She walked past me, lips barely moving. “It’s not over. Not until I see him bleed.”
I followed, grinning bigger. “Lead the way.”
People crowded her, reporters firing off questions, fellow distillers offering stiff handshakes and even stiffer congratulations. She accepted them all, but never lost focus. Her eyes stayed locked on Marcus, who’d started edging toward the door.
I kept to her flank, ready for anything.
They say bourbon men are born with thicker skin, but Marcus Ellery looked like a peeled grape as he ghosted toward the side exit. He kept to the edge of the crowd, chin tucked, gaze fixed on the marble inlays beneath his loafers. The overhead light from the crystal chandeliers turned his face the color of fresh curdled milk.
Nobody followed, at first. But I could smell the panic on him—sour, like lemon zest ground into a countertop. So I trailed two steps behind, boots echoing just enough to announce that this wouldn’t be a clean getaway.
He almost made it to the double doors when Lila Vargas appeared, blocking his path. She was a vision of sharp edges—black suit, white blouse, hair slicked to a blade, her whole aura that of a woman who’d rather eat glass than take a day off. She didn’t bother with small talk.
“Marcus Ellery,” she said, and every syllable cut glass. “You are being served with formal notice of suit for corporate sabotage, fraud, and defamation per KRS 367.170 and 367.175.”
She held out a packet thick enough to brain a mule. Marcus tried to step around, but Lila mirrored him, her heels never slipping on the slick marble. Cameras swung in, half a dozen, the crowd behind already turning as the drama unfolded.
Lila’s smile was nothing but teeth. “You have thirty days to respond. A copy has been sent to your counsel and your mother’s house, since we know you’re couch-surfing.”
Marcus snatched the envelope. For a second, his pride waged war with his shame—his nostrils flared, the color drained from his ears, and then it hit him: he was the story now. Every eye in the room watched as he realized he’d been outplayed by a woman he’d once called a “legal secretary with delusions of grandeur.”
He glanced at the nearest reporter, maybe hoping for mercy, but the guy just snapped a photo and shrugged. Marcus’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.
Lila leaned in, voice low but pointed. “Congratulations, Marcus. You just made bourbon history—for all the wrong reasons.”
He turned, sputtering. “This isn’t over—”
But Lila was already on the phone, probably scheduling the next ten lawsuits before dinner.
Marcus stormed through the doors, didn’t see the passing waiter, and barreled right into a tray of gold-capped samples. The crash echoed through the foyer, a rain of crystal and liquor spreading in a glistening pool across the stone. Bourbon ran into the grout, sweet and irretrievable.
I watched the spectacle, and for the first time in weeks, felt a deep and unfiltered satisfaction. Lila met my eye from across the mess, gave a little salute, and mouthed, “Done.”
The crowd buzzed. The cameras whirred. But nobody was looking at Carrie anymore.
The last of the old monsters were gone, and the real power vacuum had just opened up.
Nobody knew how to throw a party like a bourbon heiress just acquitted of murder-by-poisoning. Within an hour, the tasting hall transformed from a scene of public reckoning to a circus of revelers—every bottle cracked, every glass topped up, every grievance momentarily forgotten. Somewhere, a jazz band appeared, their sound amplified by the old oak and high ceilings so that each note was sharp as a paper cut. The crowd loosened, and a hundred minor celebrities suddenly remembered they were on the guest list.
I watched the transformation from the periphery, posted near the coat check with a line of bikers and ex-military I trusted not to spike the punch. I wasn’t built for these crowds, not after years of avoiding cameras and spotlights, but the bond to Carrie kept me alert, like a wolf in a room full of dogs who’d never learned what a real bite felt like. I spent the first twenty minutes counting security threats, then drifted to counting the number of people carrying concealed (fourteen, two of whom were probably not expecting me to spot them).
The real show was Carrie. She moved through the room like she’d never tasted defeat—hugging people, signing labels, even letting the head of the State Senate squeeze her hand and“propose a toast to the future.” Each time she smiled, the sound system nearly went out from the static charge she put in the air. The men she passed tried to catch her eye, but she was always half a step ahead, already reading the next play before the last one finished.
I lost sight of her near the east bar, where Imogen Vale (the Vulture herself) had her boxed in with a microphone and a camera operator. Imogen’s first question was, “So what does bourbon mean to you, after everything you’ve survived?” and Carrie actually laughed.
“It means I’m still standing,” she replied, just loud enough for the whole crowd to catch it. “And it means my enemies are out of business. Next question.”
Imogen tried to pivot, but Carrie had already spotted me at the edge of the crowd. For a second, her face softened, and the mask dropped. All I saw was hunger—the kind that wasn’t about food, or power, but about finally, after months of fighting, having something that belonged only to her.
She said something to Imogen, then broke away. The next sixty seconds played out in slow motion.
She wove through the sea of people, ignoring every outstretched hand, every congratulations. The air was thick with perfume, old money, and the sickly-sweet tang of success. I felt her approach before I saw her. The bond lit up like a flare.
She didn’t say a word. She just grabbed the front of my jacket, yanked me down to her level, and kissed me full on the mouth.
The room went dead silent. The band stopped mid-note. Even the HVAC seemed to hold its breath.
I heard the whispers, first from the back, then rippling forward: “That’s her bodyguard—” “—the biker—” “—fucking hell, she’s not even trying to hide it.”
