Don’t worry, it’s over now.
Santiago’s hands held Sofia’s ankle with a firmness she didn’t remember ever feeling. His fingers, rough from years of working the land, grazed the skin of her calf as he cleaned the wound with rainwater dripping from a metal bucket. She trembled, soaked to the bone, but it wasn’t from the cold. It was something else. Something she couldn’t name.
“It’s going to burn,” he warned, tearing his own shirt to improvise a bandage.
The cotton melted beneath his brown hands. Sofia stared at him, unable to tear her gaze away from the concentration on his face, the way he squinted to see better in the dimness of the stable, the gentleness with which he wrapped her leg as if it were something fragile, important.
“How long has it been since you ate properly?” he asked suddenly, in a grave voice. “You’re very thin.”
No one had asked her anything like that in five years. Five years of parties, expensive dresses, and perfect photos. Five years of rehearsed smiles next to Rodrigo Salazar, the man she married to save her grandfather’s ranch.
“It’s none of your business,” he muttered, more out of habit than conviction.
—Now it is —he replied, without raising his voice—. You can’t faint while I’m treating you.
His hands moved up a little more, adjusting the bandage. Santiago’s thumb pressed gently to check that it wasn’t too tight. That simple, almost insignificant gesture pierced his chest like lightning. And before he could stop himself, the words came out on their own:
—My husband never touched me like that.
The silence grew heavy. Santiago remained motionless, his hands still on her leg. Their eyes met in the semi-darkness of the stable as the storm battered the tin roof.
“Mrs. Salazar…” he began.
—Sofia—she interrupted him, her voice breaking—. Only Sofia.
He pulled his hands away as if he’d been burned. Sofia’s eyes filled with tears, mingling with the raindrops still falling from her hair. Five years of a “perfect marriage.” Five years of sleeping alone in a king-size bed. Five years since that correct, brief, and tasteless kiss at their wedding. That same night, Rodrigo had gone to sleep in his studio, “because of jet lag from the trip.”
He never returned to his room.
“You need to change,” said Santiago, standing up and turning his back on her. “There are blankets in the main house.”
—I don’t want to go home.
—You’re going to get sick.
“Well,” a bitter laugh escaped her. “At least it would be something different. Something real. I haven’t felt anything real in five years.”
Santiago clenched his jaw. For a second he seemed about to say something, but he only sighed.
—Let’s go. Chabela will prepare hot tea.
She extended her hand. It was a mistake; they both knew it instantly. But Sofia took it. The warmth of that palm against hers was like waking from a long, heavy, five-year sleep. And she still couldn’t imagine how far that simple touch would take her.
The main house smelled of firewood and wine. Chabela, with her flowered apron and sixty years of peasant wisdom, didn’t ask any questions when she saw them enter, soaking wet.
“Bathroom. Now,” she ordered, pointing to the stairs. “I have some of my niece’s clothes. They’ll fit you.”
Sofia obeyed, too weak to argue. Under the hot shower water, she finally cried. Not elegant, discreet tears, like those shed at charity events, but large, disordered sobs, born from a deep place she had buried the day she signed her “marriage contract.”
Because that’s what it was. A contract.
Her grandfather, the man who used to carry her on his shoulders through the vineyards when she was a child, had died, leaving the estate with insurmountable debts: ten million pesos she didn’t have. The Salazar family appeared with a brilliant solution: Rodrigo needed a respectable wife to quell the rumors. She needed to save her grandfather’s legacy.
“It’s just a piece of paper,” her mother had told her. “Love is for novels, Sofia. Women of our class understand agreements, not fantasies.”
She was twenty-four years old and had more fear than options.
When she came downstairs, dressed in someone else’s jeans and a cotton shirt that smelled of lavender, Santiago was sitting at the kitchen table, also in dry clothes. Chabela placed a steaming cup in front of him.
—Chamomile tea. And eat —she handed him a ham and cheese sandwich—. None of that nonsense about not being hungry.
Sofia took a bite. It was simple, unpretentious. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten something that wasn’t served by uniformed staff on fine china.
“How long have you been here?” Chabela asked, sitting down across from her.
—I arrived this morning.
“I’m not talking about the house,” the woman denied. “How long have you been dead inside?”
Sofia put down the trembling cup.
—I don’t know what you’re talking about.
“I worked for your grandfather for thirty years,” Chabela retorted harshly. “I saw him carry you on his shoulders among the vines when you were five years old. That girl was bright. The one who arrived today looks like a ghost.”
Sofia opened her mouth to reply, but the door opened. Santiago came in, shaking off the rain.
“The generator is fine,” he reported, “but the roads will be impassable until tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. That meant he had to stay there at least one night. In the room that bore his surname, but which he barely knew.
In the simple room they had prepared for her, the mattress was hard and the single bed seemed tiny compared to the one in Buenos Aires. Sofia looked at the bandage on her leg. The fabric smelled of damp earth and something indefinable that made her stomach churn. Outside, the storm raged. And for the first time in five years, she allowed herself to admit an uncomfortable truth: her marriage wasn’t a piece of paper, it was a tomb.
And she had just felt, under the hands of a stranger, what it was like to be alive.
The next morning, Santiago was in his office, checking the pruning log, when she appeared at the door.
“I’m staying,” he said, even before saying hello.
He looked up, surprised.
“The grape harvest needs supervision,” Sofia added, chin held high. “This is my place.”
—Chabela has overseen this stay for thirty years, ma’am.
—I am the owner.
Santiago closed the notebook more tightly than necessary.
—With all due respect… you don’t know how to tell the difference between a Malbec and a Torrontés.
“Then teach me,” she blurted out.
The words hung in the air. He rubbed his face, tired.
—Her husband is in Buenos Aires.
—Closing a deal with Korean investors—Sofia finished. —She won’t be back until the end of the month.
—That doesn’t make this a good idea.
—What’s not a good idea? Getting to know my own land?
She had no answer for that. At seven o’clock, they were walking among the rows of vines. The rising sun painted the mountains in shades of gold and purple. Sofia was wearing borrowed boots that were too big for her, and she stumbled every now and then.
“Malbec,” Santiago said, reverently touching a leaf. “Your grandfather planted these vines the same year your mother was born. Every grape has a story.”
“I didn’t know him well,” she admitted. “He died when I was twenty-three.”
“He was a good man. He gave me a job when no one else would.”
—Why was nobody hiring you?
Santiago took a few steps to answer.
“Because I’d lost my own farm.” Her voice was flat, devoid of self-pity. “Three years of drought straight. The banks don’t wait for rain.”
Sofia felt a lump in her throat.
-I’m sorry.
—Don’t be sorry. He taught me what really matters.
He tore off a dry leaf and crumbled it between his fingers.
—Your grandfather told me something the day he hired me: “The land is not what you own, it is what you take care of.”
—And what do you possess now?
Santiago stopped and looked her straight in the eyes.
—Nothing… and everything, depending on how you look at it.
She was the first to look away.
The hours passed like minutes. He explained pests, sugar levels, harvest times. He spoke with restrained passion and hands that seemed to know every plant.
That night, Sofia ate with the staff for the first time. Twelve people crammed around a long table, empanadas, wine from the previous vintage, laughter erupting without warning.
“The lady is eating with us,” said Juan, the youngest, surprised.
“The lady has a name,” she replied, serving herself salad. “And yes, Juan: the lady eats.”
Laughter filled the shed. Santiago smiled, and that smile transformed his serious face. Sofia felt something akin to nostalgia for something she had never had: belonging.
Later, Chabela took her to the office.
“That woman is married,” he blurted out, pointing to the window where Sofia could be seen walking away.
—Chabela… —Santiago tried.
“I know what I saw in your eyes and hers at dinner,” she interrupted. “Her husband may be a cold, heartless wretch, but he’s still her husband. And you have principles. Don’t forget them.”
That night, Sofia’s phone vibrated in the room.
“Where are you?” Rodrigo’s voice sounded as clinical as ever.
—In Mendoza. I told you.
—It’s been three days. The hotel has staff for that. The Martinez family’s charity event is on Friday. Don’t be late.
—I’m not going —replied Sofia, with a new, different tremor.
The silence on the other end grew tense.
—Sorry —she corrected—. I said I’m not going.
—Sofia… —her name sounded like a warning—. Don’t start.
—Start what? Start living my life?
She hung up before she could change her mind. Her hands still trembling, she peered out the window. A light was on in the foreman’s house. She wondered if Santiago was awake, thinking about her, or if it was just her imagination seeking refuge.
I didn’t know that two weeks could change an entire life.
In two weeks, the rhythms of the stay had become Sofia’s new clock: coffee at five, vineyards at dawn, wineries at midday, numbers with Chabela in the afternoon. Buenos Aires felt distant, almost unreal.
That morning, in the middle of the pruning, Santiago appeared behind him.
“You’ll never learn like that,” he muttered, taking her hands to correct the way she was holding the scissors. “The secondary branch is cut here.”
His large hands enveloped hers. His chest brushed against her back. The scent of clean sweat and earth enveloped her. Sofia stopped seeing the branches; she could only hear her own heartbeat in her ears.
—Like that —he whispered—. Perfect.
She didn’t move away immediately. Three seconds. Five. An eternity. Until Pedro’s voice interrupted them, calling for Santiago about a problem with the irrigation pump. He walked away abruptly. Sofia stood there trembling, scissors in her hand.
The celebration for finishing the pruning was Chabela’s idea: a barbecue in the yard, guitars, wine saved “for special occasions.” Under the bright stars of Mendoza, everything seemed possible.
—Dance with me —Rosa dragged her onto the makeshift dance floor—. That serious face doesn’t go with this music.
Sofia hadn’t danced since her wedding, but the wine and laughter got her going. Suddenly, someone shouted:
—The boss too!
Santiago shook his head from his chair.
—I’m fine here.
—Coward—Sofia stung him, without thinking—. The big foreman is afraid of a little music.
His eyes darkened.
—Be careful what you wish for.
“Or what?” she challenged, laughing.
Santiago stood up so quickly that Sofía took a step back. But his hands found her waist naturally, and the music slowed down. The world seemed to shrink.
“I warned you,” he muttered against his temple.
They moved together, almost touching, their legs brushing against each other, her hand on the back of his neck. Sofia felt a sweet, dangerous vertigo.
“This is a bad idea,” Santiago whispered.
“I know,” she replied. “My husband isn’t here.”
When the song ended, he stepped back with his jaw clenched.
—I need air.
He went towards the cellar. Sofia waited a few seconds and followed him.
Among barrels that smelled of oak and time, the yellow light cast long shadows. Santiago stood with his back to him, his hands resting on a barrel.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said without turning around.
“Neither should you run away,” she replied. “It’s different.”
She turned around. There was anger, pain, and something else in her eyes.
“Because this,” he gestured to the space between them, “cannot happen.”
“Why not?” He took a step forward. “You felt the same way I did.”
“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” her voice cracked slightly. “You’re married.”
Then Sofia spoke. The words came out like a long-postponed confession. She told him about her grandfather, the debts, the “deal,” the marriage of convenience, their separate lives, the always-empty bed. About the five years she spent repeating that it was the right thing to do.
—And just when I had finally convinced myself—she finished, tears streaming freely—, you bandaged my leg in that stable… and I realized that I know nothing about what is right.
Santiago closed his eyes.
“I am thirty-eight years old,” he finally said. “I already lost everything once: my land, my pride. This is all I have left.” He touched his chest. “My honor.”
“And your honor says I should stay in a dead marriage?” Sofia spat.
“My honor says I won’t be your escape or your fling,” she replied firmly. “If you want this…” She took a step toward her, cornering her against the oak door, “first you have to be free. Get a divorce. Face the consequences. And only then, if you still want me, come looking for me.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t a soft kiss. It was rage, loneliness, pent-up desire. Her hands sank into his hair, her body arched toward him, a moan escaped her throat. He lifted her, her legs wrapped around his waist… and then he stopped, breathing heavily.
“No,” he gasped. “Not like this. You’ll regret it tomorrow.”
—I won’t regret it.
“Yes, you would,” he retorted, stepping back as if his life depended on it. “Because I’m the employee. The foreman. And you’re the married owner having a crisis.”
He left without looking back, leaving her with the taste of him on her lips and her heart in pieces.
Three weeks after her arrival, a black SUV kicked up dust in the driveway. Sofia saw it from the vineyard. She felt her stomach drop.
“He’s my husband,” she whispered.
Rodrigo came downstairs looking impeccable as always: a gray suit without a wrinkle, gleaming shoes. He looked her up and down: dirty jeans, muddy boots, a t-shirt clinging to her body in the heat.
“You look… different,” he commented.
“I’m working,” she replied.
“I see,” he murmured, with a half-smile.
Dinner was a choreography of tensions. Rodrigo at the head of the antique table, Santiago with his hands still marked by the earth, Sofía caught between two worlds. Rodrigo asked cutting questions about management, made venomous comments about the grandfather, “a dreamer who died in debt,” and looked at Santiago as if he were a footnote.
Later, in the room, the confrontation was inevitable.
—Three weeks —Rodrigo repeated, closing the door—. Three weeks without answering calls, without showing up at events, without fulfilling your part of the agreement.
—Our agreement never included me dying inside —Sofia replied.
He loosened his tie, tired.
—I’ll finance your inheritance. You give me respectability. It was always simple.
—And your lovers? Were they also in the contract?
Rodrigo smiled humorlessly.
—You didn’t care. You never asked.
—Because I didn’t want to know.
He approached, his eyes a cold gray.
“If you leave me, you lose everything,” he said in the same pragmatic tone he used to close deals. “Under joint ownership, you’d be entitled to forty-nine million. But I can offer you something else: you keep the estate, debt-free, in your name only. I’ll keep the rest.”
Sofia looked at him, stunned.
—Why… would you do that?
“Because unhappy wives are bad for business,” he replied, as if it were obvious. “And because I don’t need your ‘social respect’ anymore. My career is established.”
He headed for the door.
—Think with your head, Sofia. You have until noon tomorrow.
That night, standing outside the window of her grandfather’s old room, Sofia gazed into the darkness of the vineyard. She had two clear choices: fifty-three million pesos… or her soul.
And for the first time, he wondered what was worth more.
Two months later, in an oversized apartment in Buenos Aires, she signed the property division papers. The lawyer looked at her over his glasses.
—That’s a considerable difference, Mrs. Quintana. We could negotiate…
“That’s fine,” she interrupted, signing with a firm hand.
She went out on foot, without a driver, without an official car, without her ring. Her friends disappeared, the group chats died. Her mother called only once to say “how shameful” and hang up. Rodrigo, surprisingly, was correct.
“For what we were there for, you weren’t so bad,” he told her as they left the courthouse.
—Neither do you —she replied.
The marriage ended with a cold handshake and a “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
The only thing that connected her to anything real were Chabela’s weekly calls. They talked about harvests, about Juan learning to prune properly, about orders from Paraguay. Until one day, the woman’s voice faltered.
“Santiago asked for a leave of absence,” he confessed. “He left three weeks ago. To another farm. He says he has family matters to attend to. But we all know why he left.”
That night, after drinking more wine than was prudent, Sofia called him.
“Chabela told me you left,” she said bluntly.
“I needed space,” he replied curtly. “Have you signed the divorce papers yet?”
—The division of assets. The divorce takes three more months.
“Then call me in three months,” she declared. “I’m not going to be a distraction while you wait for paperwork.”
And he hung up.
The following months were slow. Paperwork, hearings, silences. The day the lawyer called to tell her, “It’s official, he’s free,” Sofia hung up, looked in the mirror, and barely recognized herself.
Free.
The word weighed heavily… and liberated at the same time.
He dialed Santiago’s number with sweaty hands.
“I’m divorced,” she said as soon as he answered. “Officially. The papers arrived today.”
There was a long silence on the other end.
“Where are you?” he asked.
—In Buenos Aires. Tomorrow I’m going back to Mendoza. To stay.
“Don’t come for me,” he said.
She felt her heart clench.
-That?
—Come because you love this land. Because it’s your home. Not for a man who may not be worthy of what you sacrificed.
—I lost fifty-three million pesos —Sofia whispered.
—You didn’t lose them. You chose them. And if you don’t regret it… then we’ll see each other in Mendoza.
Before I could answer, he added, almost smiling:
—I’m back. Two weeks ago. Chabela didn’t tell you because she knows you. Tomorrow, when you arrive, we’ll do things properly. No rush.
And he hung up.
The first six months were a useful humiliation. Sofia couldn’t read an invoice, confused technical terms, and asked about salaries that made her blush. She sold the sports car, cut unnecessary expenses, renegotiated contracts, and created a profit-sharing program for the workers.
“This isn’t charity,” he told them, standing in front of a table piled high with papers. “It’s justice. You make this land produce. You deserve to share in what it yields.”
Santiago kept his distance. “Good morning, ma’am,” “the report is on your desk,” “the northern vines need attention.” Not a single extra comment, not a glance that lingered too long. It hurt, but Sofía understood: first she had to learn to stand on her own.
Eighteen months after that stormy night, she awoke to the Mendoza sun streaming through curtains she had sewn herself. Her hands were calloused. Her skin was sunburnt. And, for the first time, she liked her reflection in the mirror.
The place was different: more vibrant, more equitable. They had hired Lucía, a brilliant agronomist who spoke about soils with passion. Wages had gone up, and so had production. The winery was starting to make a name for itself.
Her heart still ached a little each time Santiago passed by with his distant “good morning, ma’am.” But he no longer defined her. Now she knew she was whole, even though she missed him.
She organized the grape harvest festival out of tradition, even though she had never experienced it herself. Lights hung among the trees like trapped stars. Two hundred people filled the courtyard: employees, families, townspeople.
“The lady has to give the speech,” shouted Pedro.
—I didn’t prepare anything—Sofia protested.
“Better,” Rosa laughed. “Speak from the heart.”
Sofia stood in front of the people, with a glass in her hand and a lump in her throat.
“My grandfather used to throw these parties,” he began. “And I wasn’t there. I was living a life that wasn’t my own, in a city that wasn’t my home. Meanwhile, you all kept this land alive.”
She looked at Chabela, at Rosa, at Juan, at Lucía. She glanced, unintentionally, towards the edge of the crowd, where Santiago was watching her with his white shirt sleeves rolled up and his dark eyes fixed on her.
“This estate isn’t just mine,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s ours. You are as much a legacy of my grandfather as I am. That’s why today we raise a toast to the harvest we’ve reaped together and to the future we will build together.”
The shouts and clinking of glasses filled the air. The music returned, louder. Lucía pulled her onto the dance floor. When the samba began, someone placed a white handkerchief in her hand.
And then he appeared in front of her.
“Shall we dance?” Santiago asked, with a half-smile.
Sofia’s heart stopped for a second.
—Do you know how to dance samba?
—My mother left me no choice.
He took her hand. The samba was a game of seduction without touching, but their bodies were so close that Sofia felt his every breath. They twirled, moved forward, and retreated. The handkerchief fluttered between them like a promise.
“I’ve been watching you,” he murmured, taking advantage of a turn.
“I know,” she replied, without looking away. “I’ve seen you too.”
—You look different.
—I am. I am… happy.
He barely smiled.
—It shows.
They couldn’t continue talking. Rosa appeared to introduce her to some important guests; then the mayor arrived, followed by a journalist from a wine magazine. Every time Sofía tried to go back to Santiago, someone called her. When she finally got some time, he was no longer in the courtyard.
He found it in the barn. The same barn. The same smell of hay and wood. The same bullets where, two years before, he had bandaged his leg.
“I knew you’d come here,” he said from the doorway.
“I needed to breathe,” she admitted. “And stop pretending I wasn’t looking for you all night.”
He laughed, low.
—I didn’t fake anything. I was blatantly looking for you.
He approached, slowly, as if she were something that could break.
“Now I’m here,” Sofia said, standing up. “And there’s something you need to hear.”
He looked him straight in the eyes.
—I am free. Legally and emotionally. Divorced, in control of my life, this land, and my decisions. I don’t want to run away from anything. I want to choose.
He stopped one meter away from her.
—Choose what, Sofia?
He swallowed.
—Choosing you. Choosing us. I want something real. Not perfect, not easy. Real.
Santiago closed his eyes for a moment, as if savoring those words.
“I’ve known what I want ever since that storm,” she confessed, opening her eyes again. “I want to wake up with you, argue about the harvest, laugh at your crazy ideas and admire the ones that work. I want a life with you… and with this land.”
He hesitated for a second.
—I’ve been saving for years. I was planning to buy a couple of hectares and go build my own winery.
“Are you going to leave me?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
“No, silly,” she laughed. “But I wanted something of my own. Not to always live off a salary.”
Sofia felt something ignite in her chest.
—What if instead of leaving… I suggest something better?
—Better than my winery? Hard to say.
“A partnership,” she said calmly. “Cruz Quintana. Fifty-fifty. Your savings, your experience, your hands. My land, my contacts, my stubbornness. Everything shared: risk, work, profits.”
He looked at her as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“Are you offering me to be your equal?” he whispered.
“I’m offering you the opportunity to be my partner in everything,” Sofia corrected, touching his jaw with a finger. “I don’t want you to work for me. I want us to work together.”
Santiago swallowed. Then he shook his head, but he was smiling.
“I love you,” she finally said. “But I have conditions.”
“Of course you have them,” she huffed, laughing through her tears. “You’re unbearably honorable.”
—First: let’s take it slow. No moving in together tomorrow and repeating past mistakes. Second: everything in writing. Legal partnership, clear contracts. I never want anyone to say I’m with you for the money.
Sofia looked at him tenderly.
—I accept. On one condition of mine.
—Tongue.
—Kiss me again.
He did it. This time there was no anger or desperate urgency. Only a slow, profound promise, that tasted of wine, of earth, and of the future.
When they left the stable, hand in hand, the music was still playing and the sky was beginning to fill with stars. No one said anything, but Rosa whistled softly, Chabela smiled into her glass, and Juan almost choked when he saw their hands intertwined.
No explanations were needed. Life, at last, was beginning to make sense.
Two years later, the small Cruz Quintana winery had made a name for itself in Chile, Brazil, and beyond. The first harvest sold out in six months. The second was maturing in barrels. They had hired more people, bought secondhand equipment, and invested in a small laboratory where Lucía experimented with native yeasts.
One day in November, while Sofia was checking numbers in the office, Santiago entered without knocking, as usual.
“The Chileans confirmed,” he announced, slumping on the edge of the desk. “Five hundred cases of the Malbec Reserva. At the price we asked for.”
“I told you,” she smiled. “It’s the best Malbec outside of Argentina.”
—And inside too —he added, stealing a sip of coffee.
That night, they cooked together in the main house. The distinction between “the foreman’s house” and “the landlady’s house” had long since vanished. There was only their house, with mismatched plates, papers from the wine cellar on the table, wineskins always by the door, and laughter in the kitchen.
“Do you regret anything?” she asked, as he cut onions.
He looked at her, serious.
—Only one thing.
-About what?
“If I hadn’t met your grandfather,” he said, resting his forehead against hers, “I would have liked to shake his hand and thank him for bringing you to this earth.”
Sofia felt her eyes fill with tears.
“He would have liked to see you,” he whispered. “You understand the phrase he always repeated.”
—The one about the land not being what you own, but what you take care of? —Santiago smiled—. I think I’m only now truly understanding it.
A month later, in the same stable where it all began, Sofia cut her hand on a wire while they were repairing a fence. It wasn’t serious, just a scratch, but Santiago insisted on bandaging it.
He knelt before her, took her hand with the same gentleness as on that stormy night, and washed away the blood with clean water. Sofia watched him in silence, her heart full.
“This reminds me of something,” he said softly.
“Me too.” He smiled, without looking up. “Before you were trembling with fear. Now you just complain.”
“Now I know you’re not going to leave me hanging,” he joked.
He laughed, leaned over, and kissed her knuckles.
—I have no plans to leave anything unfinished with you. Not the healing, not life, not love.
Sofia looked at him. The wrinkles from laughter were already etched at the corners of her eyes. She thought of the twenty-four-year-old who sold her life for a contract, and of the woman she was now, with dirt under her fingernails and wine in her glasses.
“Santiago,” she whispered. “Sometimes it still surprises me that all this is real.”
He stood up, pulled her to his chest, and hugged her tightly.
“It’s real because you chose it,” he whispered in her ear. “You chose this land. You chose this life. And then you chose me. In that order. That’s why it works.”
They left the stable hand in hand. The sunset painted the vineyards gold and purple. Chabela was giving instructions in the yard, Rosa was taking empanadas out of the oven, and Juan and Lucía were arguing about soccer.
Sofia paused for a second, inhaling deeply the scent of grapes, firewood, and home. She leaned on Santiago’s shoulder.
“It’s going to be a good year,” he murmured, stroking the leaves of a grapevine.
—How do you know?
“The earth is happy,” he replied. “And so are you.”
She smiled.
“I finally know what it means to be whole,” she said. “Not because someone completes me, but because I’ve built a life worth living. And I share it with someone who touches me as if I were something precious. Every single day.”
Santiago looked at her with a tenderness that burned.
“Because you are,” he whispered, kissing her forehead.
Among vines laden with almost ripe grapes, under a sky that was beginning to fill with stars, Sofia knew with a calm certainty that she would not change anything: not the debts, not the contract, not the storm, not the tears.
Everything had brought her there: to him, to the land, to herself.
And for the first time in many years, that was simply perfect.
