I nod and turn to leave, feeling his gaze on me as I walk away. At the door, I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “For what it’s worth, distance isn’t working for me either.”
His sharp intake of breath follows me into the hallway, and I know with absolute certainty that whatever is brewing between us is far from over. The interview tomorrow and its repercussions are the least of my worries.
Chapter Fifteen
Thorne
Control is a ritual. I straighten my cufflinks for the third time, adjust my tie for the fifth. The gestures are meaningless. My appearance is already impeccable, but they give my restless hands something to do besides ball into fists.
Outside my library window, workers are clearing away the last of the windfall from last night’s storm. An ancient oak that’s stood on this land for two hundred years has lost a major limb. My groundskeeper wants it removed entirely, claims it’sa liability. But cutting down what’s survived this long feels like sacrilege, even to someone as unsentimental as me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it from my suit jacket. Maybe the interview is cancelled. That’d be great.
Nope. It’s from Sebastian: Reconsider this. Robert can handle the press.
I don’t bother responding. The decision to handle this interview alone wasn’t well-received by my siblings. Sebastian argued that family matters should be presented with a united front. Lillianna worried I’d be too blunt. They’re not wrong to be concerned. I’ve spent my career avoiding reporters, preferring to keep my personal life—and past indiscretions—out of the spotlight, but this is different.
Robert, our PR director, is skilled at spinning narratives and deflecting questions, but I’m not willing to delegate that. Not when it’s my house where Madison and Ivy are staying. Not when it’s my name the rumors are circling around. I need to control the narrative.
“Mr. Blackstone,” Patricia calls from the doorway, “Ms. Weathers fromThe Kentucky Chroniclehas arrived.”
“Show her in,” I say, moving to stand behind my desk. Power dynamics matter in interviews.
Cassandra Weathers enters like she’s stepping into a courtroom. Her crisp pantsuit and calculating eyes remind me of the prosecutors I’ve faced in business litigation. She’s here to extract a story, not just report one. As our eyes meet, interest flickers across her face that has nothing to do with journalism.
Objectively speaking, she’s attractive. Sleek dark hair, sharp cheekbones, confidence in her movements.
“Mr. Blackstone. Thank you for agreeing to this interview.” She extends her hand. Her grip is firm, but lingers a beat too long.
The old me might have considered using that interest to my advantage in ways that extended beyond this interview. But now my mind flashes unbidden to gold-flecked eyes and that defiant tilt of her head, to Ivy's voice when she challenges me. The comparison comes automatically, unwanted.
I release her hand. “Let’s be clear about parameters,” I say without preamble. “I’m willing to discuss Blackstone’s business initiatives and growth strategy. As for the asinine rumor of my secret family. It’s false.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Blackstone," she replies smoothly, "your family is currently the subject of considerable public interest. Your father recently passed. Your mother fled to Europe. You've abandoned your post in Quebec and returned to your home in Anchorage. And it's rumored that a teenager and a woman are living with you. The speculative pieces inBluegrass Buzzhave been interesting.”
"I bet.Bullshit Buzzis a gossip column, not journalism."
Cassandra laughs. “Can I quote your title for the gossip column?”
“Go ahead. They know that they are.”
“Back to my original question about your family. Specifically, the two people who recently moved in with you...”
I square my shoulders, a reflex born from countless boardroom confrontations. Letting Madison go to 3Bs and see friends after Mother's visit might have been a mistake.
“Which is precisely why I’m here,” she counters. “To get the facts directly from you rather than relying on speculation.” She holds my gaze. “ How about a brief statement about your family situation, and then we can discuss Blackstone’s impressive acquisition strategy under your leadership?”
A calculated trade. Business coverage in exchange for addressing the rumors. Smart. I nod my agreement.
I gesture toward the leather armchairs positioned around a low table by the window, showcasing the late afternoon sun. “Coffee? Iced Tea? Bourbon?” I ask.
“Coffee. Black, please.”
“For me as well,” I tell Patricia.
As she pours us each a cup, Cassandra looks around my library. Her gaze takes in the wall of books, the bourbon collection, and the framed vintage Blackstone advertisements. This isn’t mere curiosity. She’s assessing me through my surroundings, looking for contradictions or revelations.
“No photographer?” I ask, after Patricia sets down our mugs and leaves
