The Mistress ✓

3

Onika
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I approach my life like a general. A tactician. Each decision researched and executed with precision. My father always said I should have been a surgeon, but the only thing I ever wanted to do was make whiskey. He wanted a son to carry on the family tradition, but he got three daughters instead, and I'm the only one who cared about the difference between  a single malt and a single barrel.

Right now, I need information on a woman who lives in the shadows, so I go to the most obvious source – Google. I type in her name, and in less than a second the following message appears on my screen.

𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 : 𝚂𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷 𝚁𝚘𝚋𝚢𝚗 𝙵𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 : 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷 𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝙳𝙾𝙲𝚄𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚂.

That's impossible. I click on the image tab and it's blank. I add New Orleans, and dozens of sites pop up with information but nothing about Robyn Fenty shows beneath the preview of each.

I try a dozen more searches, all providing the same result.

It's like she doesn't exist. Like she truly is the myth and legend I thought she was before I came face-to-face with her yesterday.

So, how the hell am I supposed to get any information on her if she's a ghost where the internet is concerned?

Last night, I tossed and turned as the minutes and hours ticked down to my deadline. My tiny apartment doesn't have a money tree growing out back, so it's safe to say I'm no closer to a solution than I was before.

I could sell a kidney, but even that's not going to get me $500,000, I assume. It's not like I stay up on the black-market value of organs, because, well, I'm a normal, law abiding citizen.

I sell whiskey. I pay the excise taxes that make me want to vomit when I write the check. But I don't cut corners. I play by the rules.

As I walk in through the side door of the distillery, heat from the three massive pot stills surrounds me. Others would find it stifling. To me, it provides a sense of comfort. It's home.

Harry Styles, my head of distilling operations, lifts a glass to the light before sniffing and tasting.

"How's it coming along?"

He swings his head around with a grin stretching his lips. "Mark my words, Onika, this is going to be the best we've ever produced."

The smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth isn't forced. It's pride. I will make my father proud. I took a risk by changing grain suppliers–without telling him, I might add–and it's going to pay off huge.

If I can keep the distillery open long enough to bring it to fruition.

All night, I worked through scenarios. When I signed the loans with the bank, it was all based on the assumption that every loan was already disclosed.

I didn't know about the debt to Rihanna. How could I disclose it? And if it wasn't filed with the state and on record, then it doesn't count, right? Or could she be second tier and force a foreclosure to get what she's owed, after the original lenders are paid off? It's not like I know the ins and outs of any of this stuff, and what's more, I assume it doesn't matter. I can't imagine Robyn Fenty abides by the normal rules that apply to everyone else.