Forty-eight hours passed like the wind in the rainy spring air—swift, silent, and smothering. It was as if the fog itself wrapped around Leonardo Calvino's chest, tightening with every hour that led to this moment.
The broadcast.
News vans crowded the winding driveway of the Vinoir estate before sunrise. Cameramen scurried like ants over marble steps, wires and microphones tangled underfoot, as reporters primped in reflections of polished black SUVs. It was a rare sight: both the Vinoir and Calvino families, elusive and powerful, prepared to break their years of silence since the death of Nikko Vinoir. To the media, it was gold.
Leo stood behind the grand oak podium on the terrace, the morning sun veiled in thick gray clouds behind him. He had practiced this speech in the mirror every hour, memorizing the script written by PR teams, lawyers, and his own twisted ambition.
But when the time came, it wasn't the rehearsed words that slipped past his lips—it was something sharper.
"I want to bring my fiancée home," he began, his voice smooth as velvet but lined with arrogance. "Our families belong together, and Isabella knows her duty. She'll come back. This is all she knows."
Cameras flashed.
A breeze rustled the trees behind him, but no one could hear nature over the sound of Leo's ego stretching across the estate.
"After the death of her brother, she has been a bit... unbalanced. But we understand her grief. We know she loves her family. And her family only wants her safe, here, with us."
He let a beat of silence hang before delivering the last line like a transaction.
"If anyone has information about her whereabouts, please come forward. There will be compensation. Handsomely. Thank you."
As the final flashes died, the air still thick with false sympathy, Leo turned back toward the grand entrance where the Vinoirs stood waiting.
Zahara's eyes shimmered, her cheeks streaked with perfect tears. Giovanni held her close for the cameras, his face unreadable. Together, they presented the illusion of unity.
The moment the reporters stepped off the estate grounds, Leo pulled back from Giovanni's embrace.
"They're gone," he said, brushing imaginary lint from his coat.
Zahara sniffed and composed herself, spine snapping back into its usual Victorian elegance.
"Do you think that will be enough?" she asked, voice hushed, scanning the area one last time.
"I want her found. Whatever our intentions are, she is still our daughter."
"She will come back. Safe," Leo replied, smugly smoothing his collar. "And if she doesn't, then I'll find her myself."
---
Inside Leo's private study, the walls that once echoed with quiet luxury now reverberated with his fury.
Leo slammed his fist onto the desk, rattling a crystal decanter. "Where is she?"
One Month Later
The broadcast had aired on every major network. Across states. Across time zones. Translated. Reposted. Replayed.
Still, she had not returned.
Leo sat in the leather armchair of his study, bathed in the low amber light of dusk. A crystal tumbler of bourbon rested in his hand, untouched.
He hadn't always been like this.
There was a time when Leonardo Calvino was the golden boy. The boy with the soft eyes and quick smile. The one who brought Isabella lavender from his mother's garden when they were kids. The one who used to sneak her chocolates during formal dinners. He'd loved her, in his own strange, possessive way, long before anyone had ever arranged anything.
But then his world had started to crack.
His father, the former head of Calvino Wines, had gambled away millions in silent debts that clawed their way into Leo's inheritance. For years, their family projected an image of wealth, but behind closed doors, vineyards were sold. Estates pawned. Employees laid off.
The engagement to Isabella had been more than a romantic match. It was a lifeline.
The Vinoirs were the number one wine-producing family in the country. With Isabella as his wife, Leo would not only regain power—but he would gain access to the future of both empires.
When Nikko died, Leo knew the Vinoirs would come looking for someone to carry the legacy. He made himself available. Perfect. Strategic. He offered his loyalty. His name. His charm.
But Isabella never truly accepted him. Not as a partner. Not as a man.
And that rejection twisted something inside him.
The boy with the soft eyes became a man with sharp edges.
"Still no sign of her?" Leo snapped, pacing in front of the fireplace.
"No, sir," one of his guards answered carefully. "We have checked all of California. There's no trace of her. No one in any of the towns recognized her photo."
Leo slammed his fist onto the desk, rattling a crystal decanter.
"THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" he roared. "FIND HER! SHE BELONGS TO ME!"
The words echoed like thunder through the manor.
The guards stiffened, nodded, and silently left the room.
Leo dropped onto the couch, gripping the armrest like it might crack under the pressure of his rage.
He had always loved her. In his own way.
But love, to Leo, meant possession. Power. Stability.
And if he couldn't have her willing...
He would have her anyway.
A faded sprig of dried lavender still lay pressed between two pages of a book on his shelf. Once given to her in innocence. Now, a relic of the boy he no longer was.
"She can't hide forever," he muttered to himself, jaw tight. "She'll come back... even if I have to drag her."
---
***Zahara's Private Ritual***
The Vinoir estate had fallen into a strange, hollow quiet. No guards surrounding the property. No cooks in the kitchen. No servants in the halls. Just stone and silence. Everyone was out searching for the heir.
Zahara moved like a ghost through the corridors, untouched by time. She had not left the estate in days. Each morning she would return to the same room—Isabella's room. Once filled with warmth and laughter, now it remained a frozen relic of the past.
She locked the door behind her, dropped the key into her pocket, and sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped as if in prayer. She wasn't sure if she prayed to the gods or to the memory of the daughter she'd raised.
"Where are you, Isabella," she whispered, voice raw. "Please... come home. I just want to make it right."
But even she didn't know if that was the truth.
Her hands trailed along the spines of old books and photo frames. She searched for clues—a letter, a journal, anything that might give her a glimpse into where Isabella had gone. What she was thinking. Why she had truly run.
But she always came up empty-handed.
A soft knock at the door startled her. She turned quickly to see a guard had entered without making a sound, bowing his head as he stepped inside.
He whispered something low in her ear.
Zahara's breath caught.
Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed.
A slow, hopeful smile crept onto her lips.
"Soon," she whispered, more to herself than anyone. "She will be home."
And in that smile—there was no mother.
Only a queen reclaiming her crown.
YOU ARE READING
Fermented Desires
Fantasy***For Mature Audience. MATURE THEMES & LANGUAGE*** Isabella Vinoir was supposed to be the perfect heiress-obedient, untouched, and married to a man she didn't love. Instead, she ran. Now she's rebuilding her life in a new town, sharing a house wit...
