The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, the familiar scent of aged whiskey and the low hum of honest conversation wrapping around me. Gloria stands behind the bar, polishing glasses, moving like someone who’s mastered the art of multitasking while keeping a watchful eye on her customers. She looks up as I approach, her expression softening from professional welcome to genuine warmth.
“Mason, honey! What brings you by?” she asks, then her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Please tell me you're not here to negotiate the dowry, because I swear, I'm not paying more than two goats and a decent apple pie recipe.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. There it is—that fierce humor that Maddy inherited, the ability to find lightness even in heavy moments. “I've been summoned,” I say, gesturing toward the corner booth.
Gloria follows my gaze, and I watch her expression change as she takes in the silver-haired man in the expensive suit nursing top-shelf scotch. Recognition dawns in her eyes—not of his face, but of what he represents.
“Ah.” Her voice flattens. “The problem.” She studies Richard with a narrowed gaze. “He showed up about ten minutes ago. Polite, good manners—though he looked like he’d taken a wrong turn. If I’d known who he was, I’d have shown him the door. But now?” Her smile curves, cool and calculating. “I’ll charge him double and donate it to the festival fund.”
I can imagine Richard expected a dive bar with cheap beer and peanut shells on the floor. Instead, he walked into Gloria’s place—a bar that could hold its own against any Manhattan cocktail lounge.
There’s a gleam in Gloria’s eyes now—protective, unflinching. The same fierce glint I’ve seen in Maddy when someone threatens what’s hers. “You sure about this, honey?You look like you’d rather wrestle a bear. And not the kind in a rented costume.”
“Some conversations can't be avoided forever.”
Gloria nods, understanding flickering in her expression. “What can I get you? My gut says you’re going to need it.”
“Whatever he's drinking. And maybe a stronger backup.”
She pours two fingers of what I recognize as Macallan 15—Richard's preferred scotch, the same brand he used to keep in his office for special occasions and particularly ruthless victories. The irony of drinking his liquor in someone else's territory isn't lost on me.
“Good luck,” Gloria says as I pick up the glass. “And honey? If he gives you any trouble, you signal me. I've been throwing drunks out of bars since before you were born. I can take him.”
The image of Gloria physically ejecting Richard Kingston from her establishment is so absurd and wonderful that I almost smile. Almost.
I cross the room, each step measured, my footfalls muffled by the worn hardwood floors. Richard doesn’t look up until I’m standing right beside his table, and when he does, his expression shifts through a series of micro-expressions too fast to read—surprise, assessment, a hint of satisfaction.
“Mason.” He gestures to the seat across from him, his casual authority that of someone who’s never doubted his invitations would be accepted. “Right on time. Though I have to say, you look like you’ve had a long day.”
There it is. The first shot across the bow, delivered with cutting accuracy and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. In Richard's world, appearance is armor, and showing up rumpled is tantamount to showing up naked.
“I've had better,” I reply, settling into the booth and taking a sip of scotch. It burns, smooth and expensive, tasting of power and old victories. “Nice choice of venue. Looks authentic.”
“The owner has excellent taste in spirits. Though I suspect my bill will reflect more than market rates.” His eyes glitter with amusement. “Word travels fast in small towns.”
I glance back at the bar, where Gloria is indeed keeping one eye on our table while serving other customers. “Gloria Chang doesn't miss much. Comes with the territory.”
“Chang.” Richard's expression sharpens with interest. “Any relation to your ... associate? The event planner?”
The way he says “associate” makes it clear he knows what Maddy means to me. Of course he does. Richard Kingston doesn't enter a battlefield without reconnaissance.
“Her mother,” I confirm, seeing no point in pretending otherwise.
“Ah. Family business, then. How refreshingly provincial.” He takes another sip of scotch, letting the insult settle. “Tell me, Mason, what do you think you're accomplishing here?”
“I'm building a life. One that matters.”
“With trust fund babies and small-town dreamers?” His tone is conversational, but there's steel underneath. “Come now, Mason. You're better than this. You always were.”
The compliment tightens around me, meant to drag me back to who I was and everything I used to want. For fifteen years, Richard’s approval was the currency that counted most. His disappointment could end careers. His praise could open doors I never knew existed. Now, sitting across from him in Gloria's bar, I realize how empty that approval was. How much of myself I'd sacrificed to earn it.
“Better at what?” I ask. “Destroying communities? Ruining families? Building fortunes on other people's graves?”
“Better at winning.” His voice hardens. “Better at understanding how the world works, not how you wish it worked.”
“The world where might makes right? Where having money means you can take whatever you want?”
“The world where strength matters more than sentiment. Where results matter more than intentions.” He leans forward, and for a moment, I see a flash of the mentor who shaped me, the man who taught me that power was the currency of protection. “You think these people care about you, Mason? You think they’ll stand by you when things get difficult?”
