CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
JACK
I close my laptop with more force than necessary, the image of Troy’s whining face still burned into my retinas.
“Oh, fuck right off, you discount Andrew Tate,” I mutter to the empty apartment.
The “AlphaTRex” content is gone—the vile posts about female “value,” the disgusting rants about daughters being “liabilities,” all of it scrubbed.
But he’d replaced it with something almost as nauseating: a five-minute video of himself, looking appropriately somber in a black t-shirt, explaining how he is being “canceled by the woke mob” for “speaking truth to the feminized culture.” He’d even set up a donation link to “help fight back against censorship.”
Pathetic. But the primary goal is accomplished—Madison won’t stumble across the worst of it now. That is what matters.
I check my watch. Five hours until I need to pick up Sophia and Madison. My bag sits by the door, already packed with what little I’ll need. The rest—well, there is plenty waiting for me back home. My chest tightens at the thought.
Home. I am taking Sophia and Madison home.
I’ve been so careful. For three years, I’ve maintained the fiction that I’m just Jack McKenzie, paramedic, ordinary bloke who happens to have a Kiwi accent.
The careful omissions. The strategic vagueness about my family’s “businesses.” The way I’ve casually deflected questions about my university days or why I’d really left New Zealand.
And for better or worse, it’s about to all come crashing down.
I sit on the edge of my bed, head in my hands. This is supposed to be a simple holiday—showing Sophia and Madison my country, my favorite places. But nothing about the McKenzie Estate is simple. Nothing about my family’s position in Otago is ordinary.
My phone buzzes.
Sophia: Just finished packing Madison's "essentials" bag. How she needs three pairs of headphones for one flight is beyond me. I'm actually more nervous than she is!
I smile despite my churning thoughts.
Jack: All part of teen travel protocol, apparently. Don't worry, I've handled enough post-party resuscitations to manage a 16-hour flight with a teenager.
Sophia: Rude. And accurate. Okay compression socks packed, baby aspirin ready for DVT prevention, and I've created a schedule for getting up and stretching every 2-3 hours because those economy seats are going to be murder on your legs.
I wince at “economy seats.” Another small lie of omission I’d maintained, letting her believe we’d be cramped in the back of the plane.
Jack: You've thought of everything. Charge Nurse on and off duty.
Sophia: Someone has to keep us alive on that metal tube of recycled air and jetlag. Madison won't stop talking about seeing a kiwi bird. I told her they're nocturnal but she doesn't care.
Jack: We'll find her one promise. Plenty at the wildlife centers.
What I don’t mention is the private sanctuary on the estate, where kiwi are nesting, part of my family’s conservation efforts. Just another detail I’d conveniently avoided.
Sophia: Madison wants to know if we can eat Marmite in New Zealand too or just Australia?
Jack: That's VEGEMITE in Australia, you heathens. We have the superior Marmite. And yes, I'll introduce you both to proper breakfast. Fair warning though, Madison will hate it. You might too.
Sophia: Challenge accepted. See you at 2. xo
“XO.” Those two little letters shouldn’t make my heart lurch, but they do. Beneath all the anxiety about the wealth reveal, there is this—the simple, unexpected joy of Sophia Mitchell and her daughter entering my life. The growing certainty that I’d do anything to keep them there.
My phone rings. Charlotte, my oldest sister. Perfect timing, as always.
“ Kia ora ,” I answer.
“Jack! Tell me you’re actually on schedule for once in your life. Mum’s driving everyone mental with preparations.”
I could picture Charlotte in her Christchurch office, designer glasses perched on her nose, managing the McKenzie businesses with terrifying efficiency.
“Flight’s still on time, Char. We are landing in Auckland tomorrow, overnight there, then down to Queenstown the next day.”
“And you’re sure they don’t know? About…everything?”
I sigh. “Sophia thinks we’re flying economy, if that answers your question.”
“Jesus, Jack.” I can practically hear her pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is going to be a disaster.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You know what I mean. You should have told her weeks ago. Not sprung it on her when she’s standing in front of the bloody estate.”
“I know,” I admit. “I’ve tried. Every time, it just…the moment never seems right.”
“When is the ‘right moment’ to tell someone you’re heir to a wine empire and a couple hundred mil in assets?”
I wince. “That’s not helping, Char.”
She sighs. “Look, just…prepare her somehow, yeah? Don’t let Mum’s welcome committee be her first clue. You know how she gets.”
Our mother’s idea of a “casual welcome” involves staff lined up at the gates, vintage champagne, and usually some poor local official she’d strong-armed into making an appearance.
“I’m working on it,” I promise. “The flight upgrades will be step one.”
“Upgrades, plural? I thought you said economy?”
“That’s what Sophia thinks. Madison’s in Business Premier, we’re in Premium Economy.”
“Why not all in Business?”
“Because I’m trying not to terrify them, Char. Baby steps.”
She makes a noise that somehow conveys generations of McKenzie skepticism. “You’ve got a night planned in Queenstown before heading to the estate, right? You’re telling her then?”
“Well…yeah…probably.”
“Jack.” Her voice sharpens. “Listen. I understand what you’re going through, but I reaaalllllyy think you need to think this one through. Showing up at the estate with her completely unprepared is asking for disaster.”
“I will, I am, I’m going to,” I insist, not sounding convincing even to myself.
“It’s not just about the couple hundred million in assets, Jack.” Charlotte sounds exasperated. Even converting from New Zealand dollars, that is a number I try not to think about too often.
“I know.”
“I’m not talking about the stuff you’ve already told her—the sisters, the vineyard. I’m talking about the things that make them your family. The reputation in the community. The expectations.”
“I get it, Char.”
“Dad’s already planning the vineyard tour, by the way.”
“Of course he is.”
“And Mum’s invited the Wallaces for dinner your first night.”
“She what?” I sit bolt upright. “No. Absolutely not. Charlotte, I swear to God—”
“Already handled it,” she says smoothly. “Told her you’d all be jet-lagged. The Wallaces will come for Sunday lunch instead.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’m efficient. There’s a difference.” She pauses. “They matter to you, don’t they? This woman and her daughter?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “They do.”
“Then you better make sure it’ll work out,” Charlotte says with her usual certainty. “If it doesn’t, Lily and Emma will help me hide your body in the vineyard. We’ve got plenty of space.”
“Your support is overwhelming.”
“That’s what sisters are for. Safe travels, little brother. Text when you land.”
After we hang up, I sit staring at my phone. My sister is right—this has disaster potential. But somehow, the alternative—not bringing Sophia and Madison home, not showing them this part of my life—feels even worse.
I spend the next few hours double-checking everything. Our tickets are confirmed. The Auckland hotel suite is booked. The car service is arranged. I’ve done everything to make this journey as smooth and comfortable as possible.
Everything except be honest from the start.
◆◆◆
“You know, I can carry my own bag and Madison’s,” Sophia says as I load the last suitcase into my car. “I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Humor me,” I reply, closing the trunk. “I’m trying to be gallant here.”
“It’s working,” Madison chirps from the back seat, not looking up from her phone. “Mom never lets anyone help with bags.”
“That’s because most men only offer so they can complain about how heavy they are,” Sophia retorts. “Making a big production about the weight.”
“Your bag could be filled with bricks and I wouldn’t comment,” I promise, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, but you’re a paramedic,” Madison points out. “You carry people on stretchers and stuff.”
“True. Though technically I shouldn’t lift more than 50 pounds without help.”
“Well, my makeup bag alone is about 40,” Madison says gravely.
Sophia rolls her eyes. “Says the girl who owns exactly one mascara and a tinted lip balm.”
The drive to the airport is filled with this kind of easy banter.
Sophia has her usual coffee in hand—the velvety flat white she’s finally admitted to enjoying—and a folder with printed confirmations, passport copies, and a meticulous itinerary.
Classic Sophia, prepared for any emergency from missed connections to spontaneous appendicitis.
Madison alternates between teenage excitement and studied nonchalance, the way only fifteen-year-olds can. One moment she is peppered with questions about New Zealand, the next pretending she is not remotely impressed by anything.
“So I can’t get a kiwi as a pet, right?” she asks as we merge onto the highway.
“Absolutely not,” I confirm. “They’re endangered, nocturnal, and would hate your bedroom. Also, the smell-”
“But they’re so cute! With their little beaks and fuzzy bodies.”
“You can visit them at wildlife sanctuaries,” I promise. “They’re actually quite large—bigger than people expect.”
“Like how big? Chicken size?”
“More like a small cat. And their eggs are enormous compared to their body size.”
Madison’s eyes widen. “Cool. What else should I know before we go? Any cultural things I might mess up?”
I consider this. “Don’t call us Aussies. Don’t say our accent sounds like Australia. In fact, just don’t mention Australia at all unless you’re prepared for a twenty-minute lecture.”
“Got it. Australia is New Zealand’s Canada.”