She considered it, then nodded back, like she’d just agreed to terms at a contract signing. “Good. I want it.”
Her hunger lit me up, even after everything. I wanted to take her again, but there was a new gentleness in me—a need to hold her, keep her safe, keep the morning from ending.
She slid off me, gathered up the robe, and wrapped herself in it. She padded to the window, looking out at the mist curling in the trees.
“I should be terrified,” she said, half to herself. “I should run, or call the police, or check myself into a hospital.”
“But you won’t. You need me as bad as I need you.”
She shook her head. “I want to see how deep this goes. I want to see what happens if I stop pretending.”
I got up, pulled on the ruined T-shirt, and stood behind her, arms around her waist, my cock growing between her ass. We looked out at the woods together, the morning brighter and more alive than anything I’d known.
She turned to face me, hair wild, eyes wilder. “Whatever happens, we do it together.”
I kissed her, slow and soft, then rested my forehead against hers. “Whatever happens,” I promised.
The sun edged over the horizon, flooding the room with light. I’d marked the woman I was fated to be with. There was one last thing to do, and she would be mine forever.
Carrie
Imogen Vale was waiting for me in the private boardroom, perched at the head of the table like a hawk in a bourbon boutique. She wore charcoal slacks and a turtleneck that might have been designer, but her expression was the real investment: all poised serenity, the kind that only comes from a lifetime of watching other people fall apart on cue. She didn’t bother with a greeting. Just tapped the manila folder in front of her with a perfectly manicured finger and said, “Caroline. Thanks for taking the time. I know how much you value discretion.”
I forced a smile and closed the door behind me, thumbing the latch until it clicked. Imogen’s gaze lingered on the movement, her lips curling in faint amusement. The table between us was custom-made from a split bourbon barrel, the wood charred black and glossy, ringed with brass tacks and just enough historical authenticity. On the far wall, a row of antique Stillwater bottles stared out from museum-grade shelving, each one a silent threat: Don’t fuck with us. We were here before you.
I took the seat opposite Imogen, careful to keep the same distance my father always used when facing down auditors and boardroom jackals. I ignored the slight tremor in my right hand as I set my phone to record on the table. She clocked it, of course, and her eyes went sharp and hungry.
“I’m told you had something urgent,” I said, letting a little edge into my voice. “I hope it’s not another exposé on industry nepotism. You already did that one to death.”
Imogen smiled like she’d been paid by the smirk. “Oh, it’s urgent. And frankly, I’m hoping you’ll want to resolve it before it hits the news cycle.” She slid the folder across the table, slow enough that I could smell the nerves underneath her vanilla perfume. “Take a look.”
The folder was thick, overstuffed, and I recognized the cover sheet—one of our internal memos, complete with the old Stillwater watermark. I flicked through the first few pages, brow furrowing. It was a chemical analysis of last month’s single-barrel batch, followed by pages of flagged ingredients, off-the-books purchase orders, a stack of invoices for a synthetic enzyme I’d never authorized. The next document was a heavily annotated FDA complaint, already highlighted in yellow, with a “leaked” signature line at the bottom. I didn’t need to read the rest. I could smell the lie before I tasted it.
“Allegations of illegal additives,” I said, flipping a page with my index finger. “Supposedly to boost yield and accelerate aging. You’re claiming we doctored the bourbon.”
Imogen folded her hands, faux-concern pasted onto her face. “It’s not a claim, Carrie. It’s forensic evidence. If this is true—”
“It’s not,” I snapped, maybe too loud. The acoustics caught the bark of my voice and threw it back at me. Imogen’s nostrils flared, and she relished it.
“Then you should have no trouble explaining why your master distiller’s personal email contains vendor contracts forsaid enzyme. Or why your own signature shows up on three procurement orders, dated after your father’s death.”
I set the folder aside, letting it land with a heavy, deliberate thud. “You’re not a chemist. These are forgeries. And if you try to print a word of this, I’ll have your publisher buried in defamation lawsuits before you can spell your own byline.”
Imogen’s eyebrows shot up, then dropped into an expression I recognized from every bullying interview she’d ever run. “Carrie, if you had an ounce of sense, you’d stop threatening and start negotiating. There are ways out of this. Even for you.”
I stared at her, reading the lines around her mouth, the practiced tension in her jaw, the little twitch of her left hand as she tried not to reach for her phone. There was no bluff here; she’d brought the threat to my door, and she wanted to see if I’d break.
I picked up the folder again, leafed through it with feigned indifference, but my brain was on fire. I recognized the forgeries instantly—Daddy’s signature was wrong, the slant too modern, the crossbar on the T barely kissed the stem. The vendor invoices used the wrong font, and the purchase order numbers didn’t match our system. Even the enzyme itself was a red herring; we’d run the real thing for R&D years ago, found it did jack shit to the mash, and scrapped the supplier. But the damage, if Imogen was right, would be in the optics, not the science.
I slid the folder back to her, letting my fingers curl around the edge for a second too long. “I’m going to sue you for defamation. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”
Imogen stood, bracing her palms on the barrel table. “You think you can strong-arm me like you do your contractors? I’ve got this, and I have sources. You can throw whatever old-money weight you want, but the truth is going to come out.”
“Maybe,” I said, rising to match her posture, “but when it does, it’ll have your name on it. And you’ll be remembered as thewoman who bet her reputation on a couple of forged PDFs and lost.”
For the first time, Imogen’s confidence wavered. Just a flicker. “You’ll hear from my attorney.”
“I’ll escort you out,” I said, and I meant it.