I sink into the chair across from him.
“A year, six months… what’s the difference? I’m not getting married just to satisfy some archaic will.”
He peers at me over his glasses—eerily similar to Mitchell earlier.
“Really? You’d rather watch Lachlan turn your premium single malt into an energy drink?”
A cold sweat prickles down my back as images flood my mind—our distillery plastered with neon ads, fluorescent plastic cups for tastings, a bubblegum-flavored whisky line, servers in glow-in-the-dark kilts… maybe even TikTok dances in the aging cellar.
No. Absolutely not.
“There has to be another way,” I mutter.
Ewan leans forward, suddenly serious.
“You know I’ve got your back no matter what. But think about the employees. The families depending on McGregor & Sons. Is staying single really worth risking all of that?”
That lands harder than I want it to.
McGregor & Sons isn’t just a business. It’s the heartbeat of our community. Generations of families. My father. My grandfather. Everything.
“Let’s say I consider this… option,” I concede reluctantly. “Where exactly am I supposed to find a woman willing to marry me under these conditions?”
He shrugs.
“I know this is a revolutionary concept for you, but you could start by going out and meeting people.”
“Very funny. You know I don’t have time for that. Between running the company, distributor meetings, endless business dinners?—”
“Exactly. You’ve turned your life into one long meeting.”
My phone buzzes on the desk.
Grandmother
Hope your meeting with Mr. Mitchell went well. Dinner tonight with the Campbells. 7 p.m. Wear your kilt. Moira says her daughter Eleanor loves tradition.
I show him the screen. He laughs.
“Well, your grandmother’s making it easy for you. She’s already working the angle.”
“That’s exactly what worries me,” I mutter.
Dinnerwith the Campbells is every bit as painful as expected.
Eleanor is lovely. Smart. Polite. She’ll make someone a perfect wife.
Just… not me.
“So, Callum, how is the family business?” Mr. Campbell asks, carving his roast.
I clear my throat, acutely aware of my grandmother watching me from across the table.
“It’s doing well. Our exports to the U.S. are up fifteen percent this year, and our new port-cask whisky has received several international awards.”
“Fascinating,” Eleanor says with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m sure it’s very… fulfilling.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
