Carrie
Imogen Vale was waiting for me in the private boardroom, perched at the head of the table like a hawk in a bourbon boutique.
She wore charcoal slacks and a turtleneck that might have been designer, but her expression was the real investment: all poised serenity, the kind that only comes from a lifetime of watching other people fall apart on cue.
She didn’t bother with a greeting. Just tapped the manila folder in front of her with a perfectly manicured finger and said, “Caroline. Thanks for taking the time. I know how much you value discretion.”
I forced a smile and closed the door behind me, thumbing the latch until it clicked.
Imogen’s gaze lingered on the movement, her lips curling in faint amusement.
The table between us was custom-made from a split bourbon barrel, the wood charred black and glossy, ringed with brass tacks and just enough historical authenticity.
On the far wall, a row of antique Stillwater bottles stared out from museum-grade shelving, each one a silent threat: Don’t fuck with us. We were here before you.
I took the seat opposite Imogen, careful to keep the same distance my father always used when facing down auditors and boardroom jackals. I ignored the slight tremor in my right hand as I set my phone to record on the table. She clocked it, of course, and her eyes went sharp and hungry.
“I’m told you had something urgent,” I said, letting a little edge into my voice. “I hope it’s not another exposé on industry nepotism. You already did that one to death.”
Imogen smiled like she’d been paid by the smirk. “Oh, it’s urgent. And frankly, I’m hoping you’ll want to resolve it before it hits the news cycle.” She slid the folder across the table, slow enough that I could smell the nerves underneath her vanilla perfume. “Take a look.”
The folder was thick, overstuffed, and I recognized the cover sheet—one of our internal memos, complete with the old Stillwater watermark.
I flicked through the first few pages, brow furrowing.
It was a chemical analysis of last month’s single-barrel batch, followed by pages of flagged ingredients, off-the-books purchase orders, a stack of invoices for a synthetic enzyme I’d never authorized.
The next document was a heavily annotated FDA complaint, already highlighted in yellow, with a “leaked” signature line at the bottom.
I didn’t need to read the rest. I could smell the lie before I tasted it.
“Allegations of illegal additives,” I said, flipping a page with my index finger. “Supposedly to boost yield and accelerate aging. You’re claiming we doctored the bourbon.”
Imogen folded her hands, faux-concern pasted onto her face. “It’s not a claim, Carrie. It’s forensic evidence. If this is true—”
“It’s not,” I snapped, maybe too loud. The acoustics caught the bark of my voice and threw it back at me. Imogen’s nostrils flared, and she relished it.
“Then you should have no trouble explaining why your master distiller’s personal email contains vendor contracts for said enzyme. Or why your own signature shows up on three procurement orders, dated after your father’s death.”
I set the folder aside, letting it land with a heavy, deliberate thud. “You’re not a chemist. These are forgeries. And if you try to print a word of this, I’ll have your publisher buried in defamation lawsuits before you can spell your own byline.”
Imogen’s eyebrows shot up, then dropped into an expression I recognized from every bullying interview she’d ever run. “Carrie, if you had an ounce of sense, you’d stop threatening and start negotiating. There are ways out of this. Even for you.”
I stared at her, reading the lines around her mouth, the practiced tension in her jaw, the little twitch of her left hand as she tried not to reach for her phone. There was no bluff here; she’d brought the threat to my door, and she wanted to see if I’d break.
I picked up the folder again, leafed through it with feigned indifference, but my brain was on fire.
I recognized the forgeries instantly—Daddy’s signature was wrong, the slant too modern, the crossbar on the T barely kissed the stem.
The vendor invoices used the wrong font, and the purchase order numbers didn’t match our system.
Even the enzyme itself was a red herring; we’d run the real thing for R&D years ago, found it did jack shit to the mash, and scrapped the supplier.
But the damage, if Imogen was right, would be in the optics, not the science.
I slid the folder back to her, letting my fingers curl around the edge for a second too long. “I’m going to sue you for defamation. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”
Imogen stood, bracing her palms on the barrel table. “You think you can strong-arm me like you do your contractors? I’ve got this, and I have sources. You can throw whatever old-money weight you want, but the truth is going to come out.”
“Maybe,” I said, rising to match her posture, “but when it does, it’ll have your name on it. And you’ll be remembered as the woman who bet her reputation on a couple of forged PDFs and lost.”
For the first time, Imogen’s confidence wavered. Just a flicker. “You’ll hear from my attorney.”
“I’ll escort you out,” I said, and I meant it.
We walked the hallway in silence. Every step, the heels of my shoes rang out—solid, decisive, louder than hers.
The front lobby was empty, the air cold with the echo of arguments and unsaid threats.
Imogen’s hand was already on the doorknob when I reached past her and opened it myself, holding the glass wide.
The parking lot was empty except for a few staff cars and a battered Harley angled at the curb, chromed pipes still ticking with heat.
Shivs was standing beside it, arms crossed, wearing a black T-shirt and the battered leather cut of the Royal Bastards.
His hair was still damp from the shower, but his eyes were alert, following every move.
When he saw me, something in his posture shifted—almost imperceptible, but there.
Imogen paused just past the threshold and fixed me with a final, venomous look. “You should really learn how the real world works,” she said and walked away, heels crunching the pea gravel with every step.
I let the door swing shut, then watched from the glass as she made her way to her car, a silver Audi parked three spots down.
The morning light caught the curve of her jaw, and for a second, I envied her certainty, her ability to walk away from a disaster with nothing but a pen and a notebook.
But I was built for endurance, not escape.
I caught Shivs watching me. He nodded, the way you might at a dog that’s just held its ground against a bigger animal.
The tension in my neck started to ease, and I let myself breathe for the first time since I’d entered the boardroom.
I didn’t even see the car at first—a black Lincoln, low to the ground, windows tinted so dark it looked like an oil slick with tires.
It rolled slow down the drive, then idled at the curb across from the lot.
My brain ticked over, cataloging the make, model, and the way the driver’s silhouette didn’t move.
I stepped outside, squinting against the glare, and heard the crunch of gravel behind me. Shivs had crossed the lot in three long strides, his hands loose at his sides, posture gone from “watchful” to “dangerous” in half a breath.
Imogen’s car started, headlights flaring, and she pulled out, turning left toward the main road. The Lincoln didn’t move. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a warning my father had drilled into me—never ignore the stillness before a storm.
“Get inside,” Shivs murmured, barely loud enough for me to hear.
“No,” I said, voice flat. “I’m not running.”
He didn’t argue, just stepped in front of me as the Lincoln crept forward. The window on the passenger side slid down, slow as a threat. I caught the glint of metal before my brain registered the rest—the length of the barrel, the gloved hand, the quick, efficient movement as the gun came up.
The first shot hit Shivs in the shoulder, spinning him sideways.
I felt the air split beside my face, the sound less a bang than a pressure wave.
The second shot was wider, cracking the pavement near my feet, sending chips of asphalt into my shin.
I hit the deck, palms scraping the gravel, but my eyes stayed locked on the car, on the face behind the window—a pale oval, lips curled in concentration, eyes dead as river stones.
Shivs staggered, then surged forward, closing the gap in a blur. Another shot rang out, this one wild, and he reached the car as the Lincoln screeched into reverse, tires screaming. He slammed a fist into the trunk as it fishtailed away, leaving a spiderweb of dents and a smear of blood.
I scrambled to my feet, heart jackhammering, and ran to where he’d fallen. He was down on one knee, hand pressed to the wound in his shoulder, blood leaking through his fingers in thick, syrupy streams.
“You idiot,” I said, dropping beside him.
He grinned, feral and proud, teeth red. “You always need a taste tester,” he said, and then he went down, hard, blood blooming out across the blacktop like spilled whiskey.
I pressed both hands over the wound, ignoring the heat and the stickiness, ignoring everything except the pulse under my palms. The Lincoln was gone, a distant smear of exhaust at the edge of the property, but I knew it would be back. The sharks had tasted blood.
I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t give Imogen or Marcus or anyone else the satisfaction. I just held Shivs, kneeling in the center of the lot, blood and bourbon history mixing under the Kentucky humidity.
I’d been fighting to keep Stillwater alive for months. But for the first time, I understood that I was also fighting for my own goddamn life.