Chapter 15
CALLUM
I stand in front of the mirror, attempting for the fourth time to properly adjust this damn silk tie. My fingers, usually so precise, seem today to have developed a will of their own—and that will appears to be making me look like a high schooler heading to his first prom.
— You’re supposed to tie an elegant knot, not hang yourself with it, my reflection tells me.
I let out a long sigh and start over. This is ridiculous. I’ve worn ties to hundreds of business meetings, formal dinners, social events. I’ve negotiated multi-million-pound contracts without breaking a sweat. And yet today, this simple strip of fabric resists me as if it has sworn to torture me.
Then again, this isn’t an ordinary day.
Today, I’m getting married.
My bedroom door swings open abruptly, without so much as a knock. There’s only one person who considers basic manners optional when it comes to my privacy.
— Is the groom ready to put his head in the noose? Ewan calls out as he strolls in like he owns the place. Or in your case, hang himself with his tie?
— Very funny, I mutter, dropping the offending tie and abandoning the battle—for now. Did you come all the way from the village just to mock me?
Ewan sets a bag on the bed that clinks suspiciously with the sound of bottles.
— I came to make sure the biggest matrimonial event in the Highlands since the last generation doesn’t start with a groom having an existential crisis.
— I’m not having an existential crisis.
— Of course not. Your tie is just naturally crooked and your forehead naturally covered in sweat.
He steps closer and, without ceremony, grabs both ends of my tie.
— Let me handle it, you incompetent CEO. Remember when I had to teach you how to tie this knot for graduation?
I can’t help but smile.
— I mostly remember you showing up completely drunk to said ceremony.
— I was festive, Ewan corrects, expertly manipulating the fabric. And you were so tense I thought you were going to shatter into pieces when the headmaster called your name.
— My father was in the front row with his stopwatch. He was literally timing how long it took me to cross the stage and collect my diploma.
Ewan shakes his head, finishing the knot with an ease that instantly makes me resent his natural coordination.
— Angus McGregor, always so warm and encouraging. And yet, you keep trying to be like him.
I’m about to protest, but stop, knowing he isn’t entirely wrong.
— There, he says, stepping back to admire his work. Now you look like a man worthy of marrying a woman like Jane.
I glance at myself in the mirror. The knot is perfect, of course. I automatically adjust the silver cufflinks that once belonged to my grandfather.
— You’re nervous, Ewan observes.
It’s not a question—more a clinical diagnosis.
— It’s normal to be nervous on your wedding day.
— Even when it’s an arranged marriage?
He walks over to the bag he brought and pulls out, unsurprisingly, a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
— Especially when it’s an arranged marriage that’s starting to look dangerously like something real, I add under my breath.
Ewan freezes, the bottle hovering above the glasses.
— Say that again?
I turn toward the window, watching the flurry of activity in the gardens where the final preparations for the reception are underway.
— You were right, I admit at last. About Jane and me. About the possibility of developing real feelings.
— I do love hearing that I’m right, Ewan says, savoring the moment as he pours a generous measure of whisky. But let me clarify something crucial—you have feelings for Jane?
I take the glass he offers, swirling the amber liquid without drinking.
— It’s complicated.
— Of course it’s complicated! he exclaims, throwing his hands up and nearly spilling his drink. You signed a temporary marriage contract with a woman you barely knew, and now you’re falling for her. That’s either the worst—or the best—romance ever written.
— I didn’t say I was falling in love, I protest.
— No, you said “developing real feelings,” which is just your technocratic way of saying the exact same thing.
I take a sip of whisky, welcoming the familiar burn in my throat.
— What I feel doesn’t matter. Our arrangement is clear, and it has an expiration date.
Ewan looks at me as if I’ve just declared the earth is flat.
— Callum McGregor, you are the smartest and the stupidest man I know.
— That’s contradictory.
— Just like marrying a woman while planning your divorce.
He drains his glass in one go and sets it down with a thud.
— Let me tell you a story, he says, already pouring himself another.
— Is this really the time for one of your endless anecdotes?
— It’s always the time for my endless anecdotes—especially when they come with a life lesson.
I sigh but sit on the edge of the bed, resigned. When Ewan gets like this, nothing stops him.
— Do you remember our fishing trip to the loch the summer we were sixteen?
— The one where you insisted we camp despite the storm warnings?
— Exactly, he says with a nostalgic grin. I had everything planned—the best fishing spot, perfect equipment, even a bottle of whisky stolen from my father’s cabinet.
— And it rained for three straight days, our tent flooded, and we had to sleep in a damp cave full of bats, I add.
— But it was one of the best times of our teenage years, wasn’t it?
I smile despite myself.
— It was memorable, certainly.
— Why? Ewan asks, pointing his glass at me.
— Why what?
— Why was it memorable, when everything went wrong?
I think for a moment.
— Because we improvised. We found solutions as problems came up. We laughed at our misfortune instead of feeling sorry for ourselves.
— Exactly! he exclaims. We let things surprise us—and it turned into an adventure instead of a disaster.
He steps closer, suddenly serious.
— Your whole life, you’ve planned every detail, every step, every possible outcome. You’ve turned your existence into a series of equations and contractual clauses.
— It’s worked out pretty well so far, I argue.
— Has it? And are you happy, Callum? Truly happy?
His question catches me off guard. Am I happy? I’ve succeeded professionally. I’ve preserved the family legacy. I’ve met my grandfather’s and father’s expectations.
But happy?
— I’ve never really thought about it, I admit.
— That’s what I figured, Ewan says quietly. You’ve been so busy doing what you’re supposed to do that you’ve never asked yourself what you want to do.
— And what do I want to do, according to you? I ask, a hint of irritation creeping in.
— I think you already know, he replies, sitting back in a chair.
I think that’s why you’re so nervous today.
Not because you’re getting married according to a carefully calculated plan—but because, for the first time in your life, you’re considering stepping away from that plan.
You’re considering turning this temporary marriage into something permanent.
His words echo inside me like an uncomfortable truth.
Since Jane came into my life, since I’ve started really getting to know her—seeing beyond our arrangement—something has shifted.
I find myself enjoying her company, anticipating her sarcastic remarks, admiring her resilience in the face of adversity.
— And what if she doesn’t feel the same way? I say at last, voicing my greatest fear.
— Ah, there’s the man beneath the armor, Ewan says with a grin. The man afraid of being rejected, like the rest of us mere mortals.
— Thank you for that incredibly helpful psychological analysis, I mutter.
— Listen, he continues, more serious now. I can’t promise Jane feels the same. But I can tell you she was looking at you with admiration last night. I saw the way she talks about you, the way she laughs with you. There’s something there, Callum. Something real.
— Or maybe she’s just a very good actress playing her part perfectly.
— If that’s the case, she deserves an Oscar, Ewan says, standing up. And you deserve a kick in the ass for being this stubborn.
He checks his watch.
— Time to go. Your wedding starts in thirty minutes, and I refuse to be blamed if the groom is late.
Ewan grabs my barely touched glass and downs it in one go.
I stand as well, smoothing my kilt one last time. For the occasion, I’ve chosen to wear the full McGregor tartan: kilt, jacket, sporran, and all the traditional accessories.
— How do I look? I ask, suddenly concerned with my appearance.
Ewan looks me up and down, then smiles.
— Like a man about to marry the woman he loves—whether he’s ready to admit it or not.
I frown.
— I’m not in love.
— Correction—you’re not in love yet.
The ceremony takes place in the castle gardens. The weather—and in Scotland, that’s nothing short of a miracle—is perfect: sunny, but not too warm, with just enough clouds to create ideal light for photographs. My grandmother must have made a pact with the Scottish weather gods.
I stand beneath an arch of wildflowers, Ewan at my side as best man. On Jane’s side, her best friend Savannah waits. We haven’t been formally introduced—she arrived at the last minute. Our eyes meet briefly, and she gives me a thumbs-up.
I frown and look away.
The guests are all seated, forming a sea of bright colors and traditional tartans. My mother sits in the front row, as stoic as ever, though there’s an unusual light in her eyes. My grandmother, radiant in lavender, appears to be monitoring every detail.
The music changes, signaling the start of the ceremony. The sound of bagpipes fills the air. My heart picks up its pace. It’s absurd to be this nervous for an arranged marriage, I tell myself. And yet, my palms are damp and my throat dry.
Keira walks down the aisle first, elegant in her cream bridesmaid dress. She gives me an encouraging wink before taking her place opposite, near Savannah.
Then the music shifts again, and all the guests rise.
And that’s when I see her.
Jane.
She walks down the aisle on her mother’s arm, with a confidence I find admirable. Her dress is stunning, hugging her figure perfectly before flaring slightly at the bottom. The sheer veil reveals her face, and I’m struck by her expression—a mix of nerves, wonder, and something I can’t quite name.
She is absolutely breathtaking.
Not just because of the dress or the flawless makeup, but because there’s something in the way she carries herself, the way she holds her head high despite her visible nerves, that reaches something deep inside me.
Our eyes meet, and everything else fades away. There’s no contract, no arrangement, no calculated plan.
There’s only Jane and me.
And for me… it’s no longer a performance.
When she reaches me and her escort places her hand in mine, I feel a connection settle between us—something far beyond the terms of our agreement.
— Hello, future Mrs. McGregor, I murmur.
— Hello, Mr. McGregor, she replies with a shy smile. Nice kilt. I’ll try to keep it in place this time.
Her comment breaks the solemnity, and I find myself laughing softly. That’s so Jane—using humor to ease tension, to make the extraordinary manageable.
The officiant begins the ceremony, but I barely hear a word. My focus is entirely on the woman in front of me, on her eyes reflecting a range of emotions I’ve never noticed so clearly before.
We exchange our vows—traditional words spoken by countless couples before us. But in her voice, in the way her fingers tighten slightly around mine when she says “for better or for worse,” I feel something real. Something that goes beyond our arrangement.
Or maybe it’s just what I want to hear.
The moment for the rings arrives. We chose simple, elegant bands that suddenly feel far more symbolic than mere props in our charade.
Ewan hands me Jane’s ring, and his knowing smirk seems to say, I told you so.
I take Jane’s left hand, noticing how slightly it trembles. Or maybe it’s mine. I slide the ring onto her finger, and something in that simple gesture feels like more than a contract being sealed.
Then she slips my ring onto my finger, her touch light as a feather—and yet it leaves a burning impression on my skin.
— By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife, the officiant declares. Callum McGregor, you may kiss your bride.
This is the moment we briefly discussed—but never rehearsed. A chaste, respectable kiss. Just enough to convince the audience without becoming too intimate.
I gently lift her veil, fully revealing her face. Her eyes meet mine, and I see a silent question there—a vulnerability I’ve never seen before.
I lean in, intending to give her a quick, appropriate kiss.
But the moment our lips meet, something shifts.
The kiss—meant to be a formality, a performance—deepens on its own. My hands find her waist, hers slide into my hair, and for a few endless seconds, we kiss as if we’re alone in the world. As if this marriage is anything but arranged.
When we finally pull apart, slightly breathless, the applause of the guests drags me back to reality. Jane’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes wide—surprised… or something else?
— Well, Mr. McGregor, she murmurs, visibly shaken. That was…
— Convincing? I suggest, trying to regain composure.
— I was going to say surprising—but convincing works too.
A smile tugs at her lips, and I wonder if she felt it too—that spark, that moment when our act became something real.
We turn toward the crowd, hand in hand, and begin walking down the aisle as husband and wife.
At the entrance to the garden, a surprise guest awaits us: Hamish, wearing a rather questionable bow tie attached to a collar, watching the procession with what looks suspiciously like satisfaction.
— It seems even your new friend approves of our union, I comment.
— Hamish is my biggest fan, Jane laughs. And apparently, he dressed up for the occasion.
As we pass him, Jane—who, just days ago, would never have done this—reaches out to briefly pat the sheep’s head.
— Thank you for coming, Hamish, she says with mock solemnity. Your presence means a lot to us.
The sheep lets out a soft bleat in response, as if he understands perfectly.
And just like that, we begin our married life: surrounded by family, friends… and a bow-tied sheep, beneath the unexpectedly bright Highland sun.
The contract is signed. The vows are spoken. The performance is underway.
But as Jane smiles at me, her hand still firmly in mine, I can’t help but wonder…
What if it’s no longer just a performance?
What if Ewan was right?
What if it’s time to step off the plan, to embrace the unexpected, to turn this temporary marriage into something that might actually last?
Those questions swirl in my mind as we head toward the reception—toward the next act of our shared story.
A story that, I now realize, may be heading somewhere neither Jane nor I ever anticipated when we drafted our carefully worded contract.