The old photograph trembled in Isabelle's hand. It was tucked away in a false bottom drawer within a seemingly innocuous antique writing desk she'd found in a neglected corner of the Sterling Manor attic. The attic, Madame Dubois had said, was a place "best left undisturbed." But Isabelle, fueled by the fragments of truth she had pieced together, was beyond heeding warnings.

The photograph showed two men, younger versions of themselves, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a vineyard. One was undeniably her father, Henri Moreau, though his face was less etched with worry lines and his eyes shone with a youthful confidence that Isabelle had never witnessed. The other… was a younger, almost jovial-looking Victor Sterling. They weren’t just acquaintances; they were laughing, their arms slung casually around each other’s shoulders.

The vineyard in the background was unmistakably Moreau Vineyards.

A wave of nausea washed over Isabelle. Her mind raced, trying to reconcile this image with everything she thought she knew. Her father, the struggling aristocrat desperately clinging to his family's legacy, and Victor Sterling, the ruthless industrialist, were not just strangers thrown together by a marriage contract. They were… friends? Business partners?

She flipped the photograph over, hoping for some sort of explanation, a date, a clue. In faded ink, a single word was scrawled: "Vendange." Harvest.

She needed to see Madame Dubois.

Isabelle found her in the sprawling kitchen, overseeing the preparation of the evening meal. The clatter of pots and pans, the fragrant aroma of herbs and roasting meats, filled the air. Yet, a palpable tension clung to the room. Isabelle knew Victor’s suspicion had intensified. She could feel his gaze on her, even when he wasn’t physically present.

“Madame Dubois, may I speak with you for a moment? Privately?”

The housekeeper’s face, normally a mask of composed neutrality, flickered with a hint of concern. She nodded curtly to the kitchen staff, then led Isabelle to a small, secluded pantry.

“What is it, Mademoiselle? You look troubled.”

Isabelle held out the photograph. “I found this in the attic. Can you explain it?”

Madame Dubois took the photograph, her expression hardening as she examined it. A long silence stretched between them.

“Where did you find this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It doesn’t matter. What does it mean? My father… and Victor? They knew each other before? Before…” Isabelle trailed off, unable to articulate the full weight of her suspicion.

Madame Dubois sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “They knew each other, yes. They were… close. In their youth.”

“Close how? Business partners? Friends?”

“Both, Mademoiselle. Henri Moreau and Victor Sterling were… inseparable for a time. They shared dreams, ambitions. Your father's vineyard was struggling even then. Victor, with his family's growing wealth, offered assistance.”

Isabelle felt as if the floor had just been pulled out from under her. "Assistance? My father never mentioned any assistance from the Sterlings. He spoke of the family name, of tradition, of…"

“Of pride,” Madame Dubois finished, her gaze unwavering. “Your father was a proud man, Mademoiselle. He would never admit to accepting charity, even from a friend. Especially when that friendship turned… sour.”

“Sour? What happened?”

Madame Dubois hesitated. “It is a long and complicated story, Mademoiselle. A story of ambition, betrayal, and… a great deal of money.”

Isabelle pressed, her voice trembling. “Please, tell me. I need to know the truth.”

The housekeeper took a deep breath. "The Sterlings, even back then, were… aggressive in their pursuit of wealth. Victor’s father, Edgar Sterling, saw the potential in Moreau Vineyards. Not just for the wine, which was, of course, excellent, but for the land itself. He wanted to expand his own holdings, to consolidate his power in the region."

“He wanted to buy Moreau Vineyards?”

“He did. And he made your father an offer. A very generous offer, by all accounts. But your father refused. He wouldn't sell the land that had been in his family for generations."

"So, what happened?" Isabelle asked, dread tightening her chest.

“Victor tried to intercede, to convince your father to see reason. He argued that selling would secure your family's future, that it was the pragmatic choice. But your father wouldn’t budge. Their friendship fractured. Accusations were made. Words were spoken that could never be taken back."

“What kind of accusations?”

Madame Dubois’s eyes clouded with pain. “Accusations of… sabotage. Whispers that the Sterlings were somehow responsible for the series of unfortunate events that plagued Moreau Vineyards in the years following your father’s refusal.”

"Sabotage? You mean… they deliberately tried to ruin my family’s business?"

Madame Dubois didn't answer directly. "There were crop failures, fires, accidents. Nothing that could be directly linked to the Sterlings, of course. But the rumors persisted. Your father became increasingly paranoid, convinced that Victor had betrayed him."

Isabelle felt a cold dread creep into her bones. This explained so much – her father’s bitterness towards Victor, his relentless pressure on her to accept the marriage proposal, the lingering sense of unease that had always pervaded her childhood. He hadn't just been desperate to save the family; he had been settling a score.

“And my mother? Did she know about all of this?”

"Your mother... she suspected. She tried to mediate, to bring your father and Victor together. But the rift was too deep. The damage was done. She was heartbroken to see your father consumed by his hatred."

Isabelle’s mind reeled. She had been living a lie, a carefully constructed illusion built on decades of deception and resentment. Her marriage to Victor wasn’t just a cold business transaction; it was the culmination of a long and bitter feud, a twisted act of revenge orchestrated by her own father.

But there was more. She could feel it.

“And what about Victor’s first wife? Elise?” Isabelle asked, her voice barely a whisper. “What does she have to do with all of this?”

Madame Dubois’s face paled. “That is a story for another time, Mademoiselle. A story best left buried.”

“No. I need to know. Everything.”

The housekeeper hesitated, then sighed, her shoulders slumping with defeat. "Elise… she was… complicated. She was… very close to your father."

Isabelle frowned, confused. "Close how?"

Madame Dubois looked away, her gaze fixed on some distant point. "Before she met Victor, Elise… she was… involved with your father."

The words hit Isabelle like a physical blow. Her breath caught in her throat. “You’re saying… my father and Victor’s first wife…”

Madame Dubois nodded slowly. "They were lovers. For a time. It was… a scandal. A small one, quickly hushed up. But it happened."

Isabelle sank onto a nearby stool, her legs suddenly weak. The pieces of the puzzle were finally falling into place, forming a grotesque and horrifying picture. Victor, betrayed by his best friend and the woman he loved. Her father, consumed by hatred and a desire for revenge. And her, a pawn in their twisted game, trapped in a gilded cage of their making.

The truth was a shattered mirror, reflecting a distorted image of her past and present. The weight of roses, once a symbol of beauty and romance, had become a crushing burden.

She had to get out. She had to escape this web of lies and deceit before it consumed her entirely. But how? Victor would never let her go easily. She was his wife, his property, a symbol of his victory over the Moreaus.

As she left the kitchen and headed towards the library, she knew that confronting Victor was inevitable. She needed to be prepared. And there was only one way to be prepared – to uncover the full extent of his secrets, to expose the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of his carefully constructed world.

She stepped into the library and headed for the section on Sterling family history. She needed to know everything, no matter how painful. She pulled out the first book she saw, its leather cover worn and cracked with age. As she opened it, a folded piece of paper slipped out. She picked it up, her heart pounding in her chest.

It was a letter. Addressed to her father. And signed…

*Victor.*

The first line of the letter was enough to send a shiver down her spine: "Henri, I know about Elise..."

Isabelle knew she was about to enter a dangerous new game. She could feel it.

**[End of Chapter 16]**