Me? I buried myself under a mountain of invoices, contracts, and financial projections.
It’s been three days since Keira ended our arrangement—as she so coldly called it. Three days of replaying her expressionless face telling me she feels nothing for me. Three days of wondering how I could’ve been stupid enough to believe there was something real between us.
Martha stopped asking if I was okay after the twentieth time I snapped at her for no reason. The distillery staff avoids me like I’m radioactive. Even my father, during our brief encounter yesterday, seemed surprised by my foul mood—which is ironic,considering he’s the undisputed master of foul moods in this family.
I stare at my computer screen, trying to focus on the numbers blurring in front of me.
It’s useless.
All I see is her face.
All I hear is her voice.
I don’t feel anything for you.
Those six words loop in my head like an infuriating song I can’t shut off.
The worst part? I don’t believe them. Not after what happened in the warehouse. Not after the way she kissed me. Something changed during that dinner at my parents’ house—something that made her walk away.
Did my father say something? Do something? She swore he didn’t, but the denial felt too forceful to be honest.
Then again… if a few words from my father were enough to make her leave, maybe she didn’t feel the same way I did.
I shove my chair back and stand abruptly, unable to sit still another second. I need air. Space. Anything to escape the thoughts clawing at me.
Without really thinking, I head toward the fermentation building—the one Hamish broke into. The one where we discovered that hidden underground passage. Maybe exploring it will give me the distraction I desperately need.
The ventilation grate is still there, bent out of shape thanks to that overachieving sheep. I crouch down, pulling out my phone and switching on the flashlight. The beam cuts into the darkness, revealing the tunnel stretching ahead.
What kind of sane person crawls into a potentially dangerous underground passage with no proper equipment just to escape his emotional problems?
Apparently… me.
I squeeze through the opening, my dignity—and my tailored suit—protesting equally. Inside, I can almost stand upright, though I have to keep my head lowered to avoid hitting the stone ceiling.
The air is cool and damp, thick with the scent of earth and time. My footsteps echo softly against the uneven ground as I move forward, guided by the narrow beam of light.
The passage is remarkable. Carefully constructed, reinforced in places with wooden beams that have somehow survived the decades.
For a while, it works. The exploration distracts me—exactly what I needed.
About fifty meters in, the tunnel splits. I stop.
To the right, the passage continues toward the McGregor estate—the barn. I know that path.
So I turn left.
The corridor stretches deeper into darkness. And with every step, I begin to question my sanity.
After another stretch, the tunnel ends.
A dead end.
I stand there, staring at the stone wall.
— Guess that means I turn back.
I pivot on my heel—then pause.
