Epilogue #2
Sebastian's hand finds hers, fingers intertwining. "Define interesting."
"His father, Olivier." She fans herself dramatically. "Hot enough to make me forget my manners."
The word 'Olivier' lands like a stone in my chest, but I force myself to breathe. Common name. Lots of Oliviers in France.
Sebastian chokes on his bourbon. Under any other circumstances, his outraged expression would make me laugh.
"Still not as handsome as you, babe," Rosalia amends, squeezing his hand. Then her grin turns impish. “But definitely top five in Kentucky."
"Top five?" Sebastian's indignation is playful, but his thumb strokes across her knuckles in a move that’s both possessive and fond. "You're impossible."
"I'm honest." Her free hand covers their joined ones. “To be honest, I feel bad for him. Olivier is widowed. His wife died when their son was three. So he's raising Julien alone while working as a master blender."
"He mentioned growing up in Kentucky before moving to France." Rosalia tips her head against Sebastian's shoulder. "Small world, right?"
My bourbon glass freezes halfway to my lips.
Olivier from Kentucky.
I'm seventeen again, standing under the oak tree behind Louisville Country Day.
Olivier's hands cupping my face as he whispers je t'aime against my lips.
The way he'd smile at me across the library, that crooked smile that made my stomach flip.
How he'd teach me French phrases while I helped him with calculus, both of us pretending we needed the study sessions when really we just wanted an excuse to be alone together.
The way he'd trace my palm with his finger while conjugating verbs, making my heart race.
Somewhere between derivatives and declensions, I fell completely in love.
And then the betrayal. Finding out he'd stolen our proprietary yeast strain. The one my great-grandfather cultivated, the one that made Blackstone Bourbon unique. He gave it to his father to save their distillery from going bankrupt.
Not that it helped. When Dad learned what he’d done, he’d destroyed the Sawyer family. Olivier’s dad died of a massive heart attack within a month of the fallout. Olivier and his mother left, moving to France.
“What’s his last name?” Thorne demands. Sebastian looks as angry as Thorne sounds.
“Beaumont. Olivier Beaumont.” She says succinctly. “It’s easy to remember because I recognized it.”
“Beaumont,” I mutter. The relief that floods through me is so intense I’m light-headed. Different last name. Different person. Just another man named Olivier with Kentucky roots.
“Olivier Beaumont,” Sebastian says, then laughs. “Small world.”
Thorne nods. “Degree of separation.”
Rosalia looks at them, “Do you know him?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Sebastian replies. “But first, I’m curious why you recognized it?”
“It’s sad,” she sighs. “His wife was Ambre Beaumont, a famous French ballet dancer. My mom loves the ballet, and it was her dream to see Ambre Beaumont on stage. But a few years back, she fell during a rehearsal and hit her head. Insisted she was fine, refused to go to the hospital. A brain bleed killed her that night. Only twenty-nine. Leaving behind a husband and infant.”
"That's terrible," Mother says quietly, and we all murmur in agreement.
“How do you know the Beaumont name?” Rosalia asks Sebastian.
He grins, looking at Thorne, who’s also smiling. They exchange a look that’s one of those silent conversations they've perfected over the past six months of actually working together instead of against each other.
Sebastian sets down his glass. "Because we've been talking to his employer."
"He works for Maison Marchand," Thorne adds.
My pulse jumps. “They’re a cognac house, right?”
“They are,” Thorn confirms.
"Remember that bourbon-cognac barrel exchange proposal you pitched to Dad?" Sebastian asks. "The one he shot down?"
The memory surfaces sharp and bitter. Father dismissing it without even reading past the first page. Telling me to stick to hospitality and event planning.
"We found it in his files after he died," Thorne says quietly. "It was brilliant, Lilly. He was an idiot for dismissing it."
"We want to do it," Sebastian adds. "And we want you to run it. If you're interested."
Tears prick my eyes. My brothers, who spent years barely speaking, found my old proposal and are making it real. For the distillery, yes. But also for me.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll do it,” Thorne replies.
It’s permanent. Am I ready to replant roots here?
“If you're willing to run it, we'd like to launch initial planning next quarter, with our first collaborative release targeted for next year.” Sebastian continues. “A bourbon-cognac barrel finish project. Collaboration with one of the most prestigious cognac houses in France.”
My mouth is dry as charred oak. “France?”
“The master blender, Olivier Beaumont, is here in Kentucky overseeing Maison Marchand's American market expansion.
If we accept, you'll be the primary liaison coordinating barrel exchanges, developing the finishing protocols with Olivier, and building the marketing strategy for our joint releases.” Thorne taps the folder for emphasis, the gesture sharp and energized.
“This could revolutionize how people think about bourbon.”
Excitement sparks through me. This is everything I'd envisioned when I first proposed the idea. It’s also the validation I'd craved from Father but never received.
But unease whispers at the edges. The master blender's name is Olivier.
It's not exactly common in Kentucky, though probably half the men in France share it.
I push the thought aside. Olivier Sawyer destroyed my heart fifteen years ago and disappeared to France.
The odds of this being the same man are astronomical.
Not Sawyer. Beaumont. Different name.
But Rosalia said he grew up in Kentucky. And he's a master blender now. And he's what, late thirties? Early forties? The exact age Olivier Sawyer would be.
I could find out. Ask my brothers to look into this Olivier Beaumont’s personal past. It’s easy for a Blackstone. Then I'd know for certain whether I'm about to work with a stranger or the man who broke my heart fifteen years ago.
The request sits on my tongue, sour and demanding.
If it's him, I should know now. Should protect myself. Should tell my brothers so they can find someone else, anyone else to manage this partnership.
But if I ask, and it is him, they'll pull the entire proposal. Thorne and Sebastian would torch a multi-million dollar deal without blinking if they thought Olivier Sawyer was involved. They won’t let him near me.
"Lilly?" Thorne's watching me. "You okay with this?"
The partnership. My proposal. My chance to finally build something that matters.
I'm not letting Olivier Sawyer—or the ghost of him—take this from me.
"Yes." The word is clear, no tremor, no hesitation. "I'll do it."
Sebastian's grin stretches wide, and Thorne claps his hands. "About damn time," he says.
I look at the partnership agreement, at my name typed in bold: Director of Strategic Partnerships, Lillianna Blackstone.
Not Blackstone's daughter. Not the sister who fled. Not the woman too afraid to stay.
Just Lillianna. Building something real.
Sebastian's already talking about barrel samples and aging protocols, his hands gesturing the way they do when he's excited. Rosalia watches him with open affection, like even his bourbon obsession is endearing.
Mother catches my gaze and lifts her glass. "To Blackstone women," she says softly, "strong enough to forge their own paths."
She refused to be defined by her husband’s choices any longer. She left everything familiar, rebuilt herself in Europe, and came back changed.
Now it's my turn.
"We should check on the chaos downstairs,” Thorne tells the room.
"Or sing karaoke badly enough to shatter your ice sculpture," Ivy teases.
He pulls her to her feet, their fingers automatically lacing together. "Fair point. Though Madison promised she wouldn't attempt Beyoncé again."
"She promised you she wouldn't. I made no such deal." Ivy's eyes sparkle with mischief.
"You're trouble," he murmurs, kissing her cheek, then patting her ass when she steps in front of him, taking the stairs.
From downstairs, Thorne's laughter carries up, and it’s free and unguarded. The sound that used to be so rare, but not since Ivy entered his life.
"Thorne, you promised!" Madison demands, giggling through the words.
Fast footsteps pound their way upstairs. “Karaoke time," Ivy announces. Her hair's damp from pool humidity, and she's grinning like she has everything she wants. “And the birthday girl is demanding a duet with Thorne. Anyone else brave enough for karaoke?"
"Hard pass," Sebastian says.
"I'll watch," I offer, standing. Because this is what family does—shows up, even for off-key karaoke. Especially for off-key karaoke starring her brother.
Downstairs is chaos. Half the teenagers are still in swimsuits, dripping their way from the pool to the rec room where the karaoke machine waits.
I head toward the music and take in Madison's delighted face when Thorne actually picks up the microphone.
Ivy sidles up next to him, her shoulder tucked against his.
He's terrible at karaoke. Madison is surprisingly really good. I pull out my phone and snap a picture of them mid-duet. Ivy is next to them, doubled over laughing, the pure joy of this ordinary, extraordinary moment.
Sebastian appears at my shoulder with two glasses, handing me one. The 2008 reserve—the year I left Kentucky, the year I thought I'd never come back.
"To new partnerships," he says.
"To coming home," I counter.
We clink glasses. The bourbon is smooth and sweet, tasting like courage and belonging all at once.
On the makeshift stage, Thorne pulls Ivy closer, missing half the lyrics but not seeming to care. Madison cheers from the front row. Mother and Rosalia sit together, both smiling at the beautiful disaster unfolding.
Everyone found their way here. To family. To belonging. To home.
In three months, I'll meet Olivier Beaumont. Maybe he's a stranger. Maybe he's the ghost of my first heartbreak. Either way, I'll show up. I'll do the work. I'll build something that matters.
I raise my glass again, this time just to myself.
My turn.