“I wish, but unfortunately, I’m not Catholic.”

“Ça va, this isn’t confession. Just an old priest here to offer a sympathetic ear.”

Before I even realized what was happening, the entire sordid tale came tumbling out. When I finished, Father François pursed his lips, nodded solemnly, and simply said, “Je comprends,” like it was a story he’d heard a thousand times before.

“So you see, I can’t win,” I continued to explain, certain there was no way he could really comprendre. “No matter what I do, someone will be disappointed.”

Father François turned to face me. “There is a saying: a truly strong person does not need the approval of others any more than a lion needs the approval of sheep. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should take my leave, but please, stay as long as you need.”

His words hung in the air like a prayer. What did I want? For myself? For Château Mirabelle? Before I came to Provence, I wasn’t living, I was floating. From project to project and one mistake to the next. Blaming everyone—my parents, my sisters, the tape, Rhys, even the paparazzi—for the person I’d become. Now, if I wanted to, I could easily add Kate and Bastien to that ever-growing list. But maybe it was high time I acknowledged that I was the constant, the common denominator threading my own story together.

The sound of footsteps echoed off the walls of the chapel. I looked back and saw Elliott ambling down the aisle. Our eyes met, and a soft smile tiptoed across his lips. “I knew this is where you’d be,” he said, easing into the pew.

“You did?”

“It’s hard to explain, but it was as if, when I heard the church bells resounding through the town, the church was trying to call out for me to come find you. I’m sure that sounds completely bonkers.”

“It doesn’t, actually.”

Elliott’s eyes flitted around the room. “It’s really different being here at night, isn’t it? With the candlelight and everything, it’s so ethereal.” He turned so that his body faced mine, our knees practically touching in the narrow row. “I heard about what happened between you and Kate, and I need you to know I was in the dark too. I promise you, Plum, I would never have signed on for this project if I knew what it was really about.”

Kate had already confirmed Elliott was just an innocent bystander, unknowingly capturing moments on film that would be twisted and distorted to fit her secret narrative. If anything, he’d also been duped. It was clear now, Tributary probably also never had any intention of using the additional material we’d been gathering on Château Mirabelle’s history.

“I know. Kate told me. I’m sorry you got entangled in this whole mess when all you thought you were doing was your job.”

He took my hand in his. “I’m not sorry.”

I looked up. “You’re not?”

“I’ve never felt more engaged or alive than when you and I were working together, uncovering all the history about the château. I want us to tell the world about the Dutch-Paris network and the Adélaïses and their bravery, and if Tributary doesn’t want it, we’ll find someone who does. We have to give them all the ending they deserve.”

“You don’t understand, if I don’t do the finale, I’m in breach of contract and don’t get the house. There is no happy ending.”

“So what happens then? It falls back into disarray and disrepair? Their legacy gets buried in the blown-out cellars of Château Mirabelle?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking. If I agree, I play right into everyone’s worst perceptions of me—the Everly sister with no direction, no real passion, just in it for the good time and easy money. My family’s businesses will suffer, I’ll be another joke . . . I just—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. It got caught in the back of my throat.

“Not everyone thinks that of you. Come, I want to show you something,” he said, squeezing my hand a little tighter and pulling me out of our pew and down an aisle toward the side door. I followed him out of the church, where he led me over to the arched stained glass windows carved with the symbolic scenes and characters that Bastien had pointed out to me the first day we visited Saint Orens. “You see this etching? The one you were so taken with? The lion surrounded by the pack of hyenas?” Elliott shone the flashlight from his phone on the archway. “Here, take this and follow it all the way around,” he said, passing me his cell.

I aimed the bright light at the wall and trailed the image up and over the arch to the other side. I bent down, and there, carved into the stone, was the second half of the narrative, the pack of hyenas that’d been relentlessly hunting the lion were now scattered to the wind, chased off by his mighty roar.

I stood up and found myself inches from Elliott’s face, the light from the phone glowing between us.

“The dominance of a lion has nothing to do with its size, right? I mean, it’s far from the largest animal in the jungle,” Elliott said, the metaphor sinking in as he spoke it aloud. “The lion’s real power is in its strength and fearlessness.” His voice lowered to a whisper, and his body was so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. “Plum, I know you. You’re a lion. So be the lion.”

I edged up onto my toes and planted a sweet kiss on his lips. At my touch, he grinned against my mouth. I pulled back, worried I’d gotten too swept up in the moment, but I was met with a boyish smirk and a mischievous twinkle in Elliott’s gaze. He leaned in, cupping my face in his warm hands, and really kissed me. My knees buckled under my weight, and I caught myself by holding on to his broad shoulders. Breathless, I touched a hand to my lips and stared at him, relishing in the sensation still buzzing through me.

For the weeks where I felt uncertain about him, and Bastien, and Rhys, and France, and the show, I realized Elliott had been the only constant who’d been nothing but his true and authentic self since the minute I’d met him. While I tried to navigate all of the newness and figure out what I really wanted after so much time being told who I was and what was expected of me, it had been Elliott who remained a steadfast voice of reason and clarity, even if what he said was at times hard to hear.

Now, at long last, despite our relentless efforts to deny the connection that had been brewing between us from the very moment the accordionist serenaded us with “La Vie En Rose” in the middle of the town, to our errant kiss on the carousel when my feelings about everything still seemed so hazy, to the onyx clock replaced on the Adélaïses’ mantel after he’d returned to the vendor to purchase it at the Brocante de Beaucaire . . . the realization hit me hard. It’d always been Elliott. I knew it the way I knew the sky was blue or that the sun would rise each morning. I knew it the way a river knows its course, unwavering and unyielding. And I knew it the same way I finally knew exactly what I was going to do.

I glanced down at the etching of the lion one last time, its expression stoic and triumphant. “I’ve made my decision,” I declared before resting my hands upon Elliott’s chest. “I’m done being swayed by the opinions of sheep—I’m ready to be the goddamned lion.”

Chapter Forty

After my heart-to-heart with Elliott the night before at Saint Orens, I called Bastien to come and meet us at the inn to strategize a game plan about how best to regain control of the finale’s narrative from Kate’s clutches. A little after 8:00 a.m., seated in the small breakfast nook of La Cigale Chantante, Elliott and I sipped on a fresh pot of English Breakfast tea while reviewing all the photos, notes, video clips, and articles we’d been gathering on Château Mirabelle over the past almost six weeks. Since it’d been done piecemeal, I hadn’t realized how many artifacts and tidbits we’d found on our quest at all the stops we’d made along the way. As I examined the images and collected materials, the small blonde hairs on my forearms stood on end. This was the story that needed to be told. I’d never been more certain of anything in my life.

Bastien slowly made his way into the dining room a little after eight fifteen, his eyes sweeping the space like he was about to be ambushed by a firing squad. Maybe he was. Though Elliott had promised to be on his best behavior and theoretically understood that Bastien’s understanding of the show had also been deluded, I couldn’t be certain that one ill-timed or overly flirtatious joke from Bastien might result in Elliott knocking him flat on his ass.

Odette greeted him at the doorway and guided him over to where we were sitting. She offered him tea or coffee, but he politely declined both. He pulled out the empty chair and eased into it, sighing as he sat. “Bonjour,” he mumbled, a bit reticent.

“Thank you for coming,” I said.

“Why would I not come? You two are my friends, are you or non?”

“Yeah, non,” Elliott jabbed.

I shot him a disapproving look, rested my forearms on the table’s edge, and folded my clasped hands on the paper place mat in front of me. I sat up a bit straighter and decided to just jump in. “I have given this a lot of thought since my talk with Kate. Between my contractual obligation to the show and the ultimatum Kate posed during our argument, I’m not left with many options. But if you are sorry—sincerely sorry—for your role in deceiving me and truly interested in making amends for your family’s past, then I believe I have come up with a way we can all get what we want. Well, all of us besides Kate.”

Bastien rubbed at his chin and squinted at me dubiously. “Yes, of course, I am truly and sincerely désolée—”

“Désolée, my ass,” Elliott muttered under his breath.

Bastien, oblivious to Elliott’s jibes, continued, “But I don’t quite understand what you need from me?”

“Here’s the thing: I could walk away, but Kate would still figure out how to finish her narrative by omitting me from the finale and just shooting you. Restructuring the story to paint me as the villain who broke your heart and trampled on your dreams of us living happily ever after in Château Mirabelle. I won’t lie to you, Bastien, you would come out looking great. You’d be the big hero—the one who restored the house even if you couldn’t restore me, and the audience would love you all the more for trying.”

Elliott looked up from his cup and directly at Bastien. I could tell he was trying to suss out if Bastien seemed allured by this version, but Bastien remained impassive—perhaps waiting to hear what was stashed behind door number two.

“Or we both threaten to walk away. No, we’d need to do both—not threaten—we’d need to actually leave, unless they play this our way. Sure, there’s a good possibility they then just scrap the whole thing altogether, which would mean everything you staked on this project as a way to redeem your reputation and family name might be for naught. But it has to be both of us in this together for there to be any chance for this attempt at collective bargaining to work.”

Now I was the one staring at Bastien, trying to make out if anything I was saying was registering. If he even cared? I believed him yesterday when he told me he’d been just as manipulated by Kate as I was, but with so much at stake for him, that didn’t necessarily mean he was willing to throw it all away.

For Bastien, Heart Restoration Project—where he played the handsome hero—was his chance to change everything. His life. His finances. His stability. And for me, on the outside looking in, this disaster was just par for the course. It wouldn’t help or hurt my reputation any more than every other fake ridiculous show I’d done before.

But for me, for real, telling the true story of Château Mirabelle and its history was the one chance I had to show the world who I was and what I had to offer, beyond my famous name and pretty face.

When his face remained unchanged, I continued, “Right now, they believe the heart of the show is our fabricated relationship because we haven’t given them anything else. They don’t know about all of this”—I gestured to the materials covering the table—“the Adélaïses, Dutch-Paris, the occupation. They don’t know about your grandfather and how his one reckless decision changed the whole course of history for this region. They don’t know anything about how you’ve struggled to become a vintner and how every door’s been slammed in your face. Or how much it would mean to the people of Maubec if we could somehow bring the winery back to life again. They don’t know . . . and if we can bring all the things they don’t know about to them as a beautifully touching narrative wrapped in a big, shiny, inspirational bow, then maybe we can finish this project by telling the story we want, the story the Adélaïses deserve to have told, and the one Maubec can finally be proud of.”

Bastien nodded along as I spoke, taking in every word carefully. He sat silently for a few moments in deep contemplation before finally responding. “Plum, Kate has manipulated us at every turn to get what she wants for the show, and now that she has and managed to convince Claudine and Jack and everyone, what makes you so sure that they would ever trade a sure hit for a possible flop? What if no one cares about the history? About our story? About Château Mirabelle? Then what?”

“I know that is a very real possibility. But I really think we can make them see it, make them understand what all this is.” I gestured again to the photos and artifacts spread around us and then looked him in the eye. “But it has to be both of us. Throughout these past months, I placed my trust in you, and now, I need you to do the same for me. Can you trust me?” Now it was my turn to wait with a held breath.

He tilted his head and set his lips together before responding. “Do you remember that day in the garden at Château du Val d’Été when I told you that you can honor a home by restoring it to its original state or you can honor it by restoring it to its original intention? You are right, if we let Kate win, Château Mirabelle will become nothing more than a cheap spectacle. If we stand together, we can make sure Heart Restoration Project is everything we intended for it to be.”

“You’re saying you’ll walk away from the show—with me?”

“Yes, ma cherie. Okay. D’accord,” he assented.