I slipped away twice, trying to breathe in bathrooms scented with twelve-dollar soaps and disinfectant, but always found another line of guests waiting outside the door, eager for a word or an alliance or an insult delivered in the language of etiquette. Eventually, I gave up and made for the bar, tracing my way around a bourbon-barrel table set up for the occasion. Even in grief, Daddy would’ve insisted on a perfect flight.
That’s when I heard it.
“The Bourbon Princess won’t last six months. Hell, I give her till Derby.” The voice belonged to Nadia Quinn, the only woman in Kentucky who could out-maneuver the men and out-dress them, too. She wore navy blue this time, tailored so sharp it might’ve drawn blood if you brushed too close. Next to her was Marcus Ellery, now dry and smirking, nursing what was definitely not Stillwater bourbon in his glass.
Nadia’s manicure flashed as she waved the insult away, lips curled in polite contempt. “She’s got a palate, sure, but it’s not the same as running an empire. She’ll cave.”
Marcus sipped, swirling the glass as if examining its legs for evidence. “Perhaps even less. I’m hearing whispers of cash-flow issues, bad stock coming due. She’ll sell. Or someone will make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
Their conversation stalled as they clocked my approach. I let my mouth relax into a neutral line, the same expression I used to wear in board meetings when Daddy was alive and I was allowed to speak only if spoken to.
“Good evening, Marcus. Ms. Quinn.” I let their silence hang a moment. “If you’re here for the tour, the good stuff’s in the office. Or is this more of a… condolences call?”
Nadia didn’t miss a beat. “We were just remembering your father’s innovation with the small-batch finishes. Legendary.”
“Funny,” I said, “he always said the real innovation was knowing who not to trust.”
Marcus raised his glass, a little salute. “To new beginnings, then.”
I didn’t bother to toast. I turned away, feeling the tremor in my jaw before I could clamp it down. I wanted to retreat, lock myself in the cellar, run until I could taste blood, anything to escape the perfume-and-sabotage fog. But the room closed in behind me, and I could sense Bennet before I saw him—his shuffle, the slow, deliberate way he made space for himself in any crowd.
He pressed a glass into my hand before I could protest. “Didn’t think you’d come back,” he said, voice low. His face, lined and pitted like a stave left too long in the sun, held no judgment. Just worry.
“I didn’t have a choice.” I tried the bourbon—my favorite, the ‘04 vintage, honey and smoke and clove on the tongue. “They’ll come for us now.”
Bennet nodded, eyes on the cask display. “Your father built something worth protecting. And there are vultures circling.” His hand, gripping my arm, was steadier than mine had ever been. “You don’t have to do it alone, Carrie.”
I laughed, harsh and short. “I don’t see anyone else stepping up.”
He looked at me, and for the first time in my life, I saw real fear in his eyes. Not for himself, but for what might be lost. “You’ll need allies. Even if you hate asking for help.”
The room shifted. Conversations rose and fell, the bourbon elite already recalibrating their social positions for the new order. Above the fireplace, a portrait of my great-grandmother glared down, daring me to break.
I wouldn’t. Not in front of them.
I sipped the bourbon and forced my spine straight. “I won’t let them take it.”
Bennet squeezed my arm again, a touch that was both comfort and benediction. “Damn right you won’t,” he said.
Behind us, Marcus and Nadia laughed at something private, their heads close. I caught a few words—“auction,” “distressed assets”—and felt the heat rise on my neck. I turned, using the anger to propel me forward.
If the war for Stillwater had begun, I’d fight it on my own turf, under my own roof, with the only weapon my father ever respected: absolute, unbreakable will.
And maybe, if I was very lucky, a little help from the dead.
When the last of the mourners had drained their glass and drifted off, Stillwater Mansion exhaled. The hush was absolute, even the clocks silent, as if the house was holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d pass whatever test came next.
I sat behind Daddy’s desk, in the chair that still held the ghost of his shoulders. It didn’t fit me—I was taller, narrower, less suited to the idea of power—but I sat anyway, because ritual mattered. I left the desk lamp on low, bourbon-amber light puddling over rows of leather-bound ledgers, a lifetime of balance sheets and bottling records stacked alongside faded photographs. The office always smelled like dust, tobacco, and the last dram of whiskey evaporating in a glass.
The house was dark except for this one glow. I’d killed the security lights outside, hated the way they spotlighted you for the world. Here, I felt invisible, safe. At least, that’s what I told myself as I riffled through the day’s mail, each envelope a new threat in the form of “condolences.” The phone didn’t ring, but my inbox pulsed with messages—some heartfelt, most transactional, a few outright predatory.
I sipped from the glass in front of me, letting the 25-year soak into my bones, sweet and slow. I could almost hear Daddy’s voice: “Don’t waste good bourbon on bad news, Caroline.” But that was the point. The bad news was all I had.
Tonight, the numbers made sense in a way they never had before. I read the trailing zeroes and knew how many hours of labor, how many generations of sweat, each one represented. Daddy always made me learn every step of production before he’d let me near the books. He said you couldn’t run a distillery if you didn’t know the difference between old wood and green, between river water and well. I’d thought he was preparing me to inherit; now I saw he’d been inoculating me against the poison coming for our line.
The desk drawer stuck a little, like always. I yanked it free and found, between the checkbooks and the family pistol, a stack of index cards with Daddy’s handwriting. On the top: “Never sign anything after midnight.” Underneath, a list of names—some crossed out, some circled, all familiar from the day’s reception line. At the bottom, one word, underlined twice: “Ellery.”
A heavier envelope rested beneath the cards. I slit it open, careful not to rip whatever it contained. Inside was a sheaf of papers, legal letterhead, and a note scrawled in a hand that slanted hard right.
