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.
