Chapter 25
KEIRA
The Bitter Taste of an Ultimatum
I’ve visited countless distilleries in my life, but none has ever felt as familiar as this one.
The McKenzie aging warehouses stretch out like silent soldiers, row after row of history steeped into wood and time.
The air is thick with layered aromas—oak, vanilla, spice—and something else, something intangible that makes it feel like the walls themselves are breathing.
Or maybe it’s just Alistair’s presence that brings this place to life.
— It’s this way, he says, guiding me deeper into the warehouse where the light fades into shadow.
I follow, still wondering why he insisted on showing me something “special” before dinner at his parents’ house tonight.
He stops in front of a small area tucked behind a curtain and glances at me, almost… nervous.
— You might think this is ridiculous…
— After seeing Hamish wear a bow tie at Callum’s wedding, my definition of ridiculous has expanded significantly, I reply with a smile.
He laughs, then pulls the curtain aside.
Behind it is a makeshift lab. A wooden table cluttered with test tubes, pipettes, miniature barrels, and notebooks filled with scribbled notes. At the center sits a glass bottle filled with amber liquid, unlabelled, almost glowing in the dim light.
— What is this? I ask, intrigued.
— My personal project, he says, picking up the bottle. An experimental whisky… inspired by what we found in the archives.
I stare at him, surprised.
— You recreated a whisky based on our historical research?
— I tried, he shrugs. It’s just a prototype. Real whisky would take years to mature, and we’d need the original recipe. But I used a few techniques to accelerate the process—just to get an idea of what it might become.
He pours a small amount into two tulip-shaped glasses.
— You changed the way I see things, Keira. Before, I saw my family’s history as a marketing tool. But because of you, I’ve started seeing it as something alive… something that can still inspire us today.
I take the glass he offers me, touched more than I expected. Our fingers brush, and that now-familiar spark shoots up my arm.
— I didn’t expect this, I admit. I didn’t picture you as an experimental distiller.
— There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet, McGregor, he says with a half-smile.
— Is that a threat or a promise, McKenzie?
Our eyes lock, and suddenly the air between us thickens. I bring the glass to my lips, partly to taste, partly to hide the way my pulse stutters.
The first sip is a revelation. Honey. Dark fruit. A hint of spice. And something else—something I can’t quite name, but that feels strangely… familiar.
— This is incredible, I murmur. What is that note?
His smile widens.
— A secret ingredient I’ll reveal in due time.
I nod, lifting the glass again to inhale its scent.
— I haven’t reached the final recipe yet, he continues. I want to create a whisky that’s neither McKenzie nor McGregor—but something new. Something born from both our legacies.
I look at him, genuinely moved. This isn’t just a romantic gesture. It’s recognition—of everything we’ve uncovered together, of the shared history we’re only beginning to understand.
— You keep surprising me, I whisper.
— In a good way, I hope?
Instead of answering, I set my glass down, step closer—and kiss him.
This time, I don’t hesitate. His lips taste like the whisky he created—warm, complex, with that mysterious note that feels like it belongs only to us. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I let myself sink into the undeniable rightness of it.
This kiss is different from the first, in the barn. That one was impulsive, unexpected. This one is a choice. A quiet admission of everything growing between us.
When we finally pull apart, his gaze is soft, intense.
— If I’d known my whisky would have this effect, I would’ve started experimenting much sooner, he murmurs.
I laugh, lightheaded—and not just from the alcohol.
— It’s not the whisky. It’s the distiller, I reply, surprising even myself.
He smiles, then glances at his watch.
— We should go.
Right. Dinner with his parents.
Reality crashes back in all at once. Tonight, we face Malcolm McKenzie—the cold, calculating man who, from everything I’ve gathered, approves of neither our relationship nor my project.
— Do you think it’ll go well? I ask, suddenly uneasy.
— Honestly? I don’t know. My father is… complicated. But my mother will love you—I’m sure of it. And in the end, what they think doesn’t matter. This is our life, not theirs.
Our life.
The words echo inside me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. When did we start thinking like that? When did this arrangement stop being an act and start feeling dangerously close to something real?
— Then let’s go, I say, taking his hand. Let’s go face the dragon in his lair.
The McKenzie estate is imposing. Elegant. Slightly intimidating. Much like its current owner, Malcolm McKenzie—who watches me from the end of the table like an entomologist studying a particularly puzzling specimen.
To my right, Mary is the complete opposite of her husband: warm, smiling, asking about my family and my work with genuine interest. She has the same eyes as Alistair—bright, sharp, expressive.
— So, Keira, Malcolm says, Alistair tells me you’re something of an expert in local history?
His tone suggests he finds that profession barely more respectable than fortune-telling.
— I’m a historian specializing in Scottish heritage, Mr. McKenzie, I reply politely. With a particular focus on Highland cultural legacy.
He already knows that.
— Fascinating, he says in a tone that means the exact opposite. And how does a historian end up designing boutiques?
I feel Alistair tense beside me.
— Father, he starts, but I place my hand over his.
— It’s a fair question, I answer, turning to Malcolm. I’ve always believed history isn’t just something to study—it’s something to experience. My design work is an extension of that philosophy. I want to create spaces that tell a story while serving a practical purpose.
Malcolm nods, expression unreadable.
— A charming philosophy. Though I’ve always believed that in business, practicality should outweigh charm.
— I don’t see why they have to be mutually exclusive, Mary interjects gently. The history of our distillery is one of our greatest assets, after all.
The conversation shifts to safer topics, but I can feel Malcolm’s attention lingering on me.
Midway through the main course—a perfectly cooked roast I barely touch—Alistair’s phone rings. He checks it and frowns.
— It’s Ian. I need to take this—it might be important.
— Of course, darling, Mary says.
He excuses himself and leaves the room, and the moment the door closes, the atmosphere shifts.
Malcolm sets down his wine glass with deliberate calm.
— While Alistair is away, he says, I’d like to show you something, Miss McGregor. If you’d care to join me in my study?
I glance at Mary, who gives me an encouraging nod.
— Malcolm has a fascinating collection of rare whiskies, she says. You should see it.
— I’d love to, I reply—though every instinct in me screams otherwise.
I follow Malcolm down a long corridor lined with portraits of McKenzie ancestors, each one bearing the same piercing gaze as the man leading me. I’ve only been here once before—and at this moment, I wish I hadn’t come at all.
His study is dark wood and leather, imposing and carefully curated. He closes the door behind us—but instead of showing me whisky, he gestures to the chair across from his desk.
— Sit down, Miss McGregor.
It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order.
I comply, bracing myself.
— I value honesty, so I’ll be honest with you, he begins. I know your engagement to my son is an arrangement.
My heart stumbles—but I keep my expression neutral.
— I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. McKenzie.
— Of course you do, he replies smoothly. I’ve done my research. There’s no trace of your relationship before this sudden engagement. No photos, no mentions. And then—suddenly—you’re engaged. It’s not very convincing.
I say nothing.
— What interests me, he continues, is why. Why would my son—heir to one of Scotland’s most prestigious distilleries—participate in such a charade? And why would you—a seemingly respectable young woman—agree to it?
He leans forward, eyes sharp.
— I have my theory. Alistair needed a fiancée to reassure investors. And you… well, I assume securing the contract to renovate our boutique was incentive enough.
The cold disdain in his voice makes anger flare in my chest.
— It’s not that simple, I say.
— It doesn’t matter, he cuts in. What matters is what happens now. This little performance has gone on long enough. It’s time to end it.
— I’m sorry?
— I’ve signed a preliminary agreement with William Fraser for the renovation. A real professional. Not a historian playing interior designer.
Each word lands like a blade—but I refuse to let him see it.
— Alistair will never agree to that, I say, more firmly than I feel.
— Alistair will do what’s best for the family business, Malcolm replies. Unless, of course, he’s prepared to be disinherited.
The silence that follows is glacial.
— You’re bluffing, I say.
— Am I? he replies, a humorless smile curving his lips. Are you willing to risk his future to find out? Because that’s what this is, Miss McGregor. His future. His place in this company, in this family. Everything he’s worked for.
He stands and walks to the window, looking out over the estate.
— If you truly care about him—and I’m beginning to suspect you do—you’ll free him from this lie before it destroys everything he’s built.
His words hit harder because they strike something I’ve been trying not to face.
I’m in love with Alistair.
This isn’t an arrangement anymore. Not for me.
— And of course, he adds, turning back to me, you won’t mention this conversation to Alistair. That would be… counterproductive.
The threat is clear.
— Now, shall we return to dinner? And remember, Miss McGregor—some arrangements aren’t meant to last.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur. I smile. I nod. I pretend to eat. I answer Mary’s questions. But my mind is stuck, replaying Malcolm’s words over and over.
When Alistair returns, apologizing for the length of his call, I barely register it. It’s only when he takes my hand and asks if I’m okay that I realize how distant I must seem.
— I’m just tired, I say with a forced smile. It’s been a long day.
He watches me carefully, but doesn’t push.
After dessert—a soufflé I barely touch—he offers to drive me back. I say goodbye to Mary, who hugs me warmly and says she hopes to see me again soon. Malcolm only nods, his gaze heavy with meaning.
In the car, the silence is deafening. I stare out at the dark countryside, searching desperately for a solution that won’t break anyone’s heart.
There isn’t one.
— Are you sure you’re okay? Alistair asks, glancing at me. You’ve barely said a word since I got back.
— Alistair… I think we should stop.
The words come out too fast. Too blunt.
— Stop what? he asks, confused.
— All of this. Our arrangement. The engagement. It was a mistake from the start.
He brakes suddenly, pulling the car onto the side of the road. When he turns to me, his face is a mix of shock and pain.
— What? Why? What happened?
I look away, unable to face him.
— Nothing happened. I just realized we’re making things unnecessarily complicated. We’re professionals. We should act like it.
— Professionals, he repeats slowly. That’s all we are to you? After everything?
The hurt in his voice nearly breaks me—but Malcolm’s words echo in my mind.
His future is at stake.
— That’s all we should have been, I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. The lines got blurred—and that’s on me. I should’ve been clearer about the limits of our arrangement.
— Limits, he repeats, disbelief creeping in. Keira, earlier, in the warehouse—
— It was a mistake, I cut in. I got carried away. It won’t happen again.
I can feel his gaze on me, searching, trying to understand this sudden shift.
— I don’t believe you, he says finally. Something happened. My father said something to you, didn’t he?
My heart stutters.
Is it that obvious?
— Your father has nothing to do with this, I deflect. This is my decision.
— Look me in the eye and tell me you feel nothing for me, he says. That all of it was fake.
I gather every ounce of strength I have and turn to face him, meeting his gaze.
— I don’t feel anything beyond respect… and a kind of friendship, Alistair.
Each word feels like a blade carving into my own chest.
— Our arrangement was purely professional. And it’s time to end it before things get more complicated than they already are.
I see the exact moment something breaks inside him. A light in his eyes goes out, replaced by a coldness I’ve never seen before.
— I see, he says, voice flat. Then consider our arrangement over.
He starts the car again, and the rest of the drive passes in icy silence.
When we reach the castle, I murmur a quick thank you and get out as fast as I can.
It’s only once I’m alone in my room, the door closed behind me, that I finally fall apart. The tears I’ve held back all evening spill freely as I collapse onto the bed.
I did the right thing.
For him. For his future.
So why does it hurt this much?
In my head, I can almost hear Hamish bleating in disapproval. Even a sheep would know I just made the biggest mistake of my life.