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AIDEN

G randfather flips through the presentation materials we prepared, and I stare out the window of the conference room.

I can see Emory’s car from here. It’s a silver sports car—low and sexy, but not new.

I frown. Is that model still safe? There was a recall a few years ago. I make a mental note to ask Katie.

If it’s not, I’ll get her something new. God, she’ll hate that. I fight a smile at the thought of coming home to my spitting-mad wife.

I love fighting with her. Almost as much as I love playing with her.

Tristan kicks me under the table. “Pay attention,” he hisses.

I look back at Grandfather, who is frowning at the tablet in his hands.

The remainder of the “board” is present—Aunt Lucinda, Cousin Jax, our second cousins in Switzerland, a few stray uncles who show up to make sure they keep getting free whiskey and a cut of the profits.

Aunt Lucinda is getting Botox with the camera pointed elegantly up her nostril.

Jax is—I squint—playing flip cup, it looks like.

From the motion of the camera, it looks like he’s on a boat.

A bikini-clad woman passes in front of the screen, then Whit.

Tristan rolls his eyes. Partying with Jax is a new low, even for Whit.

“What are these assumptions based on?” Grandfather asks.

Tristan straightens. “Increased distribution.”

“For Old Kingdom,” he says flatly. “I already told you, we aren’t making it—”

“But we could,” I interject. “And we could make it profitable.” I push back from the table. I need height on Grandfather for this conversation. “Instead of an exclusive product, we could broaden the distribution. Instead of Pappy, we’re making Johnny Walker Blue.”

He frowns but doesn’t argue.

“I know you don’t approve, but Dad would have.

” I add the words quietly, so those on video can’t hear.

“He wanted everyone to have a piece of Old Kingdom. A part of the Prince legacy. We can still make the thirty year and keep it luxury, but this assumes a new eighteen-year line that’s priced to be accessible. ”

“Those are the profits on the right-hand side,” Tristan interjects. Grandfather ignores him, and Tristan’s jaw flexes in irritation. I know he feels I’m the only one who takes him seriously, and I wince. I’ll have to talk to Grandfather again.

We practiced this presentation, and Emory helped us with the projections. This is our last chance to convince Grandfather. We don’t have the recipe and we have no way to reverse engineer the vintage.

“We just need one bottle,” I add. “From the ones you sold.”

Grandfather frowns and shuts the tablet off. “I’ll think about it.”