Chapter Seventeen
Sebastian
I tilt my face toward the heavy rain clouds blanketing the sky. They match my mood. My gaze shifts from the darkening sky to Rosalia, and I catch the shadows of the storm playing across her face. The hard lines of her anger have softened, but her eyes are distant and troubled.
Silence stretches between us. I’m afraid to break it with the questions hovering on the tip of my tongue, so I swallow them back with the fear of what the answers might drag into the light.
If she learns about the bet, she’ll hate me. Given that she’s here only because of Thorne’s deal should bother me, but all I feel is guilt for putting her in this situation.
I take her hand. “Are we okay?”
Her lips curve into a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She nods and turns to get into the car. I watch her leave, unease keeping me rooted until the Bentley becomes a tiny dot in my long, tree-lined driveway. I shake myself and head toward the house.
As the soles of my riding boots hit the bottom step of the front porch, Alex, my housekeeper, opens the door.
Twain rushes out, circling me with his tail wagging joyfully.
Scratching behind his ears, I find comfort in his simple devotion.
He doesn’t want anything from me, doesn’t judge, doesn’t have an agenda.
I can’t remember the last time I had that with a person.
Twain and I take a right at the marble foyer with the double staircase, his nails clicking as we walk through the sitting room with its dark oak floors, past the large bay window.
A familiar pang of loneliness fills me. The vast rooms and hallways are like ghosts haunting the expansive space.
I rarely use most of the house, confining myself to my bedroom, study, and the barns.
The thought of moving has crossed my mind, but it’d be too hard on the horses.
Plus, the security and privacy the estate provides are invaluable.
I’ve never had anyone take my photo when I’m out on my walks with Twain or riding my horses.
I turn left and step into the library, although the name is a misnomer. This room is for guests. My real reading material is strewn on my nightstand and in the sitting room of my master bedroom. Besides a few collector books, the library’s shelves are lined with rare bottles of Blackstone Bourbon.
Daniel sits in a black leather chair next to the ornate and empty fireplace. his other leg crossed over his knee, clad in perfectly pressed linen slacks
He sits casually, one leg crossed over the other, his perfectly pressed linen slacks sharp against the dark leather. A Glencairn glass rests in his hand, and seeing me, he holds it up in a salute .
Twain trots past me to his bed beside the built-in liquor cabinet. I follow him and lean down to pet him before straightening up and pouring my favorite single-barrel. The rich, caramel aroma wafts from the glass, inviting me to take a sip. “Great for Blackstone. A long evening for me.”
It’s the curse of all master distillers to stay until closing at all major events. I don’t mind talking craft. In fact, I love it. But being rich and single makes me more popular than my bourbon. Especially later in the evening when drinks have lowered inhibitions.
I sit on the other side of the fireplace, opposite Daniel. The supple leather creaks slightly as I settle into the chair. We clink glasses.
“Was that Rosalia Manchester?” he asks.
I lower my drink and nod.
Daniel taps the portfolio on the side table. “When I called her to terminate the lease, I had never felt so much like the villain.”
I open the folder and scan the familiar terms that have haunted my sleep while Rosalia goes about her life completely unaware that her heart is being wagered like poker chips. “We’re all villains in this story,” I sigh.
Daniel’s brow furrows. “Even her?”
I nod. “Though she didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Sebastian.” He doesn’t say more until I’m looking right at him, then finishes, “She didn’t have any choice.”
Annoyance flares in my chest. “She’d agreed to Thorne’s deal. And you showing up here claiming to be my friend definitely helped my brother. She probably assumes I’m in on it.”
“You are.”
“Because I was forced to be,” I say between clenched teeth.
“Just like her.”
Fuck. I want to argue, but can’t. He’s right. She’s not manipulative, she’s desperate. And I’m the asshole who put her in this position. I grip my glass tighter. “Thorne backed her into a corner, and I... I let him use her as a pawn in our game.”
Daniel nods. “You should have told her about your brother’s extortion. ”
“If I’d done that, he would’ve followed through. This seemed easier.”
“Is it?”
“Not at all.” I like her too much, and that complicates everything. I stare into my bourbon, the amber liquid catching what little light filters through the windows.
Daniel shifts forward in his chair, the leather creaking. “Hey, what’s this ‘claiming to be your friend?’ I am your friend. Or we used to be friends. Until Thorne decided to fuck with your head and you shut everyone out.”
“People I care about have a funny way of either turning on me or using me.” I meet his gaze directly. “And now that you work for Blackstone, we need clear boundaries. You’re my attorney, not my confidant.”
“Spoken like a true Blackstone.” He taps the leather folder again. “This is the contract for his bet. I figured you’d want a physical copy.”
“I do. Thanks.” I take it and hold up the file. “You did read the part about him leaving Kentucky when I win?”
“ If you win.”
A soft patter of raindrops against the library windows grows louder. I look outside. My dark mood matches the landscape. “I’ll win. There’s no other option. Thorne can’t lead Blackstone. He doesn’t care about crafting bourbon or our employees, only profit.”
“But you care about people?”
I stiffen, my blood pressure rising. “Are you saying I don’t treat my employees well?”
“Oh, no, you do. I’m referring to Rosalia. You’re using her as a pawn in your rivalry with your brother.”
“I’m in this bet for her,” I nearly shout.
“Don’t pretend to be a martyr. You also did it because you want Thorne gone.”
That’s the other shitty thing about letting people get close to me. They know when I’m full of shit. Yes, protecting Rosalia is important to me, but I can’t lie. The day my brother walks away for good will be the first day I wake up without yesterday’s ange r
I admit none of this, and instead dig into my false self-righteousness. “Rosalia made a deal with Thorne to play me.”
“So?” Daniel shrugs.
I want to punch him. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘so’?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, none of this was her idea. Thorne pulled Rosalia into this game. And she has the most to lose.” His calm and composed tone grates on my nerves.
“She can move to another location. There are other great spots besides Whiskey Row,” I growl.
The words feel like betrayal even as I say them.
Part of me understands that she’s fighting for her business, and starting at a new place isn’t ideal.
Hell, if someone threatened Blackstone Bourbon, I would do whatever it took to crush them.
But understanding doesn’t quiet the old familiar whisper: what if this is who she really is?
“How do you do it?”
I narrow my eyes. “Do what?”
“Talk around that solid gold and diamond-encrusted spoon that’s been in your mouth since birth.”
I stand, chair scraping against the floor. “I don’t need to listen to this shit.”
Daniel makes a sit-down gesture with his hands. I’m tempted to flip him off and walk from the room, but he’d only follow. I settle my features into the carefully neutral mask I’ve perfected over the years. “Fine, fine. Please, spell out for me the ways I’m an asshole.”
He smirks. “Glad we're now on the same page. Not everyone can get a loan or have family help them financially.” I open my mouth to argue, but he points his finger at me and keeps talking. “I’m in no way saying you haven’t worked your ass off to get where you are, but during your climb to head of Blackstone and master distiller, you’ve never had to take a semester off because of bills.
You’ve never had to shackle yourself with student loans that you’ll be paying off until you’re ninety. ”
Daniel’s custom suit and handmade shoes hide his upbringing in one of the poorest Appalachian counties.
“Hell, even with you hiring me right out of college, those first couple of years were rough. I’d come dangerously close to having my car repo’ed.
And the apartment I’d rented with three other guys was… ” he shudders.
The mention of a car reminds me of Rosalia being knocked from her bike during our dinner date. Does she not have a car because of the cost? Was that also why she’d ordered a cup of soup during dinner? Was that all she could afford?
I stare at the golden amber of my two hundred dollar bottle of bourbon in the lead-crystal glass. Christ, today she’d told me her dad is a barn manager. His job is essential to Kentucky life but doesn’t pay shit.
Shame crawls up my spine like ivy on old brick. I’ve prided myself on hard work and dedication, but I can’t ignore my advantages. It’s difficult to maintain my sense of righteousness when I meet Daniel’s steady gaze.
Leaning my head against the leather wingback, I glare at the ceiling and mutter, “Guess I am an asshole.”
“Yup, but underneath all the privilege and entitlement is a good guy.” I hear the grin in Daniel’s voice, but given all he’s said, I’m not so sure.
We drink in silence, though I barely taste the smooth liquor as a sinking sensation cements in my stomach.
“How are your dates with Rosalia going?” Daniel asks.
A mix of heaven and hell. “That’s a complicated question. Even more so since talking to you.”
“I’m a lawyer. I like complicated.” He rolls his wrist in a go-on motion.
“They’ve been great,” I admit.
Daniel snorts. “That’s not very complicated.”
“At least when I thought she was manipulating me, I could be pissed about enjoying her company. Now I just feel like garbage about it. Thanks.”
“That’s what you get for not listening to your lawyer,” he tosses back.
He’d warned me not to sign the contract for the bet, that it’d blow up in my face. The derby party is over a month away, and I already sense the inevitable fallout brewing .
I set my drink on the side table and shift forward in my armchair. “How can I—”
Daniel holds up a hand. “No.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say,” I huff.
“How can I get out of the bet? That’s what you were going to ask, right?” he says with a self-satisfied smile.
“Smug asshole,” I mutter.
Daniel laughs. “Your brother specified in the contract that if you back out, he automatically wins.” He points to the leather folder I’ve taken.
“Reread the contract. You’ll see that stipulation in the second paragraph.
I’m sure Thorne was certain sooner or later you’d want out.
Most people realize it’s shitty to play with other’s lives. ”
“Fuck.” I grip the back of my neck, pressing the skin together until it hurts. “What am I supposed to do?”
“So prickly,” Daniel says, not seeming the least bit bothered by my attitude. “It doesn’t seem like dating her is a hardship. And you are a good man. She’ll see that—”
“A good man wouldn’t have agreed to Thorne’s stupid, fucking bet.”
“He’s your brother. He knows how to push your buttons.”
“Let her get to know you. The real you. That’s how you’ll win the bet. Then Thorne will be gone, and you can renew her lease. Hell, give her the damn building if that eases your guilt. Just not before the bet ends because if you do either, you automatically lose.”
“I’ll try.” I drag my hand from my neck into the back of my hair and pull. Rosalia does seem to like me, at least sometimes, but enough to give up her bookstore?
“You need to do more than try. If you lose, Thorne will have total control of Blackstone Bourbon’s largest distillery.”
I open the file and stare at the contract.
The weight of my actions is nearly physical.
I’d let my pride and competitive nature cloud my judgment, and so many people could end up paying the price.
Agreeing to the bet was a damn disaster.
But self-reproach will have to wait. Right now, I have to concentrate on fixing my mess.
“I’ll win,” I say, tucking my uncertainty under my determination.
“I’ll do my best to show Rosalia the real me, but…
” I pause, rubbing my jaw, searching for the right words.
I stand, pacing the room and stop in front of the window.
The rain trickles down the glass. Each drop follows its inevitable course, just as I had followed mine without question.
“But what if the real me isn’t enough?” The worry escapes before I can stop it.
Daniel raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
I turn to face him, leaning against the windowsill. “The real me is the guy who agreed to this bet in the first place. The real me keeps people at arm’s length. The real me is…” I gesture vaguely at the vast, empty house around us. “This. Alone.”
“Sebastian—”
“I saw her face today, Daniel. When she was leaving. I put her in this impossible situation because I can’t stand my brother.” My voice drops. “She’s being forced to choose between her dream and her integrity, and it’s my fault as much as my brother's.”
Daniel sets his glass down. “You can still make this right.”
“Can I?” I look at the contract resting on the end table. “The more I get to know her, the more I see what I’ve done. She doesn’t deserve any of this.” I let out a hollow laugh. “And the irony is, the more I see that, the less I deserve her.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Win the bet. Get Thorne out of our lives. And then…” I trail off, staring back out at the rain. “And then try to make amends, knowing she may never forgive me if she learns the truth.”
“And if she doesn’t forgive you?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. We both know that some messes can’t be neatly cleaned up, no matter how much money or privilege you have. And this one might cost me the first genuine connection I’ve felt in years.