It’s permanent. Am I ready to replant roots here?
“If you're willing to run it, we'd like to launch initial planning next quarter, with our first collaborative release targeted for next year.” Sebastian continues. “A bourbon-cognac barrel finish project. Collaboration with one of the most prestigious cognac houses in France.”
My mouth is dry as charred oak. “France?”
“The master blender, Olivier Beaumont, is here in Kentucky overseeing Maison Marchand's American market expansion. If we accept, you'll be the primary liaison coordinating barrel exchanges, developing the finishing protocols with Olivier, and building the marketing strategy for our joint releases.” Thorne taps the folder for emphasis, the gesture sharp and energized. “This could revolutionize how people think about bourbon.”
Excitement sparks through me. This is everything I'd envisioned when I first proposed the idea. It’s also the validation I'd craved from Father but never received. But unease whispers at the edges. The master blender's name is Olivier. It's not exactly common in Kentucky, though probably half the men in France share it. I push the thought aside. Olivier Sawyer destroyed my heart fifteen years ago and disappeared to France. The odds of this being the same man are astronomical.
Not Sawyer. Beaumont. Different name.
But Rosalia said he grew up in Kentucky. And he's a master blender now. And he's what, late thirties? Early forties? The exact age Olivier Sawyer would be.
I could find out. Ask my brothers to look into this Olivier Beaumont’s personal past. It’s easy for a Blackstone. Then I'd know for certain whether I'm about to work with a stranger or the man who broke my heart fifteen years ago.
The request sits on my tongue, sour and demanding.
If it's him, I should know now. Should protect myself. Should tell my brothers so they can find someone else, anyone else to manage this partnership.
But if I ask, and it is him, they'll pull the entire proposal. Thorne and Sebastian would torch a multi-million dollar deal without blinking if they thought Olivier Sawyer was involved. They won’t let him near me.
"Lilly?" Thorne's watching me. "You okay with this?"
The partnership. My proposal. My chance to finally build something that matters.
I'm not letting Olivier Sawyer—or the ghost of him—take this from me.
"Yes." The word is clear, no tremor, no hesitation. "I'll do it."
Sebastian's grin stretches wide, and Thorne claps his hands. "About damn time," he says.
I look at the partnership agreement, at my name typed in bold:Director of Strategic Partnerships, Lillianna Blackstone.
Not Blackstone's daughter. Not the sister who fled. Not the woman too afraid to stay.
Just Lillianna. Building something real.
Sebastian's already talking about barrel samples and aging protocols, his hands gesturing the way they do when he's excited. Rosalia watches him with open affection, like even his bourbon obsession is endearing.
Mother catches my gaze and lifts her glass. "To Blackstone women," she says softly, "strong enough to forge their own paths."
She refused to be defined by her husband’s choices any longer. She left everything familiar, rebuilt herself in Europe, and came back changed.
Now it's my turn.
"We should check on the chaos downstairs,” Thorne tells the room.
"Or sing karaoke badly enough to shatter your ice sculpture," Ivy teases.
He pulls her to her feet, their fingers automatically lacing together. "Fair point. Though Madison promised she wouldn't attempt Beyoncé again."
"She promised you she wouldn't. I made no such deal." Ivy's eyes sparkle with mischief.
"You're trouble," he murmurs, kissing her cheek, then patting her ass when she steps in front of him, taking the stairs.
From downstairs, Thorne's laughter carries up, and it’s free and unguarded. The sound that used to be so rare, but not since Ivy entered his life.
"Thorne, you promised!" Madison demands, giggling through the words.
