Chapter 1
When in Rome… or in This Case, Scotland
Raven
When I discovered romance novels, everything about relationships and happily ever after changed for me.
No man I met ever measured up. Not really anyway.
I constantly compared them to the characters in my books. Is asking for a man who would burn the world down for the woman he loved really that much of an ask? Reality, in comparison, was always an anticlimactic let down.
I blame my grandmother for that.
I’ve been in plenty of relationships, or rather, plenty of lessons, that's what she would've called them.
There were the ones who were always too nice, the men who agreed with everything I said, who bent over backwards with no spine of their own. Doormats, we called them. Instant turn-off.
And then, there were the others.
The ones who knew exactly how to play the game. Who saw girls who wanted love, who wanted to believe in something real, and used it against them.
In case you didn’t pick up on that, it’s me. I'm that girl.
Things always started out perfect. They pull you in with the whole nice-and-sweet routine, sprinkled with just enough of that bad-boy edge to keep you intrigued. They make you feel special. Chosen. And by the time their mask slips, by the time you see the cracks, it’s already too late.
You’re hooked.
By then, you’re knee-deep in feelings and shit, with no clear direction.
Who shit in my Cheerios, you ask?
My Ex. That’s who.
And look, I'll never claim to be perfect, but at least I’m working on it. Obviously.
This last year has been brutal, to say the least. Losing my grandfather was hard enough. Losing myself in the aftermath? Worse. Add a breakup on top of it, and you’ve got yourself the perfect recipe for disaster.
But here I am, fresh out of the slammer, so to speak. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. I just clawed my way out of the worst relationship in the history of relationships.
It’s like I have some twisted savior complex I never asked for and sure as hell didn’t sign up for.
But now I’m indifferent. Grateful, even. Consider that lesson learned. And then some.
I never want to feel that small, that lost, or that unseen again.
Ever.
I had to crawl my way out of that hole. Piece by piece, I put myself back together because I finally realized that no one was coming to save me.
This trip is one of those pieces. A way to take something back for myself. A way to breathe again.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that I clearly have a pattern.
I fall for guys who seem perfect at first. They’re nice, charming, and say all the right things, but the second I'm no longer useful, I'm discarded or tossed aside.
It took weeks to find my footing again after Chance and I broke up.
I’d wanted out of our relationship for a long time, but every time I tried, the douche canoe had a way of twisting things to make me feel like I was the problem.
He made me believe that if I just tried harder, gave more, or fixed whatever was broken in me, then maybe I’d finally be enough.
That’s never happening again.
The relationship finally ended the day I found out he was cheating on me. While I was at his house, scrubbing the counters, and making us a romantic dinner, no less.
Long day at work, my ass.
Turns out “working late” meant screwing the girl next door. It wasn’t a total loss, though. At least our two-year circus of a relationship was finally over.
I could go into all the details, but honestly? That’s an entire library full of unsolved mysteries mankind will never crack. Which is why I now have a closet full of trauma I have zero intention of unpacking.
The point is, I’ve sworn off men.
Forever.
For good.
Well… at least until I decide otherwise. But I don’t anticipate changing my status anytime soon.
I’m on this whole journey of self-discovery because, clearly, my radar for decent men is beyond repair. So yeah, I’m convinced there are no right men for me right now.
I know they exist because… books. Obviously.
But until then? NO MEN. Zero. Nada.
I just turned twenty-five, so it's not like I’m at risk of dying alone. I’ve still got time. Which is why I’m focusing on me, and this time I mean it. No distractions. No getting sucked into someone else’s drama.
Rachel and I have traveled a lot together. Florida? Core memory. The Keys? Absolute magic. I may have fallen in love a little there. Something about those Keys, man…
Okay, I need to stop thinking about that trip.
Especially the part where I definitely didn’t get free drinks all weekend from the bartender who definitely wasn’t professing his undying love for me by day two. And Rachel and I absolutely didn’t pretend we were together to avoid any further advances.
The real highlight of the trip was after the bartender tried to feel me up. Rachel, who’s five feet of pure menace on a good day, slapped him clean across the bar. His own bar.
And in true Rachel fashion, she calmly leaned over his stunned form and threatened to haunt his dreams if he ever spoke to me again.
Still one of the best moments of my life. The look on his face was priceless.
Then there was the Oregon/Washington coast trip. Two weeks of absolute freedom. The kind of trip that makes you forget real life exists.
And yes, Jacob Black's house was involved.
Was I secretly hoping he actually lived there and would come outside to say hi? Absolutely. A girl can dream, right?
We’ve been on so many adventures together. Some big, some small, some so wildly questionable that, in hindsight, it’s a miracle we survived them.
Honestly, what man would sign up for all of that? Probably none. Maybe this no men thing really is the way to go. Just me, Rachel, and Fat Louie, traveling the world and leaving chaos in our wake.
And speaking of adventures… did I mention we’re finally in Scotland?
I can hardly believe we’re finally here.
After getting those tickets, I never expected it to take this long to finally make the trip. But things with Chance… well, they spiraled. Hard.
Like I said, I got lost in that relationship for longer than I care to admit.
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t for the best. Far from it, actually.
What started out as something thrilling quickly unraveled into a shitshow I never saw coming. Maybe it was toxic from the start, or maybe I just ignored the red flags because I wanted it to work. Turns out, I just wanted him to be the man I thought he could be.
Either way, I found myself stuck in a never-ending loop of fight, make up, repeat.
It was like trying to patch a sinking ship with duct tape. Messy, exhausting, and completely pointless.
But now that things have finally settled and our schedules lined up, we made it.
Packing for two weeks had been a challenge since I wasn’t sure how long I wanted to stay, and Rachel could only stay for two weeks, so it seemed like a good place to start. I still don’t really know what kind of answers I’m looking for here, or how long it’ll take to find them.
Unfortunately, I do have to work a little while I’m here. Just one meeting with a potential client, which means checking my email occasionally to stay on top of things. Personally, I don’t think we even need this guy, but it’s not my decision. So I’ll play nice for now.
Rachel and I also happened to buy tickets to a masquerade ball at a castle. She found them online one day, and honestly, she had me at ball.
Now, it’s the main event of our trip.
We arrived last night, grabbed a bite to eat, and came straight to our place. Since then, we’ve been sleeping off the jetlag.
Our little cottage isn’t a castle by any means, but it’s cozy, and I can almost picture some brooding aristocrat who once lived here, pacing the halls, whiskey in hand, waiting for a long-lost lover to return.
At least, that’s the story I’m sticking with.
The cottage has two bedrooms that are each decorated to match exactly what you’d imagine a Scottish hideaway to look like. It’s rugged, yet modern. Minimalist, yet somehow still edgy. The room I’m in is straight out of a gothic fairytale. It’s dark, dramatic, and ridiculously luxurious.
The walls are a deep, stormy charcoal, shifting in the light like rolling clouds. There's black crown molding that frames the ceiling and it's the kind of detail you don’t see anymore, but it’s stunning.
The furniture is sleek and most of it is black and modern, softened by dim lighting. There's also a massive fireplace that sits along one wall, with a carved stone mantel wrapped in twisting ivy patterns.
The artwork scattered across the walls are haunting figures frozen in time. The scenes tell stories I’d love to know. One painting in particular catches my eye, there's a woman standing on the edge of a stormy cliff as the wind rips through her dark hair and gown, looking off into the distance.
Then there are the deer heads, watching over the space. It should feel creepy, but somehow, it just… fits. Dark aristocratic manor vibes, fully intact.
And this bed?
I sink deeper into the four-poster king bed, which probably isn’t even a king. It’s obnoxiously oversized, draped in sheets that feel like they belong to an actual goddess. I’m certain they have no less than a three-million thread count.
I reach blindly for my phone on the black marble nightstand, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in my bones.
Two things hit me at once. One, I did not do this place proper justice when we got here. I should’ve been examining every inch, not passing out the second my head hit the pillow.
And two, I have absolutely no idea what time it is.
I hate jet lag.
It's like your period showing up unannounced. You're relieved you’re not pregnant, but exhausted and completely useless to the world.
“Finally, you’re awake!” Rachel practically yells, bouncing like a caffeinated toddler, while I nearly roll off the side of the giant mattress.
I groan, then turn and attempt to shove her off the bed. Only to realize she’s too far away.
This bed is huge.