The whole crowd seems to hold its breath as one, myself included, as Alexander finishes sampling the final course. So far, the whole tasting has been done in utter silence. We all watch the judges’ faces—well, mostly Alexander’s—for their reactions. But Alexander has a poker face to rival my father’s. He doesn’t let a single emotion slip through as he samples plate after plate of food, both from Tony and from other judges. Along with the food, of course, he sips the wines too, and I can’t help the way my heart rabbit-kicks in my chest every time I watch him take a sip of my wine, to wash down Tony’s appetizers.

He’s been taking notes as he goes, too. I notice that after the last few of Tony’s courses—the ones in which my wine features as an ingredient as well as a pairing—he writes for an especially long time. I tell myself that’s a good thing. That he’s making sure he fits in all the compliments he plans to give us when it’s time to give his notes.

Finally, the last courses have been served, and it’s time to hear from the judges. Alexander goes first. He asks all the chefs and sommeliers to come up to the stage. I join Tony, heart racing, as Alexander begins going down the line, giving each of the chefs and vintners his opinion. Some fare better than others—by the time Alexander finishes reading off some of his notes, there are more than a few tears being choked back by hopeful chefs who fell hard on their behinds here.

I can only pray Tony isn’t one of them. That he doesn’t drag my wines down with him, if he choked today.

No, I reassure myself. I have confidence in him.

Finally, Alexander reaches us. He glances first at Tony, then at me. Unlike when I introduced myself to him earlier, when he was all smiles, Alexander’s gaze glides quickly over mine and back to his notes. I tell myself that’s just him maintaining a good poker face. That he doesn’t want to reveal anything to the audience before he speaks.

Really, it was my first indication something had gone wrong.

“I was really impressed by your flavors, Tony,” Alexander says. “A couple of the courses could have used different preparations—” and he lists off his suggestions, everything from adjusting the searing temperature of the beef course to not being so shy with his spices in a few of the hotter dishes. “But where you really fell short today, unfortunately, as in your choice of wines,” Alexander finishes, and my lips part in shock.

All at once, my hopes crash down to the floor. My stomach seems to sink even lower, all the way down to the sub-basement level. What?

Through a ringing in my ears, I watch as Alexander turns to address me directly.

“Holly, as I mentioned earlier, I had high hopes for your wines today, but after trying them, I must admit, I’m not sure Spring Valley has the chops to cut it in competition with any of the more established vineyards represented here. Your Merlot was overly sweet and single-note; your Cab was dry and far too oaked; your Sauvignon practically tasted off, for god’s sake. I expected more from one of Paso Robles’ biggest vineyards. I must admit, I’m disappointed.” His eyes flash back to Tony. “Choose a better partner next time, for your sake.”

With that, Alexander moves on to the next contestant, and my legs shake beneath me, hardly able to keep me upright as every hope and dream I’d cherished this weekend crashes to the floor around me. No. No, no, no…

This weekend was meant to be my family’s big break. Our emergence onto the national stage. We were supposed to be recognized for all the hard work we’ve done over the years, for how hard we’ve worked to put ourselves on the map in spite of the high costs and tough competition in the winery industry. In spite of being backstabbed and blackmailed at every turn by some of our more cutthroat competitors.

Now, instead, we’ve been humiliated. Crushed, and in such a public, well-publicized way, that I doubt anyone is ever going to buy a bottle of our wine again.

I stare out across the crowd, panicked. Already I can see heads turning, mouths flapping as whispers spread throughout the hall. The gossip chain is already in action. Spreading the word of Spring Valley’s defeat. I won’t be surprised if my cell phone starts buzzing off the hook before I even make it back to the table where I hung my purse—my parents having already heard about his humiliating defeat and calling to demand a breakdown, in detail, of how this could have happened.

Maybe we were wrong, I think, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes. Maybe we don’t have what it takes. Maybe our wines were never any better than our competitors—or even half as good as theirs. Maybe I was blinded by my own biases about them too, the same way that I was blinded by my parents’ beliefs about Darius.

Could our wine really be that terrible? I checked the bottles I gave Tony myself this morning. Could some of them have been corked or spoiled somehow? But surely Tony would have taste-tested them before he served each course. So that doesn’t make sense…

I swallow hard and blink to stave off tears, as the other judges parade down the line. My ears ring too loudly for me to catch much of what they say, but it’s all in the same vein as Alexander’s comments. They adored his food, but hated my wines. One of the food reviewers flashes me a pitying smile, and somehow that’s worse than any disdain they could have thrown my way.

They view me as an interloper. Some upstart from a vineyard that’s not recognized like the other ones here. A girl pretending she belongs here when she really doesn’t.

It stings. But I maintain my best poker face, at least until the award ribbons are handed out. Tony wrangles an honorable mention, though other chefs place in first, second and third. Chefs who chose better partners, I guess. Chefs who didn’t pair up with the biggest loser vineyard around.

The moment the ceremony is over, Tony beelines for the doors, but I jog after him to catch his elbow. If nothing else, I need to apologize for what just happened.

“Tony, I’m so sorry,” I blurt. “I know how much this meant to you. I hope Alexander was right; that he can still see the promise in your cooking, despite what happened with my…” I choke on the words, can’t quite get them out. I clear my throat hard and shake my head. “Despite my wines’ failures.”

To my surprise, though, Tony just shrugs, as he tucks his honorable mention medallion into his pocket. “It’s all right, Holly. These things happen. No harm, no foul.”

“But…” My eyes widen. “I thought this competition meant the world to you.”

“I still came out all right, didn’t I?” His eyes flicker over mine, a hardness in them that I hadn’t spotted before. But when he notices my genuine sorrow, a little chink in that armor appears. “I’m sorry, Holly. Better luck next time.” With that, he turns to stride out of the ballroom.

My mouth falls open. Better luck next time? That’s it? After I ruined his chances at worldwide stardom; at becoming the next It Chef? I watch him hurry out of the room for a moment, debating. And then my legs take over and speed after him, thinking on my behalf. I need to talk to him. Figure out how this happened, why. Are my wines really that bad? Did Tony just not want to tell me, or did he think they were decent too, and if so, why did Alexander disagree so wholeheartedly?

More than that, why doesn’t Tony seem more crushed now?

But when I exit into the lobby and glance around, I don’t see him. I check the elevator bank, find it empty, all the elevators apparently sitting still on higher floors. I’m just turning around to head back into the lobby and see if maybe Tony stepped outside into the gardens instead, when a voice filters down the hall. Muffled, yet familiar.

I step back up the hall, and find the door into the stairwell cracked open a hair. Through it comes Tony’s voice.

“Yes, it’s done,” Tony is saying.

I freeze in place. Once more, I feel guilty about being caught here, about eavesdropping. But there’s something in Tony’s voice that sounds off; sounds almost guilty. So I press my ear to the crack, holding my breath.

“She doesn’t suspect a thing, Mr. Bantham,” he’s saying, and that’s when my heart lodges in my chest.

I stand there, eyes huge as saucers, struggling to think. Bantham? Why is Tony talking to Mr. Bantham? And more than that, which Bantham? Darius is back there in the ballroom; I glimpsed him before I left, scanning the crowd for me. I didn’t want to talk to him yet. I couldn’t look him in the eye, not after the humiliating beat-down I just received. Pity was bad enough from the judges; I couldn’t stand it from Darius.

“This had better be worth it, is all I’m saying,” Tony carries on, and I catch my breath in order to hear better. “I just torpedoed my own food in front of Alexander fucking Microff. When you told me you wanted me to swap out her wines, I didn’t think it would be for complete and utter garbage, Bantham.”

I press my ear so hard to the door crack that I hear a murmur from Tony’s phone line. At the same time, fire erupts in my stomach. My hands ball into tight fists. That fucking rat.

Suddenly, everything clicks into place. It wasn’t my wine Tony served Alexander. It was some other wine, some crappy kind that Martin fucking Bantham himself decided on. No wonder it was so horrible Alexander had to take two whole minutes of his review time to explain to me what a disaster it tasted like.

“That’s right,” Tony says, voice raised now. “So not only do I expect the price you promised me, I also expect the head chef position at your friend’s restaurant.”

All this over a promotion. Tony threw me under the bus just for a head chef position. I wonder what restaurant owner is close enough friends with Martin Bantham that he’d do him a favor this big. Or who knows. Knowing Martin, maybe he plans to throw Tony under the bus the same way he’s been doing to my family all this time. Maybe he’s going to leave Tony high and dry, humiliated in front of Alexander and with no backup career to boot.

It would serve Tony right.

I’ve heard enough. I reach out to grab the doorknob, ready to charge in there and confront Tony myself, throw that lying creep’s damn phone down the stairwell with Mr. Bantham still lingering on the other end.

That’s when a firm hand wraps around my wrist. I whip around to find Darius beside me, his dark eyes narrowed with warning.

“Holly. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says.

At the sound of his voice, I hear Tony mumble something, probably ending his phone call again. I don’t care about being caught anymore. I don’t care about anything. I take all the pain, all the rage, all the fucking fury at having my dreams stolen out from under me, and I aim them straight at the son of the man who orchestrated all of it.

“Tell me you weren’t in on this, Darius,” I spit.

His eyes widen in surprise. ”Holly—”

“No, don’t you fucking Holly me,” I shout. In the distance, I can hear footsteps, headed away, upstairs. Tony, most likely, running away from the utter mess he’s created. But it doesn’t matter. The damage is done now. “Do you know what your father just did?” I wrench my arm free from his grip and jab a finger into Darius’s chest. “He just switched my fucking wines out, Darius. He paid off Tony Chambers in order to sabotage me out there, in front of everyone.”

“Holly, that’s crazy talk?”

“Really?” I interrupt. “You don’t hear the pitter-patter of Tony right now, racing up those steps to hide in his hotel room, no doubt?” I shove open the stairwell door to shout up it. “Too late, Tony! I heard your whole bloody phone conversation, you rat.” Upstairs, somewhere high overhead, a door slams.

I whirl back toward Darius, who is staring at me, open-mouthed and stunned. “Holly, believe me, if my father really did request that from Tony, I had no idea about it.”

“Maybe not, but I should have,” I spit. “Once a Bantham, always a Bantham. That’s what my father always told me. I should have known this weekend was going too well to be believed. I should have known your family would have some dirty trick up their sleeves, just like they always do.” I narrow my eyes and go in for the kill. “Just like you always will, too, Darius. It’s in your blood.”

His eyes, once wide with shock, now flinch in hurt.

A little part of me hates myself for that. For hurting him. But a bigger part of me hates myself for falling for that. For giving into him, when I should have listened to my parents. I should have stayed away. How can the son of someone like Martin Bantham ever truly be trusted?

“Goodbye, Darius,” I say, and with that, I storm away from him, away from the stairwell and Tony and everyone in this damn hotel. I don’t stop walking until I’m outside, halfway across the orchard, nobody around to hear me except for the birds chittering among the distant grape vines, and the bright sun beating down overhead, oddly cheery for the setting.

Only then, alone in the gardens with my own thoughts, do I allow myself to start to cry.