Chapter 3
ALISTAIR
Selling the soul of the Highlands
The fermentation tanks at McKenzie Distillery hum softly, a sound more beautiful to me than any Beethoven symphony.
I walk slowly between the towering stainless-steel vessels, drawing in the damp air rich with malted barley and yeast. Some would say it smells like alcohol and mildew. I say it smells like the future.
Our future.
“The temperature in vat three is running a little high, sir,” Ian informs me. He’s been our master distiller for thirty years.
I glance at the data on my tablet and nod. “Lower it by two degrees and increase the cooling flow slightly. I want a slower flavor development for this batch.”
Ian gives me that familiar look—a blend of respect and skepticism he reserves for my more… forward-thinking ideas.
“That’s unusual, sir. Traditionally, we maintain a constant temperature throughout fermentation.”
I offer him a calm smile. Traditionally is probably the word I hear most in this distillery. That, and we’ve always done it this way.
“The Japanese whisky Hibiki whisky uses controlled temperature variations to create more complex flavor profiles,” I say. “I tasted it in Tokyo last year. It’s remarkable, Ian. Revolutionary, even.”
His expression tightens at the mention of a non-Scottish whisky. For Ian, suggesting we might learn anything from the Japanese borders on treason.
“If you say so, sir,” he replies stiffly. “I’ll adjust the parameters.”
I suppress a sigh as he walks away. Running a centuries-old distillery in Scotland sometimes feels like trying to turn a sailing ship in the middle of a storm—with a crew that would rather sink than change course.
And if it were only the distillery…
My phone vibrates in my pocket. My father’s name flashes across the screen. Speak of the devil.
“Alistair McKenzie,” I answer, keeping my tone professional even though I know exactly who it is.
“Have you seen the quarterly sales figures?”
No hello. No how are you, son? Just numbers. Always numbers.
“Yes, Father. Twelve percent growth in the Asian market. We’re on track.”
“Not enough. McGregor & Sons announced fifteen percent yesterday.”
I grit my teeth. Of course. It always comes back to the McGregors. In my father’s world, everything is a competition with that family.
“They acquired a struggling microdistillery and inflated their numbers. It’s not organic growth.”
“A win is a win, Alistair.”
I stop by one of the windows overlooking the valley. In the distance, the McGregor castle rises—massive, imposing, just like its owners.
“We’re playing the long game, Father. Our modernization and tourism expansion plan will—”
“Speaking of your ‘plan,’” he cuts in, “I’ve reviewed the proposals for the visitor center. You really intend to spend three million pounds on a glass-and-stone building?”
“It’s a strategic investment. Whisky tourism is booming. Last year alone, over two million people visited Scottish distilleries. With immersive experiences, we could—”
“Immersive experiences,” he repeats like it’s a disease. “Touchscreens and virtual tastings. You’re turning our heritage into an amusement park.”
The same argument. Over and over again. I drag a hand through my hair, forcing myself to stay calm.
“Tradition doesn’t exclude innovation. They can coexist. Our production methods remain authentic, but how we present them evolves. We adapt—or we disappear.”
Silence stretches on the line before he sighs.
“The board meets Thursday. Come prepared with something stronger than ‘immersive experiences’ to justify these costs. And find a way to secure the McGregors’ southern parcel. Without it, your expansion plan is nothing but a castle in the air.”
The southern parcel. The holy grail.
A perfectly positioned strip of land between our property and the river—ideal for a visitor center with sweeping views of the Highlands. Land the McGregors stubbornly refuse to sell, if only to spite us.
“I’m working on it, Father.”
“Work faster. I won’t see this company fall behind the McGregors because we failed to adapt… or failed to take what should be ours.”
And with that, he hangs up.
I pocket my phone and continue my inspection, trying to ignore the tension settling into my shoulders. McKenzie Distillery has stood since 1793. Generations of McKenzies have protected it through wars, economic collapse, even American Prohibition.
Now it’s my turn.
Except I refuse to simply maintain the status quo.
The world is changing. Tastes are evolving. And if we don’t evolve with them, we’ll end up like the countless ghost distilleries scattered across the Highlands—beautiful ruins with no future.
I push open the door to the aging warehouse. The scent here is different—richer, deeper. Hundreds of oak casks line the dim space, each one holding whisky in the making. Some have been resting for over twenty years, slowly absorbing tannins, building character.
It’s ironic. We practice patience here—waiting decades for whisky to reach its peak—and yet we struggle to apply that same patience to our business strategy.
“Sir?”
I turn to see Martha, my assistant, standing in the doorway, tablet in hand.
“Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things that need your attention.”
“I’m listening,” I say, leaning against a barrel.
“First, the architect sent the revised plans for the visitor center. He incorporated your suggestions about using local materials.”
“Good. Send them over—I’ll review them tonight.”
“Next, the heritage council confirmed Friday’s meeting about the restoration of the historic washhouse.”
I grimace. The heritage council—a fortress of conservatism where every new idea is treated like a Viking invasion.
“I’ll be there. What else?”
“Yes, the marketing director needs your approval for the new international campaign. And…”
She hesitates. Martha never hesitates.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Well… this is a bit unusual. Keira McGregor called. She wants to meet with you. In private. As soon as possible.”
I straighten instantly.
“Keira McGregor? You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. She said it was urgent… and personal.”
My surprise must be obvious because Martha adds, “I was as shocked as you are. After your last… lively exchange at the council meeting, I didn’t expect her to speak to you again before hell froze over.”
I remember that exchange perfectly. Keira McGregor—green eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with indignation—accusing me of “commercializing the soul of the Highlands” with my thermal spa project.
Keira McGregor. Self-appointed guardian of Scottish tradition. The most persistent thorn in my side.
And—though I’d never admit it out loud—one of the few people in this valley whose intelligence rivals her stubbornness.
“Did she say why she wants to meet?”
“No. Only that it was important and she’d prefer to discuss it in person. She suggested coming here tomorrow morning.”
What could Keira McGregor possibly want from me? The last time we were in the same room, she called my approach “vulgar mercantilism disguised as Disneyland preservation.”
“Confirm the meeting. Ten o’clock. My office.”
Martha nods, typing quickly.
“Oh—and one last thing. Your mother called. She reminded you about tonight’s family dinner. Apparently, your Aunt Agnes will be there, and she has ‘important news.’”
I bite back a groan. Aunt Agnes’s “important news” usually translates to local gossip—or yet another thinly veiled attempt to introduce me to a suitable future Mrs. McKenzie. Ever since Heather and I broke up a few months ago, my family has treated my single status like a national emergency.
“Thank you, Martha. Tell my mother I’ll be there.”
She nods and leaves, and silence settles back in—broken only by the occasional creak of wood as the barrels breathe.
Keira wants to meet me. In private.
The same Keira McGregor who fiercely defends the very land we’re trying to acquire. The McGregor whose family has been ours’ rival for generations.
What could possibly be urgent enough for her to cross that line?
A truce? Unlikely.
A collaboration? Even less.
A surrender? I’d have better odds of seeing Nessie dancing the Highlands Fling on the castle lawn.
I resume my inspection, but my mind stays fixed on the mystery.
Whatever Keira wants, one thing is certain—tomorrow won’t be an ordinary day at McKenzie Distillery.
But first, I have a family dinner to survive—and an aunt to convince that I am absolutely not interested in the pastor’s “charming daughter,” no matter how legendary her scones are.
I cast one last glance at the rows of aging casks.
Like whisky, do rivalries improve with time… or just grow more bitter?
I guess I’ll find out tomorrow. Ten o’clock sharp.