Bianca nodded gently. “That’s the risk. But doing nothing—carrying it alone—that’s what’s already making it worse.”
Mila’s shoulders sank. “I don’t want it to consume my mind—control my life anymore.”
Bianca looked at Mila, her eyes gentle. “Then let’s take your control back. On your terms.”
Mila looked at her mother for a long moment. Bianca hoped that she knew there was no judgment—only fierce love.
“What’s the first step?” she asked.
“Well … we can talk to a victim’s advocate. I’m sure there’s a center here in Sonoma County who works with survivors. They’ll know how to handle it gently, so you don’t feel any more traumatized than you already are. No pressure. Just options.”
“Should I tell Dad?”
“Only if you want to, baby.”
“I don’t.” Mila took a deep breath. “I don’t want him sharing it with Jen. I don’t like her.”
“You mentioned that before, that you don’t like her. What has she done to make you feel that way?”
Mila sighed heavily. “I heard her on the phone once with one of her girlfriends. She said something about you—that she thinks Dad is still in love with you, even though he’s mad. And she said that she was tired of living in your shadow. Tired of being compared to you.”
“She said that?” Bianca’s posture straightened, her interest piqued. Something stirred inside her, a flicker of satisfaction she tried to hide. A subtle smile crept into the corner of her mouth. She hoped Mila hadn’t noticed.Still in love with her?Even if it wasn’t true, the possibility sparked something inside her.
“Yes that, and she wished you would just go away already.”
Bianca froze. The words hit hard. A lump swelled in her throat, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Her mind raced,her thoughts scattered, then gathered around a single idea—the texts. The ones from that unknown number.Could it be her?Bianca didn’t know. But the possibility was there, and she couldn’t dismiss it.
“We won’t involve your dad just yet. We’ll do this together—you and me.”
Mila nodded. “Okay.”
Bianca felt something steadying inside her. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say it was hope.
Chapter Twenty-one
Remi
The interior of the tasting room had begun to transform as contractors moved around, measuring and planning. The place was finally coming together after weeks of work. The vision was slowly taking shape. Sunlight beamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the polished concrete floors. The scent of fresh paint was still in the air.
Remi walked the space slowly, running her hand along the edge of the custom walnut bar—a design she and Paloma had dreamed up, after a long evening of tasting wine blends. She wanted something that would cause people to linger for hours, and this bar was it. She passed by the shelves, where bottles would soon stand, the wall where a mural would be painted by a local artist, and at the far end of the room, where tastings would occur.
Remi exhaled and stopped in the center of the room. She reflected on how she had poured everything into this place—her money, her energy, and all her hope. She turned as the foreman entered with a clipboard. He gave her a few updates on the plumbing. Remi nodded, but her thoughts had drifted. She thought of Mila. It was a few days since that brief text:“Made it, Aunt Remi. I’m okay.”But there had been no follow-up.
She wondered if Mila had seen her mother yet. If they’d sat down and talked. If she’d told Bianca about what she’d gone through over Christmas break. Remi tried not to worry, and she certainly didn’t want to intrude. She wanted to be a part of Mila’s next steps, to help her through it, but it wasn’t her place to interfere. It was up to Bianca to help navigate her daughter’s healing, and she hoped that she would.
She sent her a text:I hope you’re okay, sweetheart. Just checking on you.
She turned away from the window and headed toward the storage area in the back. She picked up the stack of mail and sorted through it. A colorful postcard inviting her to a winery networking mixer was the first to capture her attention. The words, “wine tasting, light eats, and an opportunity to connect with other industry professionals,” were sprawled across the front of it.
She took a picture of it and sent it to Paloma, with a simple text:Let’s go!
Her response was swift:Got the same invitation. We’re there!
Remi smiled to herself. Working with Paloma came naturally. Their partnership was built on trust, mutual respect, and open communication—qualities Remi deeply valued. She’d learned so much from her. And they jived. They always seemed to be on the same page about things.
As she tossed the postcard aside and reached for a roll of blueprints, her phone buzzed again. It was a reply from Mila:Everything’s fine, Aunt Remi. I saw her. We talked. I’ll tell you more later.
Remi exhaled, relieved. When she looked up, Leo was peering into the window. She waved him in.