Page 6

AIDEN

Whit

Great party last night

until you DISAPPEARED

Sienna

What the hell Aiden?

Aiden

I’ll explain later. I’m coming over to Tristan’s.

Whit

Man, I miss all the good stuff

Sienna

You could always move back

Whit

Can’t. I’m a national hero.

Sienna

A hero for what? Getting the most red cards in a season?

Whit

It’s not much, but it’s honest work

I round the corner into the formal garden the morning after my elopement and nearly run smack into Grandfather.

“You,” he growls.

“Me,” I say, just to piss him off. Whit and Sienna would be proud.

“Where did you disappear to last night?” He plants his hands on his cane, his bushy silver eyebrows drawn low over his pale eyes. The cane is for show. An affectation he decided suited his image when he turned seventy.

Shit. I’m not prepared for this conversation. I’d planned to talk to my siblings first and beg for their help before telling Grandfather about the marriage.

“You embarrassed the family,” he says stiffly. “Julia and Amy both waited for you after I spoke with their families.”

I nearly laugh. That’s what he cares about. Of course. Honor, duty, the family name. I care about those things too, but I want a different future for the Prince family. I remind myself for the hundredth time that he’s a very old man and stuck in his ways.

“My apologies,” I say evenly. I take a breath to tell him about the marriage, but his eyes dart to my hand.

“What is that?” His words snap out.

“I was on my way to tell you.”

“Who gave you that?”

I raise my hand in the air, where the dull gold band shines. “My wife,” I say. I inhale slowly, then blow it out. “Emory Hunter.”

Silence claims the midmorning air. The birds stop chirping. The wind dies. My heartbeat sounds like a bass drum in my ears.

“You married a Hunter.” His voice is deadly.

“I told you I’d marry and I did.”

“This is not what I meant and you know it. Over my dead body will you be with one of them.”

I blow out a breath. Of course marrying Emory isn’t enough. Grandfather wants me to marry someone he chooses. “We’re getting the land,” I counter. “It goes to a married Prince and Hunter.”

He taps his cane on the ground. “I don’t care about the land. We would have gotten it from them in court.”

Shit. My pulse speeds. That was my ace in the hole. “Well, I do.”

His face reddens. “This again. If this is about the whiskey—”

“Of c-course it’s about the whiskey,” I burst out. I can feel the stutter claiming my tongue. Fuck. I take a long, slow breath. “All I care about is making that whiskey.” My voice is low and rough.

He hears the emotion in it, which is a mistake. Caring is weakness. Princes can’t be weak.

“I told your father the same thing I will tell you. We are in this business for money.” He points his cane at me. “The Old Kingdom line was sentimental, foolish, and, most importantly, not profitable. It was deadweight and you know it.”

I inhale sharply. The barest flash of regret is on his face, and then it’s gone.

Dead.

Dead like my father.

I swallow away the tightness of my throat.

I can’t speak now. The words will come out mangled.

The Old Kingdom line is everything. It’s the whiskey of births, marriages, and celebrations around the world.

They drink it at wakes and funerals. In delivery rooms and college graduations.

It’s never been about money, not for me and not for Dad.

And now the Hart’s Hill distillery where we made it is gone, along with all the remaining bottles.

Sold, by Grandfather, to an unknown buyer and impossible to get back.

The only place in Hart’s Hill that is zoned for commercial distilling, and more importantly, possesses access to the water from the natural spring required for the Old Kingdom recipe, is the disputed plot Emory is helping me get.

“I can’t believe you married her.” His jaw clenches. “I had several perfectly respectable young women selected for you. The matches would benefit the company and the family.”

My stomach rolls. I can’t bear to be the cause of another unhappy relationship.

This is the way marriage works in our world, and yet, every woman had hope in her eyes when we danced.

Expectations. Just like Marguerite did. Just like my mom did with Dad.

They would all want more, when I have nothing to give.

Except for Emory. Emory, who is the ticket to the land I need to continue doing the only thing I care about.

“End this marriage, Aiden.”

“No.”

His face darkens, and a flash of triumph runs through me. This must be how Whit feels every time he tells Grandfather to fuck off. I’ve never done it before, and it feels like I imagine hard drugs feel.

“End it, or I will.”

I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from trembling. “We’re in love. Good luck.”

I spin on my heel and take the long way to Tristan’s house, but not before I hear him shout, “I won’t stand idly by, Aiden. I won’t have a Hunter in the family. So help me god, I will make sure you never make whiskey again.”

I put my head down and keep walking. I’m going to need a hell of a lot more help from my siblings than I thought.

“What’s wrong with you?” Tristan answers the door in his workout clothes and blocks my way into his house on the estate.

“I need coffee, Tris. Come on.”

His eyes narrow. “You disappeared last night. I had to fend Grandfather off by myself after Whit left to catch his flight. I’m very put out.”

In response, I raise my left hand, where the plain gold band sits. His eyes arrow to it, then to my face, which I know has looked better.

He barks a laugh and turns, tipping his head toward his living room. “Come on. Sienna’s here. Catering just dropped off breakfast.”

I follow him into the living room, where my sister sits on the floor, mid-bite.

There’s a spread on the table, the one Tristan has nicknamed the hangover special.

Breakfast tacos, french toast, and the disgusting green juice he claims is adding years to his life.

Every time I drink it, I think I lose months of mine.

Sienna glances up at me and takes another gulp of coffee. Med school has taught her to guzzle the beverage, not sip. “Did you run here? You’re all sweaty and tired.” She wrinkles her nose. Her hair is back to all blond today. I can’t keep up.

“Circle the wagons,” Tristan says cheerfully. “I think big brother is having a psychotic break.”

Sienna’s eyes light with interest. “Does this have anything to do with your disappearing act last night? What were you thinking, Aiden?”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I drop onto Tristan’s couch and press my palms to my eyes. “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re going to freak out. Don’t freak out.” I lift my head to look both of my siblings in the eye in turn. “I’m married to Emory Hunter.”

Sienna’s screech exceeds the bounds of human hearing.

Tristan starts laughing. “So that’s what you were doing last night?”

Sienna’s eyes are wide. “Does Grandfather know?”

“Oh, he knows.” I grimace. “He confronted me on my way over here. His exact words were over my dead body will you be with one of them . And then I showed him the ring and told him about the land, and he responded with so help me god, I will make sure you never make whiskey again. ”

“Oh, shit,” my sister whispers.

“What land?” Tristan sets his coffee down. “Wait, the land? The disputed land? You got it?”

“I did. Emory found the deed. It goes to us if we’re married to each other on the day the transfer is approved by the court.”

Tristan punches the air, and I finally let myself feel a trickle of happiness at what we’re going to accomplish.

“Hell yes.” Tristan starts pacing. “Finally. I thought we’d never make Old Kingdom again.”

Even Sienna is grinning. Though she’s never distilled Old Kingdom herself, she loves it like we do. “The aquifer is still there?”

I nod. “Everything we need to make it is still there.”

Sienna reaches over and squeezes my hand. “He’d be proud of you, big bro. I know he would.”

Dad. I nod, blinking away the heat in my eyes.

“This calls for celebration.” Tristan’s voice interrupts my memories.

“Excuse me?”

Tristan pulls a bottle of Prince bourbon from the shelf.

It’s Old Kingdom. I recognize the label—white and gold.

Tristan’s vintage. Distilled by our father on the day Tristan was born and bottled by Dad and me on Tristan’s eighteenth birthday.

We each have one. We’re supposed to drink them at thirty, the day we come of age, according to Prince family lore.

I have no idea what it tastes like because I haven’t had a drop to drink since the day he died. I’ll never bottle any for my son or daughter, but maybe I will for Sienna’s or Tristan’s or Whit’s. If I can sell myself to buy their happiness, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.

“I never thought you’d get married,” Sienna says idly.

“Me neither.” I spent a year avoiding it, until I realized that if Grandfather wasn’t targeting me to carry on the family name, he’d pick another one of my siblings.

The terms of the family trust are crystal clear—each of us needs to marry by thirty to inherit our piece of the estate and Prince Bourbon.

But none of us have ever planned to follow through with it. Until now.

This is my role. I have always protected my siblings, and I will do so again. I marry. I inherit my shares. I run the company. I continue Dad’s legacy. Each of them gets to live a life with more choices.

Tristan, who is too smart to be just a mere second-in-command, who deserves to have a life beyond the company and the family.

Whit, who is half-wild and doesn’t want marriage.