“Really,” she presses, leaning forward. “Your brother Sebastian was appointed CEO over you, despite you being considered the more... aggressive business mind. That must have been difficult.”
The old wound throbs. My father’s reason for naming Sebastian CEO was vindictive, but I’m better suited for acquisitions. He is better suited for the voice of Blackstone.
“My brother is an excellent CEO,” I say smoothly. “And I'm unstoppable in acquisitions. We each play to our strengths.”
“How diplomatic,” she murmurs, seemingly disappointed that I’m not more upset.
One last thing before we shift topics,” Cassandra says, lowering her voice. “Three years ago, after the Blackstone Derby party at The Mansion, you disappeared to Canada rather suddenly.”
My stomach bottoms out and something must show because her eyes sharpen with interest. “Our sources suggest it wasn’t just about acquisitions, but something to do with your brother’s now wife.”
She's fishing, but closer to the truth than she knows. I didn't go to Canada for business growth. I went because staying in Kentucky meant watching Sebastian build something real with Rosalia while knowing I'd almost destroyed it. Meant facing what I'd become. Running acquisitions from Quebec instead of Bardstown gave me distance that looked like ambition instead of retreat.
I need to gain back control of this interview. “Ms. Weathers.” My voice is controlled but deadly serious. “You’re venturing into dangerous territory based on rumors and speculation. I suggest we return to matters of actual public interest.”
There’s a knock at the door and Ivy enters with perfect timing. Not just because we planned to have an interruption, but the cutting into these lines of questions is a lifeline.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were still in your interview,” Ivy says, her voice professionally cool. “I’ll come back later.”
“No need, Ms. West.” I gesture her forward. “Ms. Weathers was just asking about your role here.”
Ivy steps into the room with the confident grace of the attorney she is. She’s wearing a tailored navy suit that speaks of New York sophistication, her hair pulled back in a sleekknot. Professional. Untouchable. Nothing like the woman I was touching all over the table behind us.
She reaches past me to shake Cassandra’s hand, the subtle scent of her perfume—wildflowers with notes of vanilla—hits me like a physical force. My mind flashes to her neck arched beneath my mouth, my face buried in her hair as I pulled out of her the last possible moment, the intoxicating mix of her scent and our shared pleasure overwhelming my senses. The memory is so visceral that, for a heartbeat, I forget where I am, who else is in the room. It takes every ounce of control not to reach for her.
“Cassandra Weathers,The Kentucky Chronicle,” the reporter replies, pulling me into the present. Her gaze slides over Ivy like she’s cataloging every detail for future reference. Or sizing up the competition. “How fortunate you could join us. I was just asking Mr. Blackstone about your... association.”
“I’m Madison’s guardian,” Ivy says, taking the seat I indicate beside me. “And I’m consulting with Blackstone Bourbon on their green initiative. Mr. Blackstone has been kind enough to offer hospitality during my stay.”
The practiced answer, while technically truthful without revealing the complexity beneath, lands perfectly. It’s exactly as we rehearsed, though hearing it delivered with such conviction still impresses me.
“Environmental law,” Cassandra repeats, her gaze flicking between us. “That’s an interesting coincidence, given the bourbon industry’s recent focus on sustainability initiatives.”
“We’ve already been over this, Ms. Weathers.”
“Please, call me Cassandra. Do you mind if I call you Thorne?” She holds my gaze a beat longer than necessary, her lips parting slightly.
I’m tempted to say no. It’s a power play, but aimed at Ivy. To see how she’ll react.
Still, staying on her good side is a must. “Not at all,” I tell her.
“Before you took over guardianship, were you and Madison close?” Cassandra asks Ivy.
“As close as sisters could be that are sixteen years apart and live in different states,” Ivy replies, the slight edge in her voice genuine. “Which is why I appreciateThorne’scommitment to protecting her privacy during this transition.”
I swallow my grin at Ivy’s own power play with the use of my name. It doesn’t help the story we are feeding the reporter, but I can’t lie, I like the possessive edge to it.
And it’s time to end this interview.
“I think we’ve covered everything of substance,” I say, setting my empty coffee cup down with finality. “Unless you have further questions about our business strategy?”
Cassandra recognizes the dismissal for what it is. She clicks off her recorder and tucks it away in her leather portfolio. “I believe I have what I need.” She rises smoothly, extending her hand. “Thank you for your time. This has been... illuminating.”
“I hope it clarifies matters,” I reply, the statement as clean and final as the closing of a deal.
“Oh, it clarified many things,” she says, slipping a business card into my hand. “If you think of anything else you’d like to share withme, my personal cell is on the back.”
The gesture is familiar to me. I’ve received plenty of these “professional” cards with personal numbers. And three years ago, I'd have already been planning when to use it. Even if another woman I just fucked was in the room. Hell, I would've enjoyed the game of it. The pursuit, the tension, the inevitable morning after when I’d make it clear that neither of them meant anything to me.
