Chapter 1 #2
“I’ll be back Friday. We’ll schedule something then.”
“Have Sadie put it on your calendar.” He sighs. “She won’t let me near it.”
“Because you tried to schedule golf during a client visit.”
“He liked golf.”
“You almost made him miss a board meeting.”
“That was... a scheduling conflict.”
I lean back, the city flashing past outside the window.
Exhausting. Endearing. That’s Kelley.
The SUV slows to a smooth stop in front of the distillery’s security gate.
A beast of a property—55 acres of heritage whiskey, hard-earned money, and the kind of southern old-money energy that makes you wonder if they vote red or just dress like it.
Before Dennis can even open the door, I spot them.
Roxanne and Kitty.
Two sleek black Dobermans on duty, ears alert, shoulders squared like they’ve been briefed on who I am—and they don’t give a damn.
“With all due respect, Mr. James,” Dennis says, shifting nervously in his seat, “I don’t do dogs. So this is as far as I go.”
I nod. “All good.”
I grab my bag and step out, the morning air crisp with a hint of ethanol and damp stone.
The dogs are already stalking forward. No barking. Just that military level gait that says, don’t test us, city boy.
I reach into my side pocket, slow and steady, like I’m disarming a bomb.
From a brown paper bag, I pull out two organic deer bones I picked up last night. Each one cost more than a steak dinner.
“I brought gifts,” I murmur, voice low and calm.
Kitty growls. Roxanne hesitates, tail twitching. I hold one bone out—arms wide, stance neutral. Kitty moves first, snatching the bone midair like she’s owed it.
I toss the second to Roxanne, who trots away wagging like I didn’t almost die two seconds ago.
Dogs: disarmed. Territory: secured.
I glance back at the SUV. Dennis gives me a tight thumbs-up from behind the glass, his lips barely moving as he mouths, “Hell no.” I grin and tap the roof twice in solidarity. Man won’t flinch in a street fight, but show him some well-fed Dobermans and he’s ready to call in backup.
I turn back to the estate.
It’s quiet out here—too quiet for an active factory, which tells me two things: one, operations are running like clockwork, and two, they knew I was coming.
I step up to the main walkway, gravel crunching under my loafers as the industrial-sized glass doors glide open with a hydraulic hiss. The shift in temperature hits instantly—warm air, infused with copper stills, yeast, and clean concrete.
Inside, it's immaculate. Gleaming chrome, floor markings in crisp yellow, and a rhythm to the factory floor like a heartbeat beneath the polished chaos. Safety goggles on every worker. High-vis vests. No wasted motion.
Then I see her.
Holly.
She stands near the reception alcove, tablet hugged tight to her chest, blouse slightly wrinkled like she’s been moving non-stop since sunrise. Her ponytail is loose in a way that’s too perfect to be accidental, and she’s biting the inside of her cheek—half distracted, half calculating.
She blinks once, then clocks me.
“Mr. James?”
“You must be Holly,” I say, smoothing out the sharp edges in my voice. No need to come in alpha. Not yet.
She fumbles slightly with her grip on the tablet as she steps forward, offering her hand.
“Wow, it’s... nice to finally meet you in person. Sorry about the—uh—security detail.”
I shake her hand, letting my thumb graze lightly along the ridge of her knuckles. Professional. Barely there.
“No worries. I come bearing peace offerings.”
Her lips curl into a smile, one she tries to temper but can’t quite hide.
“Ah. You’re the one who brought the bones. That was smart.”
“I do my homework,” I murmur, glancing behind her at the massive glass corridor leading deeper into the factory.
“You’d be surprised how many people don’t.”
Oh, I know.
“Come on,” Holly says with a small wave. “I’ll walk you through the floor on the way to the main office. Patrick and Sean are finishing up with inventory right now.”
She pivots sharply, posture straightening like someone just hit record on a video she’s rehearsed a hundred times. She walks ahead, confident and a little too choreographed, her heels clicking against the polished concrete like a metronome.
I fall into step beside her.
The factory stretches wide and precise—machines humming in harmony, vats lined in rows like disciplined soldiers, the scent of aged oak barrels weaving into the air.
“Our main fermentation tanks are custom-designed,” she offers. “You’re catching us post-run, so the bottling lines are being sanitized.”
“Impressive,” I say, not bothering to take notes. I’ve already read every permit, production output, and sanitation score they’ve filed for the last eighteen months.
What I want is what’s not in the report.
Like how Holly keeps smoothing the back of her skirt every few steps.
Or how she steals quick glances at me when she thinks I’m focused on the floor.
“You’ve been with them long?” I ask.
“Three years,” she replies, smiling like she just aced a pop quiz. “Started as a scheduling coordinator, worked my way up.”
“So you know where all the bodies are buried.”
She chuckles, then tosses me a sideways glance. “Let’s just say I keep the place running smoothly.”
There it is.
The switch. Subtle, but intentional.
She's not just giving me a tour. She's auditioning.
“I respect that,” I murmur, watching the way her stride changes as we pass a group of floor workers. Her shoulders go back, hips sway a little more. She’s performing—but not for them. For me.
The hallway narrows and transitions into the executive wing, glass walls on one side, framed vintage bourbon labels on the other. It’s cooler here. Quieter. Even the lights shift—less warehouse, more boardroom ambiance.
We pass a kitchenette where two older men in polo shirts give me the once-over, nodding politely. I nod back.
Holly doesn’t introduce them.
“You’ve got good instincts,” I say casually.
“About what?”
“Knowing exactly what people want to see... and what they need to hear.”
She slows a beat, then smirks. “Is that your way of saying I’m good at my job?”
“It’s my way of saying I’ve met my fair share of executive assistants... and none of them walk like they’re being watched unless they want to be.”
Her smile tightens. Not in offense—more like I peeled back a layer she wasn’t ready to show yet.
“We’re here,” she says, stopping in front of a pair of tall glass doors etched with the Clancy & Rivers insignia. “Patrick and Sean will be with you shortly.”
She turns to face me fully, expression unreadable.
“Would you like coffee?”
“Black. Strong.”
“Naturally.” She smiles again—this one softer, and maybe just a touch real—and disappears down the hall.
The etched glass doors hiss open.
Inside, it’s thick with old money. The scent of cedar polish, fresh espresso, and overconfident legacy clings to the air.
Long oak table. Framed aerial photos of the estate through the decades.
A single spotlight hits the crown jewel in a case against the far wall—Clancy & Rivers’ 18-year. Like it’s a holy relic.
Patrick Clancy and Sean Rivers are already standing.
Patrick clocks me first. And just for a flash, his smile slips.
Sean squints through his gold-framed glasses, his eyes sweeping over me like he’s still waiting for the real Mr. James to walk through the door.
“August,” Patrick says finally, offering a firm handshake that’s more test than greeting. “Appreciate you making the trip out.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, returning the grip, letting mine linger just half a second longer. “After two months of calendar tag, I figured we were overdue.”
Sean hums, finally extending his hand like an afterthought.
He doesn’t say a word.
I know that look.
It’s the same one I got from VCs when we were pitching seed money: Tattooed, tanned, and twenty years younger than what they pictured. I’m used to it.
Hell, it’s why I go by August James in these rooms. Augustus throws people off. August keeps them curious.
I flash my dimpled smile and take my seat.
Holly slips in behind me, placing a cup of coffee at my elbow like a ghost—no eye contact this time. Just the quiet click of heels backing away.
“You drink?” Patrick asks, nodding toward the display case.
“After a contract’s signed,” I say, voice even. Friendly. Controlled.
Sean finally speaks.
“You’re younger than I expected.”
There it is.
I almost thank him for not saying ‘urban’ instead.
I smile again, folding my hands loosely on the table. “Must be the sunscreen.”
Patrick chuckles, a little too loud.
“We get a lotta agencies trying to pitch us since our last team... imploded,” he says. “Why James Wilde?”
“Because you’re not looking for flash,” I answer, tapping my tablet awake. “You’re looking for futureproof.”
Sean sits back, folding his arms. “Explain.”
“You’ve got a legacy product,” I say. “A damn good one. But the new market doesn’t care about oak barrels and hundred-year stories unless it’s dressed up for TikTok. Gen Z buys identity, not just taste.”
Patrick raises a brow. “You think identity sells better than bourbon?”
“I think experience sells better than anything. Your competitors are pushing tasting notes. We’ll push what it means to drink your bourbon. The kind of man who reaches for your label.”
Their eyes flicker toward the screen as I tap into a short demo.
A 30-second teaser: moody visuals, crisp sound design, shadows and swagger. It’s raw but clean—elevated without being try-hard. The kind of thing that makes you want to pour a glass even if you’ve never had whiskey in your life.
I wait until the last frame fades.
“We wrote and shot that in 48 hours,” I say, sipping the black coffee Holly brought me. “Just for you.”
Sean’s tapping a pen against his pad now. Patrick leans forward.
“You’re not what I expected,” Sean murmurs.
There it is again. The refrain.
Nope, I think. But I’m exactly what you need.
Out loud, I say: “Name throws people off. That’s the point.”
Sean exhales through his nose. He’s annoyed. That I’m young. That I didn’t flinch. That I know the product and the pitch and the game.
“Look,” I say, “you can keep cycling through agencies with fancy decks and buzzwords—or you can be selling by Q3. Up to you.”
Patrick glances at Sean. They’re weighing it.
“Let’s say we’re interested,” Patrick says. “What’s your cut?”
I smile, tapping to a breakdown slide.
“29% of all net profit from the advertised products for the first two years. 11.5% after that. We’ll handle creative, social, direct campaigns, production, and PR rollout. Local and national.”
Sean raises an eyebrow. “No newspaper?”
“No one under 50 reads them. And the ones who do already drink your bourbon.”
Patrick actually laughs.
I let the silence hang, then lean in just enough to remind them who’s leading.
“You came to us for results. We’re not guessing. We’re delivering. Data-backed. Culturally aware. Efficient.”
I tap once more, screen going black.
“Gentlemen,” I say, “this is the part where you stop expecting Kelley Wilde and start realizing I’m the reason this company hasn’t lost a deal in six years.”
Sean drums his fingers against the table.
“You’ve clearly done your homework,” he says finally. “But what guarantees do we have that you’ll stick around long enough to see this through? We’ve worked with agencies that vanish after the ink dries.”
Translation: You’re young. Brown. Slick. Probably a flight risk.
“Mr. Rivers,” I say evenly, “I built this company from a folding table in Washington Heights with a busted laptop and a prepaid phone.”
I let that land.
“I don’t vanish. I scale.”
Patrick leans back. Sean’s fingers still.
“And if you’re worried about commitment,” I add, standing to gather my tablet, “you should know—I don’t attach my name to anything I’m not willing to bury someone for.”
Silence. That thick, loaded kind.
I straighten my tie and offer one final, diplomatic smile.
“You’ve got the proposal. The demo. The team. I suggest you use them before someone else does.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turn toward the door.
“I’ll see myself out.”