Sparks of laughter drift and dissolve among the crush of festival guests as Corven stands near the main tent, dark hair windswept, his jacket too formal for the September night. His eyes track Lessa’s every movement as she weaves through the crowd, chin high, lips pressed into a careful smile. Her wine-red skirt sweeps at her legs, but her gaze is distant—he knows she’s looking for him, needing reassurance, hating every second they have to pretend not to notice each other. Their hands brush near a tasting booth, the touch brief, electric, and she startles, looking quickly away. Corven’s chest aches.

He glances up just in time to see Briq in the distance: tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled, jaw so tense it could crack glass. Briq is holding court with a circle of judges, but all his attention—is on Corven. Their eyes meet, a silent dare neither will voice. Corven lifts a brow, defiant. Briq’s mouth twists—half-smirk, half-threat. He turns to whisper something to a nearby server, setting his latest sabotage in motion.

Inside the festival, Lessa’s laugh is hollow, brittle as glass. She lets the mayor’s wife drone on, her posture rigid, shoulders squared. When applause breaks out from the crowd, it’s for Corven—he’s just won a blind tasting, and all eyes swing to him, the golden son once again. Briq’s hands tighten around his glass. A low tremor of jealousy vibrates through him, cold and sharp. He leans into Lessa’s space as she tries to slip away, voice low and poisonous. “Careful with your loyalties, Lessa. Blood stains more than wine.” She stiffens, but before she can answer, a server approaches, tray tilting—red spills down the front of Corven’s crisp shirt, an “accident” too perfect. Briq’s eyes glitter with satisfaction.

Senne stands by the backstage curtain, arms crossed over a navy dress, lips smudged from chewing at them. She watches the chaos with a heavy sigh, then pivots away, nearly colliding with Briq at the edge of the tent. They’re alone for an instant. His expression flickers, hard and searching, but she cuts him off before he can speak. “What do you want?” she hisses. He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You look tired, Senne. Or maybe just bored.” Her laugh is sharp. “Not bored. Not desperate, either.” But her fingers tremble on the hem of her dress. He softens, just for a second, and she hates that it makes her want him.

Later, after too much cheap champagne, Senne stumbles into the shadows of the vineyard, her heels kicked off, hair tumbling wild. Briq is there, hands jammed in his pockets, eyes reflecting the moon. Their words start as weapons, sharpened and bitter. “You don’t get to follow me,” she says, voice wet with hurt she won’t name. Briq steps forward, careless, desperate. “Maybe I just can’t let you go. Maybe I never did.” His chest rises and falls, breaths ragged. Senne shoves him, fierce, but when he grabs her wrist, she doesn’t pull away. For a heartbeat, they just stare—faces inches apart, anger and longing tangled in the space between.

She kisses him first—rough, shoving him back into the vines. His hands find her waist, then her face, then her hips, mouths crashing, teeth scraping, need unraveling everything but touch. Moonlight paints them silver and shadow, bodies pressed close, hands fisting in fabric, breath catching. Her fingers tangle in his hair as he grips her hard, desperate. The world melts down to heat, regret, and skin. After, Senne shoves away, eyes rimmed red, voice shaking. “Don’t follow me again.” She disappears into the rows, clutching her dress, leaving Briq exposed, breathless, haunted.

Across the field, Corven watches from the darkness, the taste of betrayal thick in his mouth. His fists clench. He sees Lessa laughing hollowly for the crowd, sees everything slipping away, and in that moment, his hope curdles into resolve. The look he sends Briq is venomous. Briq, still catching his breath, meets it—a silent war declared.

Everyone’s secrets are closer to the surface than they dare admit, and the night refuses to end.

To be continued...