Dust motes dance in the amber shafts of light piercing the Chapelle des Vignes. Valentina Escamilla stands at the altar in ivory silk that feels more like a shroud than a celebration. The air is thick with the scent of beeswax and the metallic tang of old incense, grounding her while the priest’s Latin drone blurs into the background. This isn't a wedding; it is a transfer of assets. Across the aisle, Armand Achard watches with the predatory satisfaction of a man who has just insured his legacy, his silver beard catching the sun.
Beside her, Lucien Valmont is a statue carved from shadow and severe tailoring. He hasn't looked at her once, his grey eyes fixed on the crucifix behind the priest with a terrifying, hollow economy. Valentina grips her bouquet until the stems bruise. She is a sommelier from Mendoza, a woman who trusts her palate above all else, yet she cannot catch the scent of this man's intent. Colette Valmont sits in the front pew, her ash-blonde elegance a sharp contrast to the warmth of the stone, her smile as brittle as a chipped flute.
The priest’s voice drops, the finality of the rite settling over the chapel like a heavy velvet curtain. The silence that follows is not holy; it is a vacuum waiting to be filled.
Lucien’s hand, cold as river stone, begins to reach for her veil.
