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The Art of Portugal

Summary: While covering a FIFA equity campaign in Lisbon, Noa’s plans are upended—again—not just by a sudden detour to Porto for Rafa’s exclusive wine tasting, but by Damien Cole’s quiet reentry into her orbit.

Word Count: 12,311k

Face Claims: Sinqua Walls

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A/N: Writing about new crushes is eek! I hope you enjoy. I’ve been trying to upload this for hours, so if anything looks weird, please know it’s not for lack of trying (reupload 9000 times, cache-clearing changing browsers, laptop to mobile and back, etc.).

Location: Copenhagen

The light rain pattered softly against the window panel, as Noa lay awake cocooned in her blanket, tossing and turning amongst the soft white linen sheets before the alarm rang.

The email came at 5:42 a.m., Copenhagen time.

Subject: Portugal Itinerary – Urgent

Vivian never slept, apparently. Or maybe she didn’t believe her team deserved to.

Noa sat upright in bed, tired-eyed, and opened the message.

Noa, I hope you are well. Apologies for the late email, I just made it to Istanbul and Betty just made the final itinerary arrangement that will be shared with each team member. Yours as is follows: Lisbon. Portugal Women’s National Team match. Align with FIFA’s gender equity initiative. Full brief attached. Miles will join. Flights booked. -V

Miles.

She stared at the screen for a long second. Miles, no last name, was a ghost as far as she was concerned. He never did anything. He never showed up anywhere — unless you counted that brief Copenhagen cameo with Niko. He just didn’t exist. He was like Tommy from Martin. And she was quite sick of pretending he was worth a damn to any of these assignments. And if anyone should know that — it was thee Vivian Marchand.

Groaning at her new predicament, another assignment with Miles no last name, Noa quickly hopped out of bed to get the day over before it began.

The hotel desk clerk smiled politely as she checked out, offering a small nod. There was a Danish efficiency to the process — receipt printed, taxi summoned, itinerary confirmed.

By 8:15, she was on her way. Copenhagen’s light drizzle and gray skies peeled away as she cabbed to the airport. By the time her flight touched down in Lisbon, she was smacked with blazing heat of summer, sun shining high above the Tagus, and the city’s cobbled streets.

She relaxed her shoulders the moment she stepped outside. For the first time in days, she felt relief. A driver met her at Humberto Delgado Airport with a placard—Ms. Noa Jameson—and whisked her through the city.

The car ride from the airport was silent except for the driver’s quiet fado playing through the speakers — mournful, beautiful, indulgently sad. Noa watched the city of Lisbon blur around her like the world’s cutest postcard: tiled façades in faded pastels, narrow alleyways full with drying laundry, children in football kits kicking balls against crumbling church walls.

The car wound its way into the Alfama district, Lisbon’s oldest quarter, where the streets grew into narrow maze. At the top of Lisbon’s highest hill, tucked within the walls of St. George’s Castle, hidden behind two sets of giant red double-doors, the car stopped in front of a fountain-filled courtyard.

Palácio Belmonte.

Built in 1449 for the Cabral family — Pedro Cabral who later discovered Brazil. Each of the 10-guest suites at the Belmonte bore the name of an artist, writer, inventor, philosopher, or adventurer from Lisbon.

In the garden, a short, stout bellhop greeted Noa and guided her through a terraced courtyard. They passed hand-painted azulejos, a sleek black swimming pool and pink paper flowers, heading toward ten suites, all individual in character and spacious.

Walking through the doors to Palácio Belmonte, natural light flooded the room, and silence filled the halls. Intricate blue Portuguese tile murals adorned the walls and ceilings. The spaces were minimally furnished with a mixture of antique and contemporary furniture.

Noa finally reached the Amadeo Souza Cardoso Suite. The Presidential suite. She thanked the bellhop, dropped her bag at the door and slowly moved through the space. It was extraordinary. The room was lined with a collection of 18th century Azulejo tile panels. A large personal library! Unspeakably high ceilings, a living room with a fireplace, and a dining room. A queen size half-canopied bed hung with deep red silks. Running along the length of the suite there was a large veranda with a stunning view of the garden that took her breath away.

Time ticked away as she took it all in, but she had work to do. She pulled her laptop from her carry-on, set her sunglasses on the table and took a seat at the writing desk (from a 19th century Portuguese ship). She typed in the Zoom link. Of course she was a bit too early, but that gave her just enough time to admire her reflection on the empty pre-call screen.

Minutes later, Vivian’s voice crackled through the Zoom video, brisk and no-nonsense from a mosaic-tiled office overlooking the Bosphorus. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the pale brownish yellow light of Istanbul’s morning, where seagulls circled above the domes. Vivian wore cream silk wide-leg trousers and a bone-white sleeveless blouse — hair, silk-pressed, not a strand out of place. Her gaze was sharp, unwavering as she greeted a grid of tired faces across different time zones.

“All right, team. We’re entering the final push before mid-year review,” Vivian began. “Assignments are out.”

Noa sat up straighter, waiting.

Vivian glanced off-camera, then continued.

“Sebastian — Zurich. The Weltklasse Zürich — Diamond League track and field meet. This event features elite athletes and combines athleticism with high-tech elements, including video replay and live scoring systems. I want interviews, not just access.”

Sebastian nodded once, already scribbling notes.

“Maya-Rose — Lyon. You’ll be embedded with Olympique Lyonnais Féminin for the UEFA innovation week. Focus on legacy-building, next-gen leadership, and UEFA’s equity investment arm.”

Maya-Rose’s eyebrows lifted slightly, before she straightened her posture and quickly nodded.

“Georgia-Louise — Royal Ascot. Yes, hats are required. No, you’re not just there for the photo ops with the British Royal Family. This is about the racing as much as your aristocratic pedigree as a Windsor. The youth partnership reveal is scheduled for Day Three — work the sponsor circle.”

“Noa…”

Noa blinked awake.

Vivian looked straight into the camera.

“Noa — Portugal v. Copenhagen women’s match in Lisbon. FIFA’s watching this one closely — gender equity activations, visibility push. You’re our anchor.”

“Great,” Noa murmured, muting herself quickly.

Vivian looked down at her notes, then back up. “Now where is… Miles—” Her gaze narrowed in on the Zoom screen as she tapped her pen on the table lost in a momentary thought — like she was willing Miles, no last name, to appear from thin air.

Vivian’s voice cut clean through the grid of expressions, as she closed her eyes and inhaled. The exhale rang through the shake of her shoulders as she announced, “Miles will not be joining us this go round.”

Sebastian and Georgia-Louise immediately narrowed in on each other mid-screen, sharing an amused smirk between the two of them.

A sharp, sputtering snort that echoed through the call, as Maya-Rose nearly spit out her coffee.

A large exasperated sigh escaped Noa’s lips.

Vivian gave a final long onceover to the group before she continued. “And remember, folks — it’s not just about presence. It’s about tone. Message control. Clean lines. Repeat after me: Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose."

“Hello? Repeat after me.”

“Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose,” they chimed in unison.

Noa’s mouth twitched, but she forced herself to nod at the camera, muttering a series of niceties, before clicking exit on the screen. She stood up, stretched, and peeled off her tank top. Lisbon had begun to overwhelm her with heat. She walked to the large castle doors to a large marble bathroom with an oversized bathtub and private decking area.

This time, Noa decided to gather everything she needed to settle in for a nice bath. A linen robe, a large glass of cold water, her small JBL speaker, her favorite travel oil blend. Light poured in from arched windows that opened to the private terrace where vines curled lazily toward the sun. Just as she dipped one foot into the water, her phone buzzed.

Theo.

She groaned, dried her hand, and sank into the tub and she answered.

“Excited to hear from you too, Noey,” he said.

“Sorry, I was just stepping into a luxurious bath in Lisbon,Theo.”

“A bath…. You don’t say,” he teased.

Noa could hear his smirk through the phone.

“Theo.”

“Aight, ‘low it, Noey.”

They both laughed in unison.

“There’s a chance Theresa will be in Zagreb at the match, so she wanted me to tell you.”

“Tara too?”

“Nah, Tara’s watching Wallace. I’ve got so many matches coming up, he’s going to stay with her and Cousin Archie. Isabella did last year, but she moved across the hall and got busy.”

Noa sank lower into the growing mound of bubbles, face scrunched as she funneled through her pro/con list of asking Theo any more questions.

Of course she couldn’t help herself.

“Wait—Isabella? Who’s Isabella?”

“My neighbor.”

Noa blinked. “You have a neighbor named Isabella who used to watch Wallace?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never met her.”

“Yeah, well… you’d have to decide to visit Milan, innit. Enjoy the bath. And check your email for Zagreb stuff. Theresa said she’ll call you.”

Noa rolled her eyes, “Thanks, coach.”

“Scrub up nicely, yeah? And picture me behind you…. Rubbing the kinks out of your shoulders, yeah?”

“Theo.”

“Alright. Laters.”

He hung up.

The City of Seven Hills

Location: Lisbon, Portugal

Noa tried to shake her growing sour mood with a bit of sightseeing. This was Copenhagen doom and Lisbon was much too bright and cheery for her to be glum.

She had the hotel call a cab, and soon she was winding past Alfama again, this time seated behind a driver with a thick mustache and Teena Marie’s Portuguese Love. Her mom would love this, Noa thought to herself.

The first stop was Belém Tower. Noa maneuvered through several school groups and camera-toting couples to get a glimpse of a white stone relic of Portugal’s Age of Exploration against the brilliant blue of the Tagus river.

She stood alone near the water’s edge, watching the tide roll in, imagining explorers centuries ago pushing off into the unknown. She felt a strange kinship with that particular delusion — the idea that you could point your body toward something uncharted and simply go.

It honestly felt like how she was operating at her job these days.

Next came Tram 28, all yellow rattle and postcard joy. She held onto the brass rail, pretending not to notice when a group of backpackers whispered about whether she was someone famous.

She wasn’t.

But she was wearing Chanel sunglasses (one of the many gifts from Theo) and her brown skin glistened from the beams of the Portuguese sun. She let them think whatever they wanted. She was a star in her mind.

The tram wound its way through Graça, Sé, Baixa, past crumbling cathedrals and laundry-slung alleys straight to LX Factory.

Noa walked through converted warehouses pulsing with music and paint and life.

A gallery featuring women street artists caught her eye — raw, bold, brilliant. Bold prints with slogans like “Kick Like A Girl, Run Like Hell.”

Noa bought two postcards from a sulky teenager at the front desk, tucked them into her bag before grabbing a coffee.

She didn’t look at her phone for two whole hours.

By the time she returned to the hotel, her shoulders were a shade darker, and melanin rich, her skin a mix of sweat and salt, and her email inbox full of people asking for things she didn’t want to give.

Location: Estádio da Luz, The Stadium of Light

The late afternoon sun blazed down on The Estádio da Luz (Stadium of Light), a sleek, multi-tiered spaceship dropped into Lisbon.

The air was a mix of fresh grass, sunblock, and concession-stand fries. Noa flashed her VIP badge and slipped through the media tunnel. She was a ball of nervous energy, there to cover the Portuguese Women’s National Team, and their match against the Copenhagen Women’s National Team. The crowd, though not sold out, buzzed with genuine passion and excitement.

Noa walked through the VIP entrance, press badge clipped to her collar. She spoke briefly and took a few photos with the Portuguese Women’s National Team pre-match. The women were full of grit, grace and quiet fire. She was so impressed and inspired.

One of the midfielders admired her sandals. Another pointed out a photographer wearing a custom-designed bomber. Their kit caught Noa’s attention — deep red with brilliant teal accents.

“This design is incredible,” Noa said offhandedly, tracing the wave-like pattern with her fingers, before snapping a shot of the geometric sleeves.

A player nodded. “Oh! Niko Nozuka-Lindberg designed it. You know his stuff?”

Noa blinked, then smiled. “He’s a friend.”

The team insisted on a group selfie. Noa stood among them, grinning, jersey colors vibrant against the green pitch. She texted the photo to Niko with a caption:

Noa: Your threads made it to Lisbon before you did. You owe me a jersey. They’re obsessed. Nice work, superstar.

He replied within a minute.

Niko: Lisboa suits you. Tell them the teal was your idea and to save you one. And you owe me a picture wearing it.

Noa smiled and rolled her eyes, but she didn’t delete the message.

With The Ever Invincible, Damien Cole

Location: Box Seating

“Don’t look so surprised.”

The voice came from her left, and when she turned, she almost wished she hadn’t.

There, in a slim-fit tailored bold red suit, sleeves rolled, sunglasses perched on his head, lanyard swinging at his hip, with a smirk.

He took a slow sip from a cold bottled water, condensation dripping down his fingers.

“Miles is in New York—The Morning Show booked him. So, you’re stuck with me.”

Damien.

Cole.

Again.

Looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Noa didn’t reply right away. She glared at him, before giving him a once over. Small shadows that beamed from the blazing sun danced across his deep chocolate, sinfully delicious skin.

Of course he was here. Pitch-side. Smirk plastered.

“I didn’t see your name on the itinerary,” Noa said, reaching for a bottle of water from a nearby cooler.

Damien smiled, slow and maddening. He pulled his lanyard into his large hand and dragged it into Noa’s line of sight.

“Senior FIFA Representative. I am the itinerary.”

He shrugged, then popped a fry from the paper tray in his other hand.

“I move differently.” He stepped closer, voice low, invading her space.

Noa could smell the hint of a mahogany teakwood cologne.

“Noa. You seem... invested. Almost too invested, if I’m honest.”

Noa’s jaw tightened. She adjusted her purse strap.

“So you’re one of those FIFA reps — all about equity in women’s sports. Doesn’t actually believe equity is possible. Doesn’t care as long as someone else does the work.”

Damien’s smile deepened, unbothered. He glanced her over, slowly, from her deep soulful eyes to the curve of her hip beneath her outfit.

“I didn’t say that. But since you’re here, holding my feet to the fire like Hester Prynne. Miss Joan of Arc for the women’s game. Why don’t you tell me what I’m missing?” He let the words drag. “Teach me, the error of my ways, Nova.”

Noa rolled her eyes. His voice was velvet-covered steel and it grated. He was enjoying this.

“Noa,” she snapped. “It’s Noa. And I don’t owe you an explanation, Mr. Senior FIFA Representative.” She grabbed his press badge, holding it between two fingers. “So important, yet the title’s so vague.”

He plucked it back from her fingers, still smirking.

“Jack of all trades.”

“Master of none.”

“But oftentimes better than a master of none.” Damien’s eyes glinted, and he leaned in like he had something more than words to whisper. “Ooh, you feel good about that one, don’t you? Got me.”

Noa swatted at him with the back of her hand, and he ducked like she actually meant it.

“You are so childish.”

“And you’re hopelessly romantic. Idealistic.” He slid his hands into his pockets, brushing past her ever so slightly as he moved. “FIFA runs on revenue. Strategy. Heartwarming stories don’t always fill seats. Influence does. And when influence doesn’t translate to dollars, there’s no investment.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose and turned on her heel, starting toward the press box, gripping her drink. Damien followed, unfazed, matching her pace.

They looked good together. An unfortunate reality confirmed by the two photographers who snapped a shot as they passed. She didn’t stop them, but she noticed.

“Relax,” he said, chewing thoughtfully as he licked salt from his thumb. “I’m here to work. Just like you. Unlike Miles.”

“Exactly,” she snarled. “Wait. What?” She caught herself just as she realized she gave in to a small, quiet laugh. He really had it with Miles as well.

She hated that she laughed. It was just once, and quiet, but he caught it.

Location: Portugal Women’s National Team vs Copenhagen Women’s National Team

The crowd roared as the opening whistle blew, a rush of sound reverberated off the steel arches of the stadium. Damien stood next to Noa just inside the press box railing, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the field.

“You ever notice how women play like they’re not just fighting for the ball?” he said, voice low.

Noa didn’t answer, but her gaze narrowed on the pitch.

Portugal started aggressively, pressing high, pushing pace. Jéssica Silva danced along the wing, her footwork mesmerizing, slicing past defenders with a burst of speed.

“Jéssica’s fire,” Damien murmured.

“She’s a magician,” Noa replied without thinking.

Midfielder Andreia Norton took control in the center, orchestrating play like a seasoned conductor. Diana Silva continuously outpaced Copenhagen’s back line, forcing a fingertip save from the Danish goalkeeper.

Damien leaned in. “You see Nadia Gomes out wide? She’s gonna open the game up.”

And she did — a ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ cross nearly connected with Diana again, grazing the post.

Gasps rang out from the stands.

Noa let one slip, too. Damien glanced down at her, smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, like he was cataloging every reaction.

But Copenhagen wasn’t giving up either. Olivia Holdt took a shot in the 36th minute that ricocheted off the bar. Sara Holmgaard was clinical in midfield, her passing — clean and calculated, giving the Portuguese defense something to work for.

By halftime, it was 1–1. Portugal scored first from Jéssica off a counterattack, but Holdt equalized just before the break with a screaming left-footer from outside the box.

Noa watched the players retreat to their benches, sweat-drenched and full of determination.

She glanced at Damien.

He smirked, gaze lingering.

The second half exploded with near-misses, yellow cards, and a rising tension that electrified the crowd. Norton nearly scored from the edge of the box, but it skimmed wide. Gomes sent in two more perfect crosses. On the other end, Holmgaard and Holdt kept grinding for Copenhagen against Portugal’s unrelenting pace and pressure.

Noa’s body tensed with each close chance. Damien noticed.

“Breathe,” he whispered near her ear. His deep baritone sent a small chill down her spine.

Final whistle. 1–1. A draw, but it didn’t feel like it.

Damien exhaled beside her, slow and appreciative. She felt it before she heard it.

“Hell of a match,” he grinned.

“I expected nothing less.”

He turned to look at her. “You always think I’m being facetious, don’t you?”

“Aren’t you always?” she asked, but her voice was quieter now.

He didn’t answer, holding her gaze.

The Invitation

Despite the game ending in a tense draw, the players were proud, and the post-match interviews were full of gracious commentary for the opposing team. Noa stood just outside the media tent, typing notes into her phone, half-listening to a nearby conversation in Portuguese, when Damien appeared.

She caught sight of him before he saw her — laughing with a Danish federation rep, hands moving expressively, suit jacket slung over his shoulder now.

He spotted her a second later.

“We’re headed to the cocktail hour over at Altis,” he said, approaching with a bottle of water and someone in tow — Eduardo Leao, a FIFA legal advisor she recognized from the press briefing earlier.

“Mandatory mingling. You coming?”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Noa replied carefully.

“You’ll want to at least try the port. They’re serving it with the pastéis de nata. Very Lisbon.” Eduardo chimed in with a thick Portuguese accent. His veneered smile almost blinded Noa, his teeth connected with the sun with every word.

Damien shot her a look, half-dare, half-invitation.

Noa hesitated, then nodded once. “Fine. One drink.”

“That’s my girl, Nova!”

“Noa.”

“I know what your name is.”

“Then why are you intent on calling me something else,” she hissed.”

“They say you’re the best at what you do. Like Hova,” he teased, shaping his hands into the infamous Jay-Z moniker.

“Nova! Nova!,” he teasingly chanted.

Noa laughed, rolling her eyes as they walked the short distance together. A slow descent through the stadium’s interior, the air warm and buzzing with after-match energy. Outside, the sun was beginning to set.

Noa didn’t speak much on the walk over. She walked quietly beside Damien’s left as he and Eduardo talked — legal updates, infrastructure planning for the next tournament, sponsorship retention metrics. Damien was sharp, fluent in every aspect. When he spoke, people leaned in. When he listened, it was intentional.

She didn’t interrupt, just listened and observed.

By the time they reached the Altis rooftop, she already had three lines of mental notes and one inconvenient realization: He was really good at his job and even better at anticipating people before they saw it coming.

The Cocktail Hour

Location: Altis Belém Hotel, Lisbon

The Altis Belém rooftop glowed in the early evening light, its glass panels reflected the shimmer of the Tagus River, as quiet jazz hummed through the speakers.

The FIFA-mandated networking cocktail hour was in full swing. It was a curated parade of crisp suits, practiced laughs, and champagne flutes. Executives, sponsors, and media reps glided between conversations and hors d’oeuvres.

Damien spotted someone near the bar — another FIFA delegate — and clapped Eduardo on the back as they both peeled off toward the cluster of officials without a word, as if they’d rehearsed it.

Noa let them go.

She veered left, away from the action, toward the corner near the glass, half-hidden by a wooden column. She exhaled and finally let her body slow down.

A glass of white wine rested in her hand, untouched for several long minutes, as she watched, listened, and absorbed.

Damien Cole, meanwhile, owned the room. He moved through clusters of people with military precision and natural charm — firm handshakes, claps on the shoulder, laughter that was just loud enough to be inclusive but not obnoxious. He spoke multiple languages without blinking, slipped in and out of conversation like water.

Noa watched him, half-curious, half-bored, as she sipped her wine.

He didn’t look at her, not directly, but he stayed close, like he was tracing the edges of her presence without touching it.

A server passed, Noa took a pastel de nata, bit into it, and let the custard cool on her tongue. It was sweet, soft, and a little tart.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked, voice low, arriving beside her without warning.

She nodded toward the river.

“It’s a good view.”

Damien followed her gaze. The sun had almost disappeared behind the 25 de Abril Bridge, illuminating everything in a beautiful rose-gold hue.

But then—

A voice behind her, “Noa? Come join us.”

She turned to find Renata Vieira, FIFA’s Head of Public Relations, smiling warmly, standing beside Eduardo at the edge of a marble bar.

Renata Vieira was gorgeous. Dressed in an emerald green silk blouse, tailored trousers, custom vintage jewelry. Her piercing deep-set, almond-shaped, dark green eyes, matched her emerald green silk blouse, while her tanned olive skin matched her tailored trousers and custom vintage jewelry that complimented her rich dark brown loosely curled hair.

Noa approached, a smile plastered across her face. Damien two steps behind her, hand ghosting her back.

“Renata,” she nodded. “Good to see you,” as she leaned in for a customary two cheek kiss.

Renata gestured between them. “You two already know each other, of course. I was just telling Damien how sharp your match analysis was during the last panel.”

Damien sipped from his glass. “She’s never short on opinions.”

Noa smiled sweetly. “That’s because I don’t confuse spin with substance.”

Renata chuckled. “Well, I’ll let you two catch up. I should say hello to the folks from Telemundo,” as she slipped away like smoke.

Now it was just them. Again.

Damien turned toward Noa, his voice quiet but cutting. “Still allergic to polite conversation, I see.”

“Still mistaking politeness for progress.”

Damien smiled. “Idealism is nice… but it doesn’t build stadiums. It doesn’t pay athletes. You need power to change things.”

She met his gaze without blinking. “Power isn’t the same as control.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Control is how you keep power.”

She hated that he had a point.

Their glasses nearly touched as he leaned in. “You want to change the world, Nova? Then don’t burn down the building before you get through the door.”

“You assume I need your door.”

Damien laughed, low, under his breath. “You already walked through it.”

Just as she opened her mouth to make a witty comeback, her phone rang.

Vivian.

Noa excused herself, already bracing for some life changing work news to spin her on her heels.

“Barcelona was a mess,” Vivian’s voice snapped through the line, no greeting. “Miles was out of his depth, Rafa is having another tasting and he does not want him back. He asked for you. We can’t afford another missed opportunity. Rafa is giving us a second chance in Porto.”

“Wait. You want me to—?”

“Porto. You’ll go tonight. Flight’s booked. Find Rafa. Keep things from unraveling. Control the narrative. You’re our closest, Noa. And I only trust you to make this right.”

Noa pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of course.”

“Don’t look at it like a punishment.”

“Oh, I don’t.”

“Good.”

The line went dead.

From Lisbon to Porto

Noa quickly returned to the hotel just before midnight, checked out with the same polite bellhop. She packed in ten minutes. Her bag, still barely touched, was re-zipped and wheeled back out, as she took one long last look from the balcony into the soft glow of Lisbon in the night.

In the car, she stared out the window, watching the city pass — tram lines, tiled churches, peeling walls with fado lyrics spray-painted across them.

At the airport, she quickly moved, her body doing more of the heavy lifting than her mind.

Flight to Porto. Small seat. Half a glass of wine. No conversation with the passenger seated beside her.

Thank goodness.

By the time the plane touched down, the sun had disappeared into the ocean, and Noa was no longer sure whether she was coming or going — only that everything kept moving, and so would she.

Porto, Lisbon

Location: The Yeatman Hotel

Noa hadn’t planned to leave Lisbon. She didn’t want to, but the assignment had shifted, she had a new task. She’d stopped counting surprises weeks ago, given the absurdity of leaving home weeks ago for one work trip that turned into a European world tour. She wasn’t surprised, she would adapt and roll with the punches.

Within hours, she was in the north — in Porto. Her private car wound up the hill toward the hotel, past the sharp scent of eucalyptus and pine. She pressed her forehead briefly to the glass, taking in the incredible views.

Built high above Vila Nova de Gaia and the Douro River, was The Yeatman Hotel — a luxury haven for good food, fine wines, and sweeping views of the city.

It was stately, and Noa loved that this hotel, too, was centered on a theme. At the Yeatman, the theme was wine. Every corridor represented a wine region of the world. Which was expected, given that the hotel housed a 25,000-bottle wine cellar and a two-time Michelin-starred restaurant.There was also the Caudalie spa, with an indoor swimming pool, a gym and hammam, and an outdoor swimming pool, decanter-shaped, offering views of Porto while you dipped.

For her last-minute travel troubles, Vivian had asked Betty to arrange a stay in the Presidential Suite on the 5th floor — a brand-new addition and the most luxurious. It had its own private swimming pool and garden, a spacious terrace, and a telescope to take in the best views on a clear day or starry night.

Noa was guided into a lavishly designed space with two bedrooms, two en-suite bathrooms, and two living rooms — all featuring photographs and accessories contributed by different Portuguese winemakers.

She roamed around and discovered a fireplace, a large copper bathtub, a widescreen television, and a service kitchen for preparing light meals and refreshments. There was a lounge area, also with panoramic views, offering a separate space for relaxation and socializing.

Once the hotel staff left her to get settled, Noa walked over to the master bed, carved into a large wooden Port barrel. How clever. The floor-to-ceiling views showered the traditionally decorated rooms in natural light. There was thick wool carpeting and cushy settees and armchairs upholstered in tufted, jewel-toned velvet all around. Each room was accompanied by built-in bookcases and spacious bathrooms, complete with underfloor heating and deliciously fragrant soaps.

A soft knock interrupted her grand tour of the suite. Noa opened the door to find no one — just a folded card on the carpet.

“Car arrives at 4pm. Dress to impress.”

Of course there was no signature.

Noa’s phone buzzed.

A banner notification lit up the screen: Julian Poitier cast in “Fringe.” She grinned. She knew Julian had been circling big roles for years, always grinding. Without overthinking it, she wrote a quick text.

You did it. Broadway and a blockbuster. Proud of you. Try not to be insufferable about it. Noelle.

Ping.

Another notification. This time from the Anfield Red FC group chat — Vaughn, Tessa, and Thomas Bradley lighting it up with a stream of memes and sarcastic play-by-plays of their vision of the upcoming Nike meeting in Berlin.

Thomas Bradley: "We’re like 90% sure this sponsorship’s gonna happen. Bigger than just kits."

Vaughn: "Well, text me when we get the other 10%. We are too good to settle for less. We are Premier League champions!"

Tessa: "Exactly. What you think this is, Thomas Bradley?!"

Noa laughed. Vaughan and Tessa were right, the club had been inching toward a transformation, especially post 20th club championship win, and Nike wasn’t just about gear — it was global leverage. She typed back a one-liner.

Don’t forget. We have to ask for the lifetime supply of Air Max 95s. In red, obviously.

Then she tucked the phone away. Porto was waiting.

Noa in Porto

12:00 PM – 2:00 PM

Noa left the hotel for a crammed afternoon of Porto sightseeing before she was expected to attend Rafa’s private wine tasting event.

She started at the ancient stone steps of São Bento Station. The entrance looked unremarkable from the street. Stone walls, cast iron details, turn-of-the-century architecture you might pass without noticing.

But inside, the walls came alive.

Twenty-thousand azulejo tiles curved across the atrium, each one hand-painted in shades of cobalt and cream. Noa slowed to take it in: battle scenes, kings on horseback, farmers, saints. The past, frozen in ceramic.

Noa walked. She didn’t have a destination, not exactly, just a time to be back by. The card said “4pm,” and in the meantime, she had the city to herself.

She kept walking. Her eyes found a woman watching a fleet of ships depart. A smile crossed the woman’s lips as her face looked filled with a warm longing — like maybe a lover was on that ship. Maybe romance really did seep through the walls of Porto.

Noa took a photo, but didn’t post it.

By late morning, the city had begun to warm in temperature. The sun had cleared the last of the haze clinging to the Douro valley, showcasing a deep blue sky, red clay rooftops, and the shimmer of the river across the horizon.

Livraria Lello was a few streets over, and already the line had begun to snake around the block. Noa flashed a discreet credential — that Betty arranged for her — from her bag and was waved inside, past the queue of tourists. It was the sort of access she didn’t abuse but appreciated from time to time.

Inside, it was magical.

A carved, curving staircase, red and glossy. The wood was dark, heavy with age, and the ceiling, a stained-glass skylight. It filtered warm light down over everything. It felt more like a cathedral than a bookstore.

Noa wandered through the shelves — foreign editions, old bindings, titles she’d only half-read and some she pretended to forget. English, French, Portuguese. She ran her fingers across the spines without reading them.

Just then a book fell on her foot from the shelves, as her phone buzzed in her purse.

It was an English copy of The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. Noa bent down to pick up the copy. Her fingers slowly traced the worn pages — annotated in Portuguese, and filled with wonder and love. Oh, of course the page she landed on — "April Rain Song.” She smiled.

Ping.

Despite being most commonly found in his collection of poems, it stirred memories of Julian deep in her chest. She shook off the thought, quietly and neatly placing the book back on the shelf before her phone buzzed again.

Ping.

She reached for her phone and thumbed it to open her new text message.

Julian.

“Still holding you to meet me in New York on Broadway. Tickets are always yours. Serendipity.”

Noa reread the text message a few times longer than she’d ever admit, before an older man in a linen shirt stood beside a tucked-away shelf, organizing a stack of books interrupted.

“If you’re looking for Pessoa, he’s upstairs,” he said in English, touched by a northern Portuguese accent.

“I’m not,” she replied.

He smiled. “Then you’ll find what you’re not looking for. That’s how this place works.”

“Is that the rule?”

“No. Just wisdom from an old man who now sells poetry.”

Noa smiled back.

The man chuckled and returned to his shelf. Noa moved on, oddly comforted by the exchange.

Upstairs, she found a quiet velvet chair by the balcony and sat, to breathe. Below her, the bookstore moved slowly, like molasses. She liked the stillness.

She thought of Julian, briefly.

Noa shrugged her shoulders, shook off the thought and left the quiet behind, as she walked toward the exit and the buzz of Porto outside.

Mercado do Bolhão

The scent hit her first: grilled sardines, sea salt, coffee, and the sharp green of citrus. Vendors shouted over each other in Portuguese. A teenager sliced ham behind a glass counter. Somewhere, someone was playing fado on a portable speaker.

Mercado do Bolhão was pure chaos.

Noa let herself be carried by the crowd. She bought a warm pastel de nata and ate it standing up, flaked pastry falling on her shirt. An old woman offered her a handful of dried figs and smiled without teeth. Noa handed over a few coins.

A man behind a barrel table poured her a finger of vinho verde without asking. “To fight the heat,” he said.

She drank it. It was crisp, cold and delicious.

Around one-thirty, Noa picked up a paper-wrapped lunch of grilled octopus and potatoes from a small counter café and climbed the hill toward the Miradouro da Vitória, a crumbling overlook with a wide view of the river.

She found a low stone wall and sat, eating slowly, as she took in the breathtaking views. Gaia across the river. The Dom Luís I Bridge to the east. Several boats drifted along the water as the sun beamed down.

Noa wiped her hands and watched a small tugboat work its way upriver, as she finished up her lunch. She stayed there longer than she meant to, so by the time she returned to the hotel, she barely had an hour to shower and dress before the car arrived to whisk her to an evening at Rafa’s wine estate.

The Clock Strikes Four

Noa stepped out of The Yeatman Hotel, as the clock struck 4 p.m., just as the sun was beginning its slow descent over the city.

A sleek, black Bentley waited at the hotel entrance. The driver, dressed in a pale blue suit, tipped his hat and quickly opened the door.

"Miss Noa," he greeted, "We are ready when you are."

Noa slipped inside, the scent of leather and wood enveloped her as the door closed and the driver settled into his seat. Through the tinted glass, Porto slowly blurred by—sloping hills, bustling markets, laughter reverberating from kids running through terracotta filled neighborhoods.

As they wound down toward the riverbanks, the city became a sea of green stretching over the hills and valleys making way for sprawling vineyards. Beside it, the Douro River shimmered. Noa leaned back, taking it all in, excited for what was to come.

The car slowed as they approached the dock, where a sleek, vintage Riva Aquarama was moored, its mahogany deck gleaming in the sunlight. A boatman in white linen greeted her with a nod, extending his hand as she stepped out of the car.

"Boa tarde, Miss Noa. We are prepared to take you to Quinta de León Beaumont."

Noa settled onto the plush leather seat, the boatman untying the ropes before the engine purred to life, smooth and powerful, and they pulled away from the dock. The sweetness of grapevines and seawater filled the air.

The Douro River stretched wide and was tranquil. Terraces of vines climbing steep hillsides, ancient stone walls, and manor houses perched high above in front of Noa as the boat glided across the water. Further along the river, the estate came into view: Quinta de León Beaumont, an 18th-century manor house, its stone walls worn by age and covered by ivy. Its sunsoaked terraces were staged with wrought-iron tables and chairs overlooking the river. The vineyards sprawled in perfect rows, stretching out to the horizon.

Noa took it all in, as the boat slowed and neared the private dock.

She stepped out slowly. A woman in beige Birkenstocks and sun-bleached linen approached her silently and pressed a handwritten card into her palm.

"You are expected," the woman said in a whisper before turning on her heel and exiting as quickly as she arrived.

Noa glanced down at the card.

Vineyard Experience Schedule (Starting at 4:00 PM) 4:00 PM – 5:00 PM Heritage Polo Match (Arrival + Final Chukkas) Guests arrive as the informal practice match is in progress—last 1-2 chukkas (final 30 mins). Welcome drinks (sparkling rosé or vermouth spritz) served fieldside. 5:15 PM – 6:15 PM Guided Vineyard Tour A leisurely walk through the vineyard with a viticulturist. Learn about grape varieties, terroir, and sustainability practices. Light commentary and scenic pauses for photos or quiet moments. 6:15 PM – 6:45 PM Winery Tour (Cellar & Production Area) Quick but insightful walk-through of the winemaking process. Includes a look at barrels, stainless steel tanks, and aging methods. 7:00 PM – 8:00 PM Private Wine Tasting Tasting of 4-5 estate wines in a scenic tasting room or shaded terrace. Sommelier walks through tasting notes and wine etiquette. Optional cheese & bread pairings placed for light grazing. 8:15 PM – 10:00 PM Vineyard Dinner + Cocktail Hour Multi-course dinner served with curated wine pairings. Cocktail hour follows immediately and overlaps—signature cocktails made with wine reductions, vermouths, and regional herbs. Music (live string quartet or soft DJ), string lights, and storytelling moments from hosts and winemakers.

Noa slid the card into her clutch. Took a breath. Straightened her shoulders. Moved forward.

Rafa was waiting, leaning against a stone pillar. Sunlight caught his dark waves, his white shirt unbuttoned just enough to catch the breeze. He straightened when he saw her, a grin spread across his face.

“Noelle Jameson, what brings you here,” he teased.

“His Excellency, Rafael de Leon Beaumont, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Noa smirked and feigned a curtsey.

“Have you come here to make me feel welcome?”

“I believe you’ve quite managed that on your own,” Noa said, as her eyes flickered around the grounds before landing back to Rafa.

“Is that judgment in your tone?”

“Does that offend an aristocrat? Is it like offending the King?”

“Well, I’m only a Marquis, not a King. Thank God for it.”

Rafa's grin widened. He stepped forward offering Noa his arm, "Anyway, a king is only as strong as his council, and his council is only as strong as its members. Shall we?"

Noa stepped forward, smoothing her dress as she approached to take Rafa’s arm. "I wouldn't miss it," she replied, her voice steady, betraying none of the thrill she felt at the sight of him.

She didn’t realize how gorgeous he was on the train ride to Monaco because he was so arrogant. The calm Porto vibes suited him.

"I hope it's worth the trip."

Noa looped her arm through his, the warmth of him familiar and startling all at once. The two of them walked up the cobblestone path, the manor, passing the scent of ripe grapes and lavender heavy in the air.

Heritage Polo Match (Final Chukkas)

Time: 4:00 PM – 5:00 PM

Location: The Polo Field, lower terrace of Quinta de León Beaumont

The field was wide and sun-drenched. It stretched endlessly before them, framed by rolling hills and stone softened by ivy. At one end, a pavilion was draped in rippling white linens, anchored by bronze stakes and surrounded by citrus trees filled with lemons.

Noa and Rafa moved arm in arm through the crowd, past white picket fences and into the velvet-rope enclosure where guests lounged beneath canopies, sipping Vinho Verde spritz and porto tonics. Waiters in cream linen floated between the crowds, offering silver trays of preserved lemon canapés and marinated olives.

The crowd was high-pedigreed and elite. Men in tailored summer suits and sunglasses. Women in silk dresses and wide-brimmed hats.

The polo match wasn’t like anything she’d seen. Noa stood behind the velvet rope near a handful of other guests watching shirtless men on horseback clash in a game that looked more like staged combat than sport. Noa wasn’t a polo expert, so she didn’t know if some of them were actual players, they looked suspiciously modelesque.

Players took their shirts off during the match. It wasn’t as if she were ogling them, though it was hard not to notice how their muscles glistened under the sun and flexed with each movement, each bang of the mallet against the ball. There was something almost animalistic about it, the way they galloped and leaned into each other.

Rafa leaned in, his voice low, “You know, they do this for the spectacle as much as the score.”

Noa glanced at him, arching a brow. “You mean the shirts coming off isn’t standard protocol?”

He smirked. “Only if the sun’s generous.”

Rafa flagged a waiter down for two glasses of champagne, nudging her gently. “You’re telling me this is not your idea of a sport?”

“No,” she replied quietly. “But it’s definitely the most visually stimulating.” Her eyes never left the shirtless men on the field.

The sun beat down harder than expected, and the crowd watched with a detached intensity. The clapping came in measured intervals. They knew which team to cheer for. The rest was for show.

And then, there was the man in all black.

He wasn’t watching the match. He stood with his weight lazily leaning against the wooden rail near the far side of the terrace. A dark button-down tucked into fitted black jeans, sleeves rolled once, tattoos peeked from beneath the cuff and collar. He had a sharp jawline and a flat, unreadable expression.

Christopher Aguilar-Zoraida.

Rafa’s “alleged” cartel cousin—if you believed what was whispered behind coupes of Crémant in Monaco or back corridors in Madrid about the de Leon Beaumont aristocrats. The story went that Rafa polished the name of de León Beaumont for the monarchy and wine world, while Christopher kept its cash flowing—washing it clean, upholding nobility for a family that never actually reigned.

Christopher was deep in conversation with two others.

The man to his right wore a fitted white suit with no tie, his shirt open just enough to show a slither of chest. His black hair was slicked back, his posture, stiff, the scar near his temple only added to his cool yet threatening aura.

The woman beside Christopher was gorgeous. Tall. Brown skin. Low bun. Her high-necked backless halter dress hugged her body like it had been sewn on. No jewelry, no purse. Just black sunglasses and a lit blunt held between manicured fingers. Yes — she even made smoking weed sexy, as she took the blunt in between her bold red lip. She leaned in occasionally, whispering something to Christopher, as he was deep in conversation with the man in white.

Noa barely noticed them at first. She was too distracted by the heat, the excitement of the match, the elegance of the horses in full gallop. But slowly, as the field roared with hooves and the crowd offered polite applause, her gaze found the man in black again.

A bodyguard approached—huge, bald, and dressed to blend, but impossible to ignore. He didn’t speak at first, he just leaned to whisper something in Christopher’s ear.

Christopher nodded once, barely. Then he stepped back from the trio, hands slipping into his pockets, half-turned toward the field.

He was watching.

And then their eyes met.

Noa held the gaze longer than she should have. She was so curious about the elusive Christopher. So that’s him.

“Why don't I have a normal family?” Rafa muttered under his breath.

Noa blinked. “Huh?”

A cheer went up as a rider leaned dangerously from the saddle, swinging wide for a fast goal.

Noa sipped her drink. “Is that Christopher…”

Rafa quickly flicked his gaze to the trio, “His name is Christopher and we are cousins.”

Noa blinked. “Oh, so he’s really your cousin.”

Rafa raised his eyebrow, curious, before speaking again, “I wish a few times removed.”

Noa choked on her spritz, laughing.

Christopher watched them from across the lawn, quietly, disinterested to the untrained eye.

“Unfortunately, we're merely chess pieces that no longer need to be moved.” Rafa offered her a tight smile, then raised his glass in mock salute toward the trio. Christopher didn’t acknowledge it, but the woman in the halter dress nodded.

The final whistle blew, sending a ripple of applause through the crowd as the players trotted off, their shirts tossed over the backs of the saddles.

Rafa stepped closer, his smile easy, inviting. “Ready to see where the real work happens?”

Noa slipped her arm through his, relaxing into his warm hospitality. “Lead the way, His Excellency.”

But before they could take a step, a figure peeled away from the shaded edge of the crowd.

“Christopher,” Rafa said, his voice tempered. “Didn’t realize you were staying for the full match.”

“I came early.” Christopher’s tone was low, almost conversational. “Always good to see how the horses perform under pressure.”

His eyes flicked to Noa, studying her just a second too long.

“And you must be Vivian Marchand’s girl,” he said.

“Noa Jameson,” she said coolly. “And you must be the elusive cousin with excellent timing.”

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Depends on who you ask.”

Around them, a few guests had noticed the interaction. Not obviously—but there were glances, pauses in conversation. People didn’t exactly stare at Christopher. They just… stepped aside. Averted their eyes. Kept it pushing.

Rafa cleared his throat. “We were just about to begin the vineyard tour.”

Christopher nodded once, his gaze still on Noa. “Then don’t let me stop you.”

But he didn’t walk away. Christopher lingered just long enough to make it known that he could—and would—show up wherever he pleased.

Then, just like smoke, he was gone.

Guided Vineyard Tour

Time: 5:15 PM – 6:15 PM

Location: Quinta de León Beaumont, Vineyards

Rafa offered his arm again, this time with a half-apology in his eyes. “Relax. You’re safe now. Among loyal subjects.”

Noa laughed and took his arm. “So much admiration from you both. I think it is more than I can bear. His Excellency.”

They left the crowd behind and strolled toward the winding paths that cut through rows of vines heavy with summer fruit.

“This is my home,” Rafa said softly, gesturing broadly to the sprawling estate. “Quinta de León Beaumont. Family’s been here for centuries. This land’s in my blood.”

Noa took in the sun-dappled leaves, the scent of earth and grapes, “It’s beautiful. And a little intimidating.”

“Good,” Rafa replied, a glint in his eye. “I like to keep people on their toes.”

A poised woman with silver-streaked hair approached, clipboard in hand, with the air of someone who had walked these fields longer than most had been alive. She wore a cream linen tunic cinched at the waist and soft leather sandals that made no sound as she walked.

Rafa straightened slightly at her approach, as he addressed the small crowd.

“Senhora Leonor Duarte. She’s the estate’s head historian—and the closest thing we have to order.”

“Welcome to the Quinta de León Beaumont vineyard tour,” Senhora Duarte said, nodding politely at Rafa. She spoke English but the thick Portuguese accent intertwined, and was hard to ignore.

“I’ve walked these vines for nearly forty years. I was raised on the land just below the manor. My father worked the barrels, and my mother tended the lemon groves before they were in style. “I’ll be your guide.”

Noa noticed how a few of the older guests straightened at the sight of her—as if the matriarch herself had arrived.

The group gathered under a pergola woven with grapevines. Beyond it, rows of ancient vines stretched down the hillside.

Senhora Duarte lifted her clipboard but didn’t need to look at it. “What you’ll see today is less of a tour, and more of a conversation between the land and time. The vines you’re standing among have weathered war, drought, monarchy, and scandal. Each varietal we grow has a temperament. Touriga Nacional, stubborn and proud. Arinto, bright, resilient. Baga, unruly, but worth the effort.”

She turned slightly toward Noa as they began to walk. “Some say the grapes are like the men who inherit this place. Complicated. Resistant to pruning.”

Rafa gave a quiet laugh behind her, but didn’t interrupt.

As they made their way between the vines, Senhora Duarte kept speaking—about microclimates, elevation, ancestral blends. Noa felt Rafa’s gaze linger on her between words, as though watching to see which details caught her attention.

He stayed close to her as they walked, his hand occasionally brushing against hers whenever the rows narrowed. She noticed how he nodded politely at the guide, but rarely looked where she pointed. He didn’t need to, he already knew these stories, and had lived them.

Noa’s shoes crunched softly on the gravel path. A bee hovered lazily near her elbow, drifting like it had nowhere to be.

“You’ve been quiet, Jams,” Rafa said, glancing sideways.

She looked over at him, brows raised. “Jams?”

They reached a break in the vines, where a wrought-iron bench sat tucked under a fig tree. The shade was a relief. A few guests paused to snap photos of the view—the river shimmering below like a silk ribbon unwinding.

Rafa rested one hand lightly on the back of the bench, turning toward her with a casual shrug, as he pulled a small piece of tree branch from her hair.

“It’s a spin on your last name, yeah? From when we first met—you hesitated between ‘Noa’ and ‘Noelle.’” His grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got this whole uptight thing going, but... you’re also like a jam session.”

Noa blinked. “A jam session?”

“Yeah.” He reached up and plucked a grape off the nearest vine without asking. “There’s rhythm in you. A little chaos. I bet you’re actually fun. Full of energy. Your eyes sparkle. They dance too much with sarcasm and wonder for me not to be halfway correct.”

He bit into the grape, juice slightly trickling at the corner of his mouth, mischievous glint in his eyes, like he was daring Noa to scold him.

Noa gasped. “You can’t just eat that!”

They sat quietly for a moment, as a breeze moved through and rustled the vines. Somewhere further down the path, Senhora Duarte handed out small sample glasses of wine for the guests to savor.

Rafa leaned back slightly, his shoulder brushing the iron arm of the bench, gaze shifting out over the rows of sunlit vines. His voice, when he spoke again, had softened.

“You judge me, you know, I see you,” he took his finger and slyly pointed it in her direction as his smile indented creases on his cheeks.

“But I didn’t grow up wanting to be a Marquis,” he said, voice low enough to keep it private. “Not at first. I’m the youngest, the spare heir.”

Noa tilted her head. “Really?”

“Yeah. But then my brother married a Duchess, and I was only... dallying with Lady Doutzen of Amsterdam.”

Rafa closed his eyes briefly, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth.

“My father made himself very clear.” He let out a dry laugh. “It was the aristocracy or nothing. The winery , and Christopher’s protection—that gave me a bit of ground to stand on. Something slightly of my own.”

His eyes scanned the horizon, not looking at her now. “But Christopher was firm. He would only continue to protect me if I made my claim on the crown. The name. The land. The whole bloody costume.”

Noa stayed silent, quietly watching Rafa.

“I came to want it,” Rafa admitted. “To believe a new model of aristocracy could be possible. I hate men that hide behind God while they murder and steal. One not built on hardwork and honor. My fault built his power by giving into what the nobles wanted — rule not rooted in responsibility. I wanted our legacy done differently.... better.”

He didn’t sound like he was trying to convince her.

He sounded like he was still trying to convince himself.

Noa looked out at the vines, sunlight glinting off the river. “I’d like to see it.”

Rafa blinked, surprised.

She met his eyes again. “What your version looks like. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

Noa stood up. She grinned and offered Rafa her hand this time, “Shall we?”

Winery Tour (Cellar & Production Area)

Time: 6:15 PM – 6:45 PM

Location: Inner Cellars, Quinta de León Beaumont

They entered the winery through a low stone archway, the smell of aged oak and fermenting dark berries tickled their noses.

Inside, the space opened into an vaulted cellar. There were arched ceilings lit by old iron sconces and narrow shafts of natural light that cut through stone slats above. Rows upon rows of French oak barrels lined the chamber, each stamped with the estate crest: a lion wrapped in vines, surrounded by a pair of chess knights. Some barrels were dark with age; others, paler, still absorbing their first vintage.

Senhora Duarte led the group farther inside, as she spun more tales of wine history with dramatic flair — clearly she lived for this aspect of her job.

“Some of our oldest vintages rest here, from the last century. Even the mistakes are bottled. We believe in archiving every single harvest, not just the perfect ones,” she winked.

Senhora Duarte gestured to the stainless-steel tanks in the modern wing beyond a thick glass partition.

“We ferment in steel for clarity and temperature precision. But the character, the soul of our wines—that’s born here.” She ran her fingers lightly along the top of one barrel.

Rafa stood close again, hands clasped behind his back. He nodded occasionally, his face unreadable. As the group moved deeper into the cellar, Noa noticed how the architectural style shifted slightly. Stone gave way to brick, and then again to a sleek, minimalist corridor where soft LED lights traced the edges of the floor. It was much cooler and quieter in this part of the cellar.

“This wing was Rafa’s idea,” Senhora Duarte said, “Innovation, he called it.”

Noa’s eyes flickered over to Rafa with a small smirk on her face. “Senhora Duarte clearly is a fan of the old school,” she whispered.

Rafa leaned in closer to Noa like two school kids misbehaving on a field trip.

“Senhora Duarte is a relic,” he teased, eyes darting around the room in conspiratorial mischief, “in the best way of course.”

They passed a wall of vintage bottles, each one labeled by year, each rack a frozen archive of past seasons. Dust coated the older bottles like velvet. Rafa paused before a locked glass cabinet displaying six bottles with handwritten labels in faded ink.

“These are from my grandfather’s last vintage,” he said quietly. “Bottled the year he died. No label, no marketing. Just his hands and the earth.”

Noa stared at the bottles, struck by how deeply personal they felt. “Wow,” she quietly whispered, as she brushed her hands against history.

Past the cellars, the group was invited into the production area to observe. Workers in navy-blue uniforms moved in synchronized rhythm, around large tanks that hummed softly, and a conveyor belt lined with empty dark glass bottles that continuously clicked and shifted.

Senhora Duarte led them up a narrow stairwell to a glass-paneled overlook above the bottling floor.

“Wine, like legacy,” she said finally, “requires pressure, patience, and the courage to know when to let go. And with that, we conclude the tour. Thank you for joining us.”

As they exited the cellar toward the tasting room, Noa let her fingers trail along the cool stone wall, trying to absorb the layers of time, of effort, of sacrifice embedded in the mortar.

She didn’t know yet what she would write about this experience, but she was really inspired so far.

Private Wine Tasting + Pairings

Time: 7:00 PM – 8:00 PM

Location: Quinta de León Beaumont, Terrace

Exiting the wine cellar tour, the group met on the terrace, catching the last of the sun that cascaded over white-linen parasols and flickering lanterns.

Noa walked along the edge of a long table, sat with glassware, polished silver, and plates filled with local cheeses, olives, fig compote, and fresh broa. The guests moved in loose formation, glasses in hand, and soft conversations sprinkling the air.

“May I?”

She turned to find Rafa at her side, wine glass in hand, sunglasses perched on his head, sleeves rolled to his wrist.

“You’re the host,” she said.

“Still,” he replied, “consent matters.”

Noa raised a brow, amused. “Really?”

“Truly. Honestly,” he said, as he put hand to heart.

Noa rolled her eyes and laughed.

Before she could respond, a tall, elegant man with thick tousled gray hair, in a navy waistcoat, appeared.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his Portuguese accent thick and soothing, “I’m Paulo Moreira, Head Sommelier of Quinta de León Beaumont. Tonight, we begin with something from our white collection—an Arinto and Fernão Pires blend. Bright, floral, with a mineral finish.”

Rafa stood at the head of the table, wine glass in hand, posture relaxed but commanding.

“This one,” he said, swirling it gently, “is almost electric on the tongue.” He smirked as he locked eyes with Noa.

Noa lifted her glass, tilted it just enough to catch the scent, citrus blossom, something saline.

“It’s sharp,” she said, rolling the taste along her tongue.

Rafa glanced at her sideways, lips twitching. “Kind of like you.”

Before he could say more, a few chairs turned slightly. Conversations faltered, eyes flickered from a range of guests, curiosity mixed with concern. Then, everything seemed to resume with forced ease.

Christopher had returned.

He moved like smoke through the terrace—dark gray suit, open collar, no tie, one hand held an untouched wine glass.

Christopher nodded at Noa and Rafa noticed, his jaw tightened.

Christopher leaned in near his ear. He whispered something inaudible.

Rafa gripped his glass tighter and swore softly in Portuguese under his breath before glancing once more at Noa.

He stood and exhaled. “Excuse me for just a moment,” he said, and touched Noa’s shoulder lightly. “Try the tawny next. It’s like velvet.”

Rafa followed Christopher, disappearing beyond the terrace arches.

Noa watched them go. She quickly sat her wine glass on the table before grabbing her cell phone and sending a text to Maya Rose.

Noa: Met Christopher Aguilar-Zoraida twice today. Barely. He really does give cartel boss. Might be your type. Commanding, elusive, and unnervingly calm. [smirk emoji] Maya-Rose: Corner him. Now. [knife, angel, devil emoji]

“Interesting timing,” came a voice to her left.

Noa turned.

Damien.

Damien Cole.

Damien, leaned against one of the stone columns like he’d been there the whole time. Tailored suit. Shirtless underneath sans a double silver chain. Chocolate brown skin glistening like he doused himself in the finest of oils. Thick luscious beard. Press credentials badge peeking from his trouser pocket.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You were texting to see if I was on my way.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender. “I know, I know — should’ve called first.”

Noa scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Damien gave her a slow smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She didn’t say anything and neither did he.

Noa stilled as he pulled out the chair next to hers and slid in with ease. He signaled a waiter with two fingers and nodded toward Noa’s glass.

Vineyard Dinner + Cocktail Hour

Time: 8:15 PM – 10:00 PM

Location: Quinta de León Beaumont, Terrace

The sun began to set, as the day descended into night. The sky faded into a soft indigo. The vineyard lanterns and string lights lit the terrace as the guests were guided from the wine tasting toward the long dinner table. A row of candlelit place cards flickered along the linen-draped table beneath a pergola wrapped in grapevines.

Noa’s fingertips trailed across the edge of her wine glass as she sat. Damien followed and sat, conversing in Albanian with an older bald man in a charcoal gray suit. How many languages did Damien speak?

She scanned the empty seat beside her — Rafa’s — just as a shadow passed through the arches behind her.

Rafa rejoined the table like he’d never left, jaw tighter and his posture stiffer. Whatever Christopher had whispered he held it behind his eyes, and you could tell it was replaying over in his head.

“Apologies,” Rafa murmured, voice smooth, smile tight.

His eyes scanned the crowd of guests as he spoke, “Christopher has a way of... reshaping timelines.”

Noa’s lips curved faintly. “He does…. Have a…. presence.”

Rafa stepped behind his chair, but instead of sitting, he turned, just slightly, toward the man who had taken the seat on Noa’s other side.

“I’m sorry,” Rafa said. He waited for a second, noticing the way Damien quietly sat back, calculating his response.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Damien, lounging like the seat had been made for him, stood, and extended his hand.

“Damien Cole. Senior FIFA representative.”

He said it flatly, like it wasn’t supposed to mean anything, but Noa caught the flicker of the small smirk that crossed his lips and the way in which his Adam's apple bobbed as he narrowed his eyes.

“Rafael de León Beaumont,” Rafa replied, taking the hand. “Thank you for joining us tonight. It’s always a pleasure to host those who care about the game. And the story behind it.”

Damien’s smile was polite. “Beautiful estate. I can see why you’d stay.”

“Ah, but I don’t,” Rafa said, finally taking his seat beside Noa. “The land stays. The de León Beaumonts… we circulate.”

There was an awkward pause, Rafa not looking at Damien but Damien’s gaze on Rafa.

Servers began to move through the terrace, placing down the first dinner plates — salt-baked sea bass with fennel and lemon, nestled beside grilled fig and torn basil.

Noa said nothing, but the seat between the two men suddenly felt warmer.

Rafa turned slightly toward her, his shoulder grazing hers as he leaned in. “I believe I still owe you a better glass of wine,” he said quietly. “Unless Damien here already beat me to it.”

Noa kept her eyes on her plate, but her mouth curled into something between a smirk and a warning.

“Time is everything,” Damien said, lifting his glass. “Some of us understand that better than others.”

Rafa laughed, full-bodied and easy, gaze on Noa.

Noa took another sip of wine and let the conversation resume around them, but she didn’t rejoin it.

The first course had just begun to disappear from plates when Noa’s phone buzzed on the table.

She ignored it.

Then came the second — a softer chime. This time, a few heads turned.

Rafa glanced at her phone. “You’re popular.”

“For today,” Noa murmured, pushing back her chair.

She stood. As she rose, Damien leaned in slightly, his voice just low enough for only her to hear.

"You always leave when it’s just about to get interesting?”

Noa paused, half-turned toward him, her lips parting like she might answer. Instead, she offered a brief nod to the table before leaving the terrace, and disappearing down the garden’s edge.

Damien watched her walk away, a slight tilt to his head, like he was filing the moment away for later. Behind her, the music continued, glasses clinked and laughter rang out from conversations in French and Portuguese.

Rafa watched her go.

So did Christopher — half-hidden near the terrace arch, wine glass still untouched.

Rafa stood, not excusing himself this time. Christopher silently followed Rafa a moment later. Damien watched both men leave, one after the other. Then, his own phone lit up.

FIFA Travel Mandates

“Damien. Shift in assignments. You'll want to sit down for this.”

He exhaled, leaned back, and turned his chair slightly toward the vineyard beyond.

Noa walked until the terrace sounds blended into silence, clutching her phone in her hand.

She glanced down.

CNN Push Notification: Actor Julian Poitier spotted at Angels Boxing Club with an unidentified mystery woman.

Her stomach tightened. Good for him, she thought. Maybe.

Ping.

Group Chat: Anfield Red FC [Tessa, Vaughn, Thomas Bradley] Tessa: “Did you hear that Anfield Red is thinking of bringing Nike AND Adidas to pitch new sponsorship deals? Berlin is going to be madness!” Thomas Bradley: “Nike’s pushing for full brand unification. Adidas’ pushing for a signature reveal. Vaughn won’t shut up about the 95s.” Vaughn: “Maybe we need to call Nina from Adidas [smirk and laughing emojis]? NJ. Come save us. Again [prayer hand emoji].”

Noa smiled, fingers hovering over the reply before the next alert buzzed in.

Ping.

Niko [Nozuka-Lindberg]: Need your address. New drop goes live at midnight. Sending you a custom, obviously. What’s your size?

Ping.

Maya-Rose: Did you see that Miles is working with Jennifer Anniston! WTF. I am pissed. Did you get a new itinerary? I have to fly to New York tomorrow to meet him. Going to lose my shit if he is a no-show. What did Christopher say [smirk emoji]?

Ping.

Elijah Merrick: Oi, Jameson. I have a quick question about your work with Sebastian and Georgia-Louise — she’s of the Armitage Windsor family? Let me know when you have a moment.

Buzz. You’ve Got Mail!

Noa tapped to open her inbox.

Vivian Marchand Subject: Itinerary Shift – Confirm ASAP Noa — you’ve been requested. You are a hot commodity these days, my cherie. You leave tomorrow.

Dublin – Reed Hastings called in a favor. I did not realize you knew Reed? I cannot believe you held that piece of information. He spoke very highly of you, of course. Netflix wants you to observe and consult on Fringe, their new boxing feature directed by Regina King. Also: keynote talk on sports & storytelling.

Scotland – We need you to lead a branding workshop for a Glenfiddich-sponsored event sponsored by The Scottish Highlands and Edinburgh in collaboration with the British Royal Family.

Berlin – You already know Anfield Red FC tapped you to help anchor pitch and negotiations between Nike / Adidas merger initiative. FSG and Henry are on edge. Handle it.

The Former Yugoslavia – Congratulations! I received a call from you alma mater. Your former Professor Ryleigh and Dean Elmermoore recommended you for a joint UEFA + UN sports diplomacy campaign. President YahYaga and UN Advisor De Lillio are very excited to have you present. You’ll co-lead workshops in Albania, Kosovo, Serbia. Final summit in Belgrade. Working title: Bridges Over Borders.*

Think: legacy, leadership, post-conflict healing. Your wheelhouse. Bring your game face. You deserve it and you will crush it! I will fly in :) Viv

Ping.

Her screen lit again.

This time from

Mom: Your professor called me. The UN! The EU! I’ll watch Basil forever if it means you’re out here impacting the world and making us so proud. Also... I may have called Theo to tell him. Don’t yell.Send me the stream link and call your grandfather! He thinks that he can set the tech up himself and he is not going to ruin the family and friends watch party I am throwing.

Ping.

And then — finally — Theo.

Noey! Your mum just called and said you out here doing proper big things in the east, yeah?! Maybe Zagreb was the perfect spot for us — you killing it in Albania, Kosovo, Belgrade — and me in the match. I’m so proud of you. Don’t act like this is normal.Always calm, steady and impressing the lot. You always do. A UN Keynote! Delroy says he’s giving you your own case of red stripe at the party [laughing].

Noa stood still, trying to take in the breeze and the vineyard behind her, phone buzzing, mind racing.

She exhaled slowly, then turned back towards the party.

When she returned to the terrace, the table had rearranged itself. Rafa stood at the far end, half-silhouetted beside Christopher—jaw tight, posture stiffer than before. Whatever passed between them hadn’t softened. For these guys to be cousins and business partners, they always seemed at odds.

Damien had moved too. He was on the edge now, phone in hand. This time, when he met her gaze, he didn’t smile.

NEXT EPISODE

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