“Saving ink, McKenzie. Your ridiculous ideas are getting expensive to protest.”
He laughs—short, almost genuine.
“Have a seat. Coffee? Tea? Whisky? Though ten in the morning might be a bit early—even for a McGregor.”
“Coffee,” I reply, sitting. “Black. Like the soul of anyone who wants to turn our heritage into a selfie backdrop.”
His eyebrow lifts, but he doesn’t comment. He presses a button.
“Martha, a black coffee for Miss McGregor. And bring me the file on the southern parcel.”
I frown.
“I’m not here to talk about the southern parcel.”
“No?” he says, folding his hands on the desk. “That’s usually the only reason a McGregor would voluntarily cross this threshold. Unless you’ve come to admire our ‘Disneyland aesthetic,’ as you so eloquently described it.”
I inhale slowly. Stay calm. Focus.
“I have a proposal for you?—”
The door opens. Martha enters with my coffee and a thick file, which she places in front of him.
He opens it casually, as if whatever I’m about to say is secondary.
Before I can continue, he spreads architectural plans across the desk.
“Before you begin, take a look. Our vision for the new visitor center. Designed by Jamison Reid. Think of it as a harmony between tradition and modernity.”
Against my will, I look.
It’s… not terrible. The structure follows the natural curves of the land, uses local materials. Still too commercial for my taste—but better than I expected.
“This is for the southern parcel, I assume.”
“Exactly,” he says, satisfied. “The perfect location for an immersive experience that?—”
“That will turn our heritage into a theme park,” I cut in. “Don’t you see how this ‘immersive experience’ strips the place of its authenticity?”
He leans forward, elbows on the desk.
“And your dusty museum will turn it into a mausoleum no one visits,” he shoots back. “Authenticity without an audience is just a forgotten relic, Keira.”
I ignore the way my name sounds coming from him.
“People don’t need touchscreens and virtual tastings to appreciate heritage. What you’re proposing is mass tourism that cheapens our culture.”
He shakes his head, frustration clear.
“What I’m proposing is accessibility. Not just for a select few who already understand it. The McKenzies have been making whisky since 1793—and every generation adapted. You don’t preserve something by locking it away.”
I push to my feet.
“Adapting doesn’t mean selling out! Your visitor center will bring in crowds who take two photos, buy a keychain, and leave without understanding anything real about distilling!”
He stands too—and suddenly I’m very aware of how tall he is.
“Better tourists with keychains than empty buildings falling apart from lack of funding,” he counters. “Your romantic vision isn’t economically viable—and you know it.”
