Chapter 1 — The Inheritance

Chloe

Chloe Bennett stared at the email on her laptop screen, her hands trembling slightly as she re-read the words that had just upended her life. The lawyer’s formal phrasing cut through her disbelief with clinical precision: "In accordance with the wishes of the late Richard Bennett, his daughter, Chloe Bennett, is hereby notified of her inheritance—an Italian vineyard estate located in the region of Tuscany." An Italian vineyard? Her father, the man who used to forget her birthday, had owned an Italian vineyard?

She sat back in her chair, the dull hum of New York traffic filtering through the cracked window of her studio apartment. The disconnect between her cramped, urban reality and the lush, sun-drenched image of a vineyard couldn’t have been starker. A breeze stirred the papers on her desk, carrying with it the faint smell of exhaust and the distant clamor of a car horn. It grounded her in the present, even as her thoughts spiraled into the past.

Her father’s death had been sudden—a heart attack during an afternoon walk, the lawyer had explained. There had been no warning, no time for goodbyes or even a final conversation to hint at this hidden piece of his life. Just a phone call from a stranger informing her that the man she’d spent her life trying to understand was gone, leaving behind more questions than answers.

Chloe’s gaze drifted to the corner of her desk, where an old photograph of her and her father was wedged into the edge of her mirror. She had been nine, grinning wide with a missing front tooth, as he helped her balance on a wobbly bike. It was one of the few tangible memories she had of him being present, the warmth of his laughter etched into her mind as vividly as the faded colors of the photograph. Moments like those were rare. More often than not, he’d been distant, wrapped up in work or projects she wasn’t privy to, leaving her to wonder what occupied the spaces of his mind he never shared.

Selfishly, she’d hoped that sorting through his belongings back in Boston would provide some clarity, some tangible thread to pull on that would unravel the mystery of who Richard Bennett had really been. But there had been nothing—no journals, no letters, no confessions. And now, this. A vineyard.

She scrolled down the email, noting the various attachments: photos of the property, legal documents, and details about the estate’s history. A single image caught her eye—a sprawling vineyard framed by rolling hills, bathed in golden light. At its center stood a weathered villa, its terracotta roof tiles chipped and faded. It was beautiful in a way that felt almost fictional, as though it belonged to a postcard rather than her life. Her finger hovered over the screen before she clicked the attachment closed.

Her first instinct was to sell it. Whatever sentimental attachment her father might have had to the vineyard—and clearly, he’d had enough to keep it hidden from her—she didn’t share it. She had a job, albeit an unfulfilling one, a life built on the other side of the world. The thought of uprooting herself to deal with this estate was laughable. And yet, as she sat there, staring at the faint coffee ring on her desk and the dying houseplant in the corner, an unfamiliar voice whispered in the back of her mind: Go.

Chloe shook her head, trying to dispel the thought. What good would come of it? She didn’t even speak Italian, let alone know anything about vineyards. The pragmatic part of her brain began drafting an email to the lawyer, instructing him to handle the sale. But as her fingers hovered over the keys, she paused.

What if there was more to this than just a vineyard? What if it could answer some of the questions that had haunted her since she was a child? Why her father had been so distant, why he’d always seemed like a man carrying a weight he couldn’t share. She thought back to the rare moments of warmth between them—brief glimpses of the man he might have been before whatever had come to define him.

Chloe leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples as the questions swirled. The whisper in her mind grew louder, more insistent. Maybe she didn’t need trust—maybe she just needed time. A week, she told herself. She’d go for one week, see the property, and gather enough information to make an informed decision.

By the next morning, the ticket was booked, her suitcase packed, and her landlord notified. Standing in the check-in line at JFK, she felt a pang of guilt for how impulsively she’d left things. Her boss had been less than understanding when she’d called to say she needed time off, and she could still hear his snide comment about "millennials and their journeys of self-discovery" ringing in her ears. She’d brushed it off at the time, but now, surrounded by travelers with their neatly organized carry-ons and purposeful strides, she felt like a fraud. What was she even hoping to find in Italy?

As the plane lifted off, Chloe stared out the window, watching the city shrink beneath her. The hum of the engines and the sudden weightlessness in her stomach mirrored the uncertainty swirling in her chest. Somewhere between the strained attempts at sleep and the unremarkable airline meals, she allowed herself to think about the vineyard—its wild beauty, its secrets, and the echoes of her father she might find there.

When she finally stepped off the train in the nearest village, Chloe wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming beauty of the Tuscan countryside. The late afternoon sun painted the hills in shades of gold and olive green, with rows of grapevines stretching toward the horizon like lines of poetry etched into the earth. A faint breeze carried the scent of fresh herbs and sun-warmed soil, and the cicadas hummed a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

Her taxi driver, a gruff but kind man with heavily accented English, greeted her with a warm smile before whisking her away down winding roads that seemed to narrow with every turn. The landscape blurred past the window—rolling hills, terracotta rooftops, and the occasional burst of wildflowers breaking through the earth like promises of renewal. It was a world she had only ever seen in movies, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to wonder if she could ever belong here.

Finally, the car pulled up to the estate’s gates. Chloe stepped out, squinting against the sunlight as she took in the sight before her. The vineyard was a mix of wild beauty and neglect. Vines tangled with weeds, their leaves curling toward the sun as though defying the years of abandonment. The villa, once grand, now bore the marks of time and indifference—peeling shutters, faded frescoes, and ivy creeping up its stone walls.

Chloe stood there for a moment, frozen. The air carried the faint tang of fermenting grapes and the earthy richness of the soil, scents that mingled with the hum of distant cicadas. She felt a strange mix of awe and trepidation, as though the land itself were holding its breath, waiting to see what she would do.

Stepping through the gates, she let her fingers brush against the rough bark of an olive tree, the sensation grounding her as she crossed the threshold into a new chapter of her life. Her sneakers crunched against the gravel path leading to the villa’s front door, and her heart pounded in her chest. This wasn’t just a piece of property; it was a world unto itself, brimming with untold stories and hidden secrets.

As she reached for the door handle, Chloe paused, inhaling deeply. The scent of the wood, sunbaked and timeworn, mingled with a faint trace of mildew. Taking one last steadying breath, she pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The air was cool and quiet, the kind of silence that felt alive, as though the house itself were listening. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through tall windows, casting long shadows across the tiled floor.

The villa’s interior was a study in contrasts. The grand architecture—vaulted ceilings, arched doorways, and intricate moldings—clashed with the signs of neglect. Furniture was covered in white sheets, and the faint smell of mildew clung to the air. Chloe wandered from room to room, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness.

It wasn’t until she reached what appeared to be a study that she stopped. The room was smaller, cozier than the others, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a heavy wooden desk that seemed to anchor the space. On the wall hung a faded map of the vineyard, its edges curling with age. Chloe stepped closer, her gaze drawn to the desk. A single drawer was locked, its brass handle gleaming as though daring her to try and open it.

Her hand hovered over the drawer for a moment before she pulled it away. There would be time for that later. For now, she needed to let the reality of this place sink in. Sitting down in the room’s single armchair, Chloe leaned back and closed her eyes, the weight of her decision finally settling over her. Whatever secrets her father had hidden here, she would find them. She had to. And maybe, just maybe, she would find a piece of herself in the process.