— You’re saying this recipe could actually work? That it could produce something unique?
— I’m convinced of it, Alistair says. I’ve already conducted preliminary tests using barley from that parcel. Even without full maturation, the raw distillate shows characteristics our master distillers have never seen before.
He turns to me, a knowing smile on his lips.
— Keira tasted an experimental infusion I created from Archibald’s notes. It’s not whisky yet—but it gives a clear idea of the flavor profile.
I nod, remembering the scent, the warmth… and the kiss that followed.
— The aromas and flavors are unlike anything else, I confirm, pushing the memory aside. And that was only an approximation—without Elspeth’s full recipe.
Malcolm considers this, but his expression remains guarded.
— Even if that’s true, what does it change? The McGregors won’t sell the land. And we already have a deal with Fraser.
— We’re not talking about a sale, Callum interjects, surprising everyone. We’re talking about a partnership.
— A partnership? Malcolm repeats, like the word itself offends him.
— Exactly, I say. A McKenzie–McGregor whisky. Created together. Marketed together. Profits shared equally.
— And the shop would be redesigned to tell this story—our story, Alistair adds. A place that celebrates not rivalry, but the strength of what we could be together. And… love.
I can see the idea taking root in some of the faces around the table—especially Mary’s. But Malcolm remains unmoved.
— This is sentimentality, not business, he says flatly. I’m not dismantling decades of strategy over an old love story and a handful of letters.
Silence falls.
I glance at Alistair, bracing for his reaction. His expression hardens—but his eyes burn with quiet resolve.
— Then I’ll give you a choice, Father, he says evenly. You can either accept this partnership… or prepare to lose your heir.
Shock ripples through the room. Mary pales.
— Alistair, what are you saying?
— I won’t repeat Archibald’s mistake, he says, his gaze shifting from his father to me. I won’t choose inheritance over love. I won’t let pride destroy something real.
My heart stutters at the certainty in his voice.
— You can’t be serious, Malcolm snaps. You’d give up everything—your name, your position, your future—for?—
— For Keira, Alistair says without hesitation. And for what we could build together. Yes. I would.
Mary grips her husband’s arm.
— Malcolm… look at him.
— This is emotional blackmail, he mutters—but there’s a crack in his voice now.
— No, Maggie says firmly. It’s love. The same love Archibald and Elspeth had—but didn’t fight hard enough for. Don’t you see? This is our second chance.
Silence stretches, heavy and fragile.
Malcolm looks at his son… at me… at the documents on the table.
Then, finally, Mary speaks.
