The storm passed sometime before dawn, leaving the air heavy and salt-damp.
Ethan didn't sleep. He'd tried, lying in the bed that had once been his — same creaking frame, same window overlooking the sea — but the house wouldn't rest. It groaned and whispered, like it knew he'd come back to dig up what should have stayed buried.
He finally rose as the first light spilled across the horizon, cold and gray. The vineyard below shimmered with rain, rows of vines glistening like veins across the earth. He pulled on a shirt and headed downstairs, his footsteps echoing against the wooden floorboards.
The fire from the night before had died to embers. Only the faint scent of smoke lingered, threaded through the air like memory.
Ethan paused at the base of the stairs. A door along the far wall caught his attention — his father's office. The key in his pocket felt suddenly heavier.
He hesitated. He wasn't ready for that room. Not yet.
Instead, he turned toward the cellar door, half-hidden near the back of the kitchen. A padlock hung from the latch, newer than everything else in the house. Someone had sealed it recently.
Of course they had.
Ethan crouched, testing the metal. The lock was sturdy, but the wood around it was old. With enough force—
"You're up early."
He straightened at the sound of Aria's voice. She stood in the doorway, hair still damp from her shower, wearing a loose white blouse and dark jeans. The early light softened her edges, made her look like something the sea might have sculpted — sharp and untouchable.
"Couldn't sleep," he said.
"I figured." She stepped closer, eyes flicking to the cellar door. "You found the lock."
"You know what's down there?"
Her expression shifted, just slightly. "Storage, mostly. Barrels, old tools. Your uncle didn't like people going in without him."
"Did he ever tell you why?"
"No." She crossed her arms, studying him. "But I got the impression it wasn't just about wine."
Ethan's mouth curved in a humorless smile. "That sounds like him."
He knelt again, tugging at the padlock. "Do you have a key?"
Aria hesitated, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small ring of keys. "You didn't get this from me."
The lock clicked open. The door creaked, exhaling a musty, cold breath from below.
Ethan flicked on the light. The bulb at the bottom flickered weakly to life, revealing stone steps spiraling down into shadows.
"Ladies first," he said.
Aria rolled her eyes. "You really think I'm letting you get eaten by cellar ghosts alone?"
"Fair point."
They descended together. The air grew cooler with each step, the scent of old oak and damp earth thickening. The cellar stretched wider than Ethan remembered — rows of aging barrels, stacks of wooden crates, and dusty bottles lining the walls.
But something else caught his attention — a small desk tucked in the far corner, half-hidden behind crates. Papers scattered across it, yellowed with time.
Aria brushed her hand along the nearest barrel. "It's colder than it should be."
"The insulation's shot," Ethan murmured, distracted by the desk. He brushed the dust away and found a thin leather-bound ledger. The initials R.C. were etched into the cover.
Richard Cole.
He flipped it open. Inside were columns of figures — sales, shipments, expenses — but the numbers didn't add up. Whole sums disappeared into vague notations: 'Special allocation.' 'Private reserve.' 'Consulting fees.'
"Do you see this?" he said.
Aria leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his. "Those look like—"
"Embezzlement," Ethan finished. "He was siphoning money out of the vineyard."
Her brows knit together. "Why would he risk that? He had a good reputation here."
"He always cared more about appearances than honesty."
He turned another page. A slip of paper fluttered loose and fell to the floor. Aria bent to pick it up, her fingers brushing his — a spark, small but sharp enough to still him.
She didn't pull away immediately. Neither did he.
When she finally looked up, their eyes met — too close, too charged.
"Ethan…" Her voice softened, uncertain.
He searched her face — the curve of her lips, the tension in her throat, the way she tried to look away and couldn't. Something in him wanted to hate her for working for Richard, but something stronger refused to.
Instead, he said quietly, "What are you afraid I'll find down here?"
Her breath caught. "I'm not afraid."
He took a step closer, testing her resolve. "Then why do you keep looking at me like you're hiding something?"
Aria's jaw tightened. "Because I am not the one you should be questioning."
The words cut sharper than he expected. For a heartbeat, he almost apologized. But before he could, her gaze flicked to the desk again. "There's something else under here."
She crouched, reaching beneath the bottom drawer. Her fingers found an envelope taped to the wood. The paper was brittle, the name Michael Cole scrawled across it in faded ink — Ethan's father.
Ethan stared. "That's my dad's handwriting."
He tore it open, heart pounding. Inside was a single folded page, edges yellowed.
Richard,
If you go through with this, you'll destroy everything we built. This isn't just about money. It's about family. Don't make me choose between the vineyard and my conscience. You'll regret it. —M.*
Ethan's grip tightened until the paper shook.
Aria said nothing, watching him carefully.
"He knew," Ethan whispered. "He knew what Richard was doing."
"Do you think your uncle—?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. The question hung between them, heavy and dangerous.
A single droplet of water fell from the ceiling, landing on the page. Ethan folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
Aria's voice came softly. "You shouldn't be down here alone."
He met her gaze. "You're here."
"I meant…" She trailed off, then sighed. "I meant you shouldn't have to face this alone."
For the first time since returning, something inside Ethan wavered — a small crack in the armor he'd worn since his parents' deaths.
The air felt different now, charged not by storm but by proximity. He could feel the warmth of her beside him, her breath shallow, her pulse visible at her throat.
Without thinking, he reached up, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. She didn't flinch. If anything, she leaned into the touch, eyes half-closed.
"Ethan…"
Her name on his tongue felt dangerous. He wanted to memorize the shape of it.
For one impossible moment, the cellar wasn't cold. It was the only place that felt alive.
Then she stepped back, eyes darkening. "We shouldn't."
He nodded, but his heartbeat didn't slow. "You're right."
And yet, as they climbed the stairs, he couldn't stop glancing back — at the ledger, the letter, the dust that now seemed to breathe with memory.
At the top, Aria turned to lock the door behind them. Her hand trembled slightly.
"You won't tell anyone about what we found yet," she said, more a statement than a question.
"Not until I know everything," Ethan replied.
She hesitated. "And if the truth hurts?"
"Then I'll deal with it."
Her lips pressed together. "You sound like someone who's used to being hurt."
He almost smiled. "You sound like someone who notices too much."
For the briefest second, her defenses faltered. "Maybe I do."
When she walked away, the air seemed to move with her — the faint scent of rain and oak lingering behind. Ethan leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly.
He knew obsession when he felt it. It didn't announce itself with fireworks or declarations; it crept in quietly, under the ribs, until you couldn't tell where the memory ended and the person began.
And somehow, Aria Bennett — with her guarded eyes and her half-truths — was already lodged there.
He pulled the letter from his pocket once more, reading his father's words again. They seemed to hum beneath his fingertips, like the house itself was alive, warning him that the truth would demand more than he was ready to give.
Outside, the sun finally broke through the storm clouds, but the light didn't reach the cellar.
Down there, the ghosts still waited.