight will notice the difference."
I keep my voice soft and deferential. The way he likes it.
"I should have consulted you first," I add quickly, watching his jaw tighten. "I apologize. I was trying to anticipate the needs of the evening so you wouldn't have to worry about the details."
It's the right thing to say.
It's always the right thing to say—make him feel like the decision-maker, like I'm just the helpful assistant managing the tedious work beneath his notice. I've perfected this script over the years. I know every line.
His hand moves anyway.
The crack of his palm against my cheek echoes through the hall. Two servers freeze. The florist suddenly becomes very interested in her hydrangeas.
No one speaks. No one ever speaks.
This is the fourth time this month, I think, tasting copper where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek. The third time in front of staff. He's getting careless. Or maybe he just doesn't care anymore. Maybe he never needed a reason at all.
"You will not contradict me in my own house." Frank's voice is low, controlled, meant only for me. "You will not make decisions without my approval. And you will remember your place tonight when I receive this award. Am I clear?"
Your award. For my work.
"Crystal," I whisper.
"Good." He straightens his cuffs, already moving on, already composing his face for the evening ahead. "Follow me. We need to discuss the seating arrangements before guests arrive."
He strides toward the study without looking back, expecting me to trail behind like a well-trained dog.
My legs don't move immediately. They know something my brain is still processing—that the study has a door that locks from the inside.
That "discussing seating arrangements" has never once required privacy in eight years of marriage. That the slap was not the punishment.
The slap was the warmup.
Move, I tell myself. If you hesitate, it gets worse. If you run, it gets worse. If you breathe wrong, it gets worse.
I touch my cheek carefully, assessing the damage with the clinical detachment I've learned to summon. The heat is spreading outward, which means discoloration within the hour. Guests arrive in two.
Concealer first. Then foundation. Then powder to set.
I've done this so many times the routine is automatic. I know exactly which products cover purpling skin, which brushes blend without irritation, which angles hide what makeup cannot.
"Renée." His voice echoes from down the corridor. A warning.
Ninety minutes to make myself presentable for a party celebrating my achievement that will never bear my name.
"Assuming I'm still able to stand in ninety minutes," I whisper to no one.
Heiress of Ashes and Grapes
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