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?
