I take a sip, letting the warmth settle.
“Feels ironic, doesn’t it? A McKenzie doubting himself.”
“Not at all,” Keira says softly. “I know what it’s like to carry family expectations. To try to carve your own path while honoring tradition.”
She leans forward slightly, her face lit by the fire, impossibly soft.
“For what it’s worth, I think your vision has merit. You’re not erasing the past—you’re making it accessible. That’s… kind of noble.”
Her words hit deeper than I expect.
“You know who else understands my vision? My mother. She’s always been the bridge between my father and me.”
“She sounds wise,” Keira says. “I’d like to get to know her better.”
“You remind me of her, actually.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Surprise flashes across her face.
“How so?”
“The way you challenge convention while still respecting history. Your passion. Your independence. Even the way you call me out when I get too arrogant.”
She laughs softly. “Your mother puts you in your place? I like her already.”
“You have no idea. When Campbell mentioned the similarities between you two earlier, I knew exactly what he meant.”
“Do you think he knows her well?”
“Possibly. He said he knew my grandparents. Maybe he knew her too.”
A comfortable silence settles, broken only by the fire and the storm. I find myself watching her—the way the light dances in her hair, the reflection of flames in her eyes. There’s a naturalgrace to her I’m not sure I ever truly noticed… or maybe never allowed myself to.
“Tell me something no one knows about the great Alistair McKenzie,” she says suddenly.
I laugh, slightly embarrassed. “Like what—my deepest, darkest secret?”
“Your biggest insecurity.”
I hesitate… then answer honestly.
“Sometimes I feel like an impostor. Like I’m playing the role of the perfect McKenzie heir without actually knowing what I’m doing.”
She doesn’t interrupt—just watches me, encouraging me to continue.
“My father has this natural authority. I compensate with arrogance—hoping no one notices that half the time, I’m terrified of making the wrong decision and ruining everything.”
“Impostor syndrome,” she murmurs. “I know it well. When I proposed my cultural center project, I was convinced everyone would see right through me.”
“You? You’re the most capable, confident person I know in your field.”
She smiles, a little self-deprecating. “That’s kind of you. But trust me—there’s a mountain of doubt under that confidence.”
Our eyes meet—and something shifts. Not the business arrangement. Not the fake engagement.
Something real.
“So,” she says, lifting her glass for a refill, “what about that half-McGregor, half-McKenzie flask Maggie has? Think it’s part of the treasure?”
