Chapter 4

The next morning, it started.

The headline on the front page of the Bourbon Herald read: "DISGRUNTLED DISTILLER SABOTAGES MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR DEAL."

The article was a masterpiece of corporate spin, quoting an "anonymous source" inside Hewitt Distilleries. It painted a picture of me as a jealous, bitter employee, enraged that the brilliant Ryan Blakely was promoted over me. It claimed I deliberately contaminated a crucial batch of bourbon destined for Japan out of pure spite.

Nicole was the grieving victim, a CEO betrayed by a man she had "lifted from poverty." Ryan was the noble hero, working tirelessly to "undo the damage" caused by my "unprofessional rampage."

My phone started blowing up with texts from old colleagues and acquaintances in the tight-knit bourbon community. Some were confused, some were angry. The story went viral. Within hours, I was the villain of the Kentucky spirits world.

They were trying to bury me. But I had been digging my own tunnels for months.

I sat at my small kitchen table, opened my laptop, and began my counter-offensive.

First, I released the security footage from the rickhouse and the distillery floor for the past two weeks. The time-stamped videos showed Ryan, looking lost and confused, haphazardly checking gauges. It showed him dumping in commercial-grade yeast from a sack, a cardinal sin. It showed him taking frantic phone calls, his face a mask of panic. Most damningly, it showed him meeting secretly in the parking lot with a man I recognized as a lead developer from a rival Tennessee distillery.

Second, I released the lab reports. I had taken a sample from the last batch I personally oversaw and had it analyzed. I then paid a contact at the distillery to get me a sample of Ryan's "new" batch. I released the comparative chemical analysis. The reports were undeniable. Ryan's batch lacked the specific ester and phenol compounds that were the unique chemical fingerprint of my family's yeast. It proved, scientifically, that the product they were trying to pass off to the Japanese was not Hewitt Reserve. It was a cheap imitation.

Third, I released the original non-compete agreement Nicole had threatened me with. But I released it alongside the pre-nuptial agreement's other clauses, the ones stating that any intellectual property brought into the marriage remained the property of the original owner. And I attached the notarized affidavits from my parents, detailing how their mortgaged farm provided the seed money that saved the company, an investment that was never formally repaid, only converted into my "permission" to marry Nicole.

The narrative began to shift. The comments sections of the articles turned from condemning me to questioning the Hewitts.

The final piece of the puzzle came from an anonymous email I received late that night. It was from a terrified junior chemist at the distillery.

The email contained a chain of messages between Ryan Blakely and his contact at the rival Tennessee distillery. The plan was laid out in black and white. Ryan wasn't just a fraud. He was a corporate saboteur. He had been hired to get close to Nicole, steal my methods, and then intentionally crash the Japanese deal, ruining the Hewitt brand from the inside and allowing the Tennessee rival to sweep in and pick up the pieces.

I forwarded the entire chain, along with all my other evidence, to the editor of the Bourbon Herald, the FBI's white-collar crime division, and Mr. Tanaka in Japan.

Then I shut my laptop, poured myself a glass of water, and waited. The truth was out. The fire was lit. All I had to do now was watch them burn.