At the front, a line of bourbon bottles sat in silent accusation. Each had a white tag, a black number, and a rumor. “Contaminated” was the word, but everyone knew the real accusation was “fraud.” Some asshole even managed to sneak ina tiny noose, draped over the neck of a 20-year single-barrel—classy.
Carrie paced in the back corridor, heels clicking on stone, face painted with the kind of make-up that dared anyone to call her nervous. She wore a simple black dress, but every line of her body said, “I’m the last one standing, and I know it.” I’d watched her practice her opening line in the mirror twenty-seven times before we left the house. She got it perfect every time, but her hands never stopped moving—tapping the banister, flicking her lighter, rolling a ballpoint over her knuckles.
She caught me watching her. “You think I’m gonna choke?” she whispered, the edge in her voice all adrenaline and borrowed sleep.
I shook my head. “If they want to kill you, they’ll have to use a silver bullet.”
She almost smiled at that. Almost.
We walked together through the archway, the crowd parting like it feared she might bite. Which, honestly, wasn’t out of the question. The lights hit us—camera crews jockeying for position, flashbulbs popping—and for a second, she looked just like the old bourbon ads: perfect hair, glass in hand, that grin that said, “You can trust me, I’ve already outsmarted you.”
But I saw the pulse at her throat, and the way she clenched her left fist so tight her nails left half-moons in her skin.
At the front of the room, a panel of regulators sat behind a folding table, dressed in the kind of navy suits you only buy if your job is to say “No” to billionaires. In the center was the FDA rep—a brittle-looking man with a combover and a smile so small it probably required a permit. To his left, the local press. To his right, Lila Vargas, face buried in a stack of legal pads but eyes watching every angle.
Carrie stepped up to the lectern. The room fell silent, like everyone forgot how to swallow.
She took a slow, steadying breath. “Thank you all for coming,” she started, voice clear, just the right side of Southern. “My father taught me that the only things worth doing in this life are the ones that survive the scrutiny of history, science, and taste. I stand here today not because Stillwater failed any of those tests, but because someone would rather see our legacy burned than admit their own mediocrity.”
A murmur rolled through the crowd—shock, or admiration, or both.
She went on. “Tonight, I will taste every bottle myself, publicly, and sign off on every batch. If a single one is unsafe, I’ll recall the entire production. If not, I expect the board, and this industry, to admit that my family’s name still stands for something.”
She nodded to the panel. The FDA man gave a tight smile, more of a warning than encouragement.
She picked up the first bottle. The camera shutters went berserk.
“Easy,” I whispered, working to settle her nerves.
The ritual was almost religious: pour, swirl, raise to the light, sniff, taste, savor. Her lips parted, just a hint, then closed around the glass. Her eyes didn’t blink. The room was so quiet you could hear the HVAC kick in.
She did this for each bottle, moving down the line with the patience of a priest. Every swallow was a dare to the men who wanted her dead or disgraced. I watched the sweat bead at her temple, the tremor in her right hand as the ethanol hit the back of her throat, but nobody else saw it. Or if they did, they were too busy shitting themselves to call her out.
At the halfway point, Marcus Ellery slithered in from the side, flanked by a couple of security guys who’d obviously lifted their shoes from a funeral home. He didn’t say a word, just folded hisarms and watched. The wolf in me wanted to rip his throat out, but I kept my hands in my pockets.
The tasting stretched for over an hour. By the end, Carrie had gone through twenty-six samples, each with its own legend and backstory. She wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, careful not to smudge her lipstick, and addressed the room again.
“I taste nothing but excellence,” she said. “If anyone disagrees, you’re welcome to step forward.”
Nobody moved.
She nodded, almost to herself, and stepped back.
The FDA guy cleared his throat, did that thing where he shuffled papers to buy time. “We have, uh, completed our own sampling and analysis. In accordance with Title 21, Section—” he checked his notes “—341.15, we confirm that all bottles provided tonight match the expected chemical profile of Stillwater production, with no evidence of in-facility contamination.”
A gasp, then a collective exhale.
He wasn’t done. “We have, however, identified anomalies introduced during shipping, likely post-distillery. That investigation is ongoing, but we do not believe Stillwater is responsible.”
The relief in the room was immediate, but not universal. Marcus’s face went slack, as if someone had unplugged him. I grinned. Couldn’t help it.
Carrie smiled, just a fraction, and nodded to the panel. “Thank you.”
Applause broke out, tentative at first, then rolling in waves as the reality set in: Stillwater survived. The name would live another generation.
I caught Carrie’s eye as she stepped down. Her composure was perfect, but the bond between us flared with the shock of her relief, almost like a hangover hitting ten seconds after the last shot.
“Fucking fantastic,” I said.