Chapter 16
KEIRA
The delicate art of not falling in love with your fake fiancé
I’ve had a lot of stupid ideas in my life.
Trekking through the Highlands in high heels.
That haircut inspired by Billie Eilish. But standing here at six in the morning, staring into my open closet, I’m forced to admit that pretending to be Alistair McKenzie’s fiancée in front of his investors probably takes the top spot.
“What do you even wear to convince a room full of businessmen you’re madly in love with your family’s sworn rival?” I mutter, flipping through hangers.
Too casual? They’ll think I don’t take the distillery seriously. Too formal? They’ll question whether my feelings are real. Too sexy? They’ll—nope. Not going there.
I finally settle on a fitted dress under a structured blazer. Professional, but not stiff. Kind of like our fake relationship, actually.
In Alistair’s car, on the way to Edinburgh, we run through our story for what feels like the hundredth time.
“So, we grew closer after a particularly intense argument at the heritage board meeting,” he recaps, eyes fixed on the road.
“You invited me to visit the distillery to show me your vision.”
“And you were so blown away by my charm and groundbreaking ideas that you instantly fell for me.”
I shoot him a glare. “Don’t push it, McKenzie. No one’s going to believe I fell in love with your oversized ego.”
“You’d rather we tell them it’s all to escape your grandmother’s matchmaking schemes and salvage my reputation with the investors?”
“Remember, it’s my professional expertise you’re after. Not my dazzling personality.”
“Why not both?” he asks, that dimple appearing in his left cheek.
I turn to the window, suddenly fascinated by the passing landscape. It’s easier than admitting that smile does strange things to my stomach.
The offices of Edinburgh Finance Partners look exactly how I imagined: glass, chrome, polished wood. The kind of place where life-changing decisions are made between sips of fifteen-pound coffee. I don’t quite feel like I belong here—but Alistair? He fits right in. This is his world.
“Ready?” he asks, adjusting his tie before we step into the conference room.
“As ready as one can be to lie to a group of millionaires.”
I give him a tight smile. He takes my hand, and I’m caught off guard by the warmth of his palm against mine.
“It’s just another kind of presentation,” he murmurs. “And you’re very good at those.”
The unexpected confidence in his voice hits deeper than I expect.
When we walk in, the six investors are already seated around the table. Four men, two women, all dressed in suits that probably cost more than my car. Their curious eyes sweep over me before Alistair even speaks.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. I’d like you to meet Keira McGregor—my fiancée.”
The word fiancée, said so naturally, sends a strange shiver down my spine.
“McGregor?” one man with graying temples immediately picks up. “As in the McGregor distillery?”
“That’s right,” I reply with a polished smile. “I grew up in whisky, you could say.”
“A McKenzie and a McGregor,” a sharply dressed woman says, intrigued. “Well, that’s unexpected.”
“Love tends to find the most surprising paths,” Alistair replies smoothly.
His hand settles at the small of my back.
I have to give him credit—he’s disturbingly good at lying.
Maybe I should be worried about that.
The presentation begins. Alistair lays out his vision for modernizing the McKenzie distillery with a passion I’ve never fully seen before. His eyes light up when he talks about balancing tradition and innovation, and I catch myself watching him with genuine admiration.
Then one of the investors—a stocky man with a skeptical expression I identify as Tavish Dunbar—cuts in.
“This all sounds great on paper, McKenzie, but isn’t it just a way to commercialize Scottish heritage? Turn it into a theme park for tourists?”
I feel Alistair tense beside me. It’s the exact argument I’ve used against him more than once. He hesitates, caught off guard by the direct hit echoing my own criticisms.
Before I can second-guess myself, I lean forward.
“If I may. Having worked in heritage preservation over the past few years, I initially shared your concerns, Mr. Dunbar.”
All eyes turn to me—Alistair’s included, surprised.
“But what convinced me about Alistair’s vision is precisely that it doesn’t sacrifice authenticity for modernity. It creates a dialogue between the two.”
The conviction in my voice surprises even me. It’s not entirely a lie—I am starting to see the strength in his approach.
“Take the retail space, for example. Instead of generic displays, we’re integrating elements that tell the distillery’s story—like reclaimed beams from old warehouses turned into shelving, or archival photographs brought to life with modern technology.”
Alistair is looking at me like he’s trying to figure something out.
“What Keira’s saying,” he picks up, “is that our goal isn’t to replace tradition—it’s to make it accessible to a new generation.”
“Exactly,” I confirm. “It’s not about choosing between preservation and innovation. It’s about letting them strengthen each other.”
Dunbar studies us, then slowly nods. “I see. That’s… an interesting perspective.”
The presentation continues, but something shifts. Alistair and I fall into a natural rhythm, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. When he talks modernization, I ground it in history. When I bring up tradition, he bridges it to the future.
By the end, the investors are convinced. I see it in their nods, in the way their questions turn from skeptical to engaged.
But what unsettles me most is how effortless it all felt. I didn’t have to fake my admiration for Alistair’s ideas. I didn’t have to pretend I understood his vision.
Because I do understand it.
And that terrifies me.
Dinner with the investors afterward is a balancing act. Keeping up the illusion of being a couple while staying professional. Not overdoing it—but just enough to be believable.
“So how did you two meet, exactly?” asks the impeccably styled woman—Blythe Stewart, I’ve learned.
Alistair shoots me a knowing glance before answering.
“Keira accused me of trying to turn a historic washhouse into a public jacuzzi.”
I burst out laughing, remembering that particularly heated argument.
“You called it a ‘historic thermal spa,’ which was even worse,” I shoot back.
“I still think it had potential,” he defends.
“It might have—if you hadn’t suggested bubble jets and multicolored LED lights!”
The investors follow our back-and-forth like it’s a tennis match, clearly entertained by our dynamic.
“And from there you got engaged?” Dunbar asks, amused. “That’s quite the turnaround.”
Alistair’s hand finds mine under the table.
“Sometimes the line between passionately hating someone and passionately loving them is thinner than you’d think,” he says, that crooked smile making an appearance again—the one that should honestly be illegal in public.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I curse my fair skin for betraying every emotion.
That’s when the oldest investor—Rory MacKinnon, who’s barely spoken until now—clears his throat.
“Fascinating, really. You know, I knew your grandparents, Mr. McKenzie.”
Alistair straightens. “You did?”
“Oh yes. Interesting times,” MacKinnon says, sipping his whisky. “There were all sorts of rumors back then—about a treasure shared between the McKenzies and the McGregors. Old stories people told after a few drinks.”
Alistair and I exchange a glance. Coincidence… or does he know something?
“What kind of treasure?” I ask, trying to sound casually curious.
MacKinnon shrugs. “Who knows? A whisky recipe, land, a business agreement… The Highlands are full of legends like that. But I do find it poetic that you two found each other. Some alliances are written in the stars—no matter how many generations it takes.”
A quiet falls over the table, like everyone’s absorbing the weight of his words. I can feel Alistair looking at me, but I don’t dare turn.
Something about what MacKinnon said lingers… like it means more than I’m ready to face.
“I can’t believe we pulled that off.”
I let out a long breath as the last investor disappears into a taxi. It’s nearly ten p.m., and we’re standing outside the restaurant, a little lightheaded from success—and maybe the wine.
“You were incredible,” Alistair says, his sincerity catching me off guard. “The way you defended the project…”
“I didn’t have to force it. Your project has real merit—as long as you drop the historic jacuzzi idea.”
He laughs, that genuine, unguarded laugh that completely transforms his face. I find myself wanting to hear it more often than I should.
“It’s too late to head back to the Highlands,” he says, checking his watch. “Martha booked us a room at the Caledonian.”
“That was thoughtful of her,” I reply, relieved not to face hours of driving tonight.
The ride to the hotel is quiet, but comfortable. The kind of silence that settles after a long, emotionally charged day.
The Caledonian is one of those historic hotels that breathes understated luxury. While Alistair handles check-in, I take in the grand lobby—ornate woodwork, glittering chandeliers. The part of me that geeks out over historic buildings is in heaven.
The conversation at the desk takes longer than expected. I see Alistair frown, then turn toward me with a mix of embarrassment and resignation.
“There’s… a small problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Martha only booked one room.”
I blink. “Oh. Right. Because we’re…”
“Engaged. Yes.”
“No problem,” I say quickly, aiming for casual. “I can just get another room.”
He winces. “That’s where it gets complicated. The hotel’s fully booked. There’s a medical conference in town.”
The receptionist confirms with an apologetic nod.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Just… perfect.”
In the elevator, we stand on opposite sides like getting any closer might cause spontaneous combustion.
“It’s almost funny, when you think about it,” I say eventually. “Spending all day pretending to be in love, and now…”
“The irony isn’t lost on me,” he replies with a faint smile.
The room is beautiful. Spacious. Elegant.
With one bed.
One very large king-size bed that looks like it was designed to test the limits of our so-called relationship.
“I’ll take the couch,” Alistair says immediately.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That thing is way too small for you. I should take it.”
“Absolutely not,” he insists, that stubborn look I’m starting to recognize settling in. “I’ve slept in worse. And this is my fault.”
“Your fault? I’m the one who started this fake engagement mess!”
“But Martha booked the room, and she works for me.”
“That is the most ridiculous logic I’ve ever heard,” I snap—equal parts annoyed and weirdly touched.
“I’m full of surprises,” he says, that half-smile doing that annoying thing to my stomach again.
I finally give in and take the bed while he settles onto the couch. We get ready for the night in an awkward dance of avoidance and exaggerated politeness, taking turns in the bathroom like uncomfortable roommates.
Lying in this far-too-big bed, I stare up at the ceiling in the dark. The day replays in my mind—defending his project, the look he gave me afterward, the unsettling ease with which we played a couple.
Across the room, I hear him shifting on the couch, probably trying to find a comfortable position on furniture that clearly wasn’t built for someone his size.
“You awake?” he asks.
“No. Too much on my mind.”
“Like what?”
I hesitate, then answer honestly.
“Like the fact that I didn’t have to fake defending your project today. That’s… unsettling.”
Silence stretches, and I wonder if I’ve said too much.
“Thank you for that,” he says finally. “You were amazing.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised. Impressed. You really understand what I’m trying to do with the distillery.”
“Don’t get carried away, McKenzie. I still have plenty of reservations about your more extreme ideas.”
His quiet laugh drifts through the dark.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less, McGregor.”
Another silence settles—this one easier.
“Do you think MacKinnon knows something?” I ask. “About the treasure?”
“Probably not. Just old stories…”
“‘Some alliances are written in the stars.’ What do you think he meant?”
“I don’t know,” Alistair says, his voice heavier with fatigue. “But I think we’re onto something. Something our families have kept hidden for generations.”
I turn onto my side, facing the couch even though I can’t see him.
“So we keep digging?”
“Absolutely.”
“Goodnight, Alistair,” I murmur, suddenly very aware of the intimacy of this moment in the dark.
“Goodnight, Keira.”
As sleep starts to pull me under, one unsettling thought lingers—
The line between our professional arrangement and something more personal is starting to blur. And I’m not entirely sure I want to draw it again.
I fall asleep wondering if this is still just a charade… or if it’s becoming something else.
Something real. Something deeper. Something a little terrifying.
Something that might have been written in the stars—whether I like it or not.