Page 97 of The Bourbon Bet
“I told you, I can’t do it,” I repeat, backing away from both of them.
At the same time, Sebastian says, “I won’t do it.”
I twist around to face him. The words “won’t” and “can’t” echo in my ears as I struggle to understand what’s happening between the three of us. “Won’t do what?” I ask.
Sebastian stands frozen, his mouth opening and closing without sound. He looks utterly lost. Then he swallows hard, and that determined set to his jaw returns, “This has gone too far. I can’t keep pretending anymore.” His words are stilted, as if each one costs him something precious.
Thorne stares at Sebastian with the portfolio outstretched toward me. His smug demeanor falters for a brief moment. Then he lets out a strained laugh. “So you both were willing to give up everything?”
He knocks back the rest of his drink and sets the glass aside. Reaching inside his sage suit jacket with an unsteady hand, he pulls out two folded sheets of paper. “Perhaps you should know what started all of this before you consider him your hero.” Handing them to me, his shoulders tense as his expression hardens back to its usual arrogance, though uncertainty lingers in his eyes.
“Thorne, why?” Sebastian’s face drains of color, and he seems too stunned to move.
“The truth will set you free and all that bullshit,” Thorne replies.
“Rosalia, please give that to me,” Sebastian pleads, reaching toward the papers in my hand.
I turn slightly from him and unfold the document, the paper crinkling beneath my unsteady grip. “Bourbon Bet” blazes across the top in bold typeface, followed by the names Sebastian Blackstone and Thorne Blackstone.
The dim lighting makes the words difficult to read at first. I squint, scanning past intricate legal clauses, catching phrases that blur and then sharpen: “subject of interest,” “romantic involvement,” “acquisition of property,” finally landing on the section “Terms and Conditions.”
Three sentences in, my back hits the wood-paneled wall.
“..wager on whether S. Blackstone can seduce R. Manchester into developing genuine feelings, causing her to voluntarily refuse to steal the portfolio, resulting in…”
A cold flush spreads from my chest outward, prickling across my skin beneath the vintage scarlet dress that suddenly feels like a costume I’ve been tricked into wearing.
“The deal was never the portfolio. It was a bet. And the bet was me.” The words scratch my throat.
The truth hits me like a fist to the heart. This was never about Thorne needing my help or Sebastian being incompetent. This was about a bet. A bet with me as the unwitting participant. All this time, I thought I was caught between two bad choices, but I was actually the entertainment.
“Dad’s house,” I gasp. What have I done? A stab of panic shoots through me before the numbness takes over.
I look at Thorne, whose triumphant smile falters. The muted sounds of The Mansion filter into our secluded spot. The laughter, glasses clinking, and polite conversation are a world away.
My watery gaze drifts to the framed photograph of last year’s derby winner, its glossy surface reflecting my face, flushed with humiliation, and my eyes gaunt with betrayal. The truth empties me from the inside, leaving nothing but the echo of my foolishness.
“How could you?” I choke, shoving the pages at Sebastian. My knuckles brush against the tweed of his vest, and I let go of the papers.
He clutches the contract reflexively, his body rigid. Thorne stares at us like he’s witnessing a train wreck, his triumphant smile fading.
“You both have rotten souls and empty hearts,” I say, walking away as fast as my stupid heels will allow.
This seems to unlock Sebastian, and he bellows, “What the fuck, Thorne?”
I’m halfway to the exit when violent sounds erupt behind me—a sickening thud of fist meeting flesh, followed by the crash of a body slamming against the wood-paneled wall. Crystal shatters. A table overturns. The refined murmurs of Derby Day elite turn into gasps.
“You ruined everything!” Sebastian’s voice cracks with anguish and rage.
Another crash, heavier this time, like two bodies grappling and falling into furniture. Through my tears, I glimpse security rushing toward the alcove. Let them kill each other, for all I care.
A concierge opens the main door for me, his professional mask slipping enough to reveal his shock at whatever chaos is unfolding behind me, then he puts it back in place. Rows of sleek golf carts are lined up outside, each poised with a driver ready to chauffeur the elite to their destinations with a mere nod. Retrieving my cell from my clutch, I hesitate, torn between calling my dad or Paige.
“Please take me to the farthest parking lot,” I tell the nearest golf cart driver.
My father’s cautionary words about the Blackstone family echo in my mind. Dad would never say “I told you so,” but I’d hear it anyway.
I call Paige. When the call connects, I choke out, “Will you please come and get me?”
