Chapter 22
Cameron
Live Less in the Story. Live More in the Moment.
I’ve been staring at my computer screen for a solid ten minutes without actually seeing what’s on it.
It’s the sales file for a cottage with a collapsing barn and a roof that leaks in three different rooms. Normally, I love this kind of challenge—finding the perfect angle to turn a structural disaster into a charming renovation opportunity with authentic character.
But today, I can’t focus.
Because last night, Clementine told me she wanted to stay.
And I, like an idiot, told her we should stop overanalyzing things and just see what happened.
Brilliant, Cameron. Truly top-tier communication skills.
I force my attention back to work.
This file is more complicated than usual because an old dispute over a parcel of land has several members of the selling family at each other’s throats.
To finalize the transaction, I need to dig up archival documents.
Ideally, old property records. Maybe cadastral maps from the late nineteenth century—the kind of paperwork that’s been gathering dust in McGregor Castle’s cellars for generations.
I could ask Jamison to find them.
But going down into the archives myself gives me an excuse to move. To do something with my hands instead of sitting here questioning my entire romantic future.
I get to my feet, grab my phone, and send a quick text.
Cameron
I need to dig through some archives at the castle. Want to help me carry dusty boxes?
I hit send.
A few seconds later, her reply arrives.
Clementine
You know I can’t resist an offer that romantic.
I smile despite myself.
Cameron
I can promise at least ten pounds of dust and maybe a spider or two.
Clementine
You really know how to talk to women. I’m on my way.
I slip my phone into my pocket and leave my office with a grin.
The castle hallway is unusually quiet.
No Maggie in sight.
No Hamish, either.
Which is honestly a little unsettling.
That sheep seems to possess a supernatural talent for appearing at the exact moment I least want to see him.
I don’t have to wait long before Clementine arrives.
She joins me on the front steps, and we approach each other with matching awkwardness.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
We say it at the exact same time.
Can I kiss her?
Does she deserve something more romantic than that?
Would she even be comfortable with public displays of affection?
Jamison’s arrival cuts off my mental spiral.
He greets Clementine before turning to me.
“I’ve made the necessary arrangements for you to work in the archives, Mr. Cameron.”
“Thank you, Jamison.”
The butler inclines his head and disappears back into the hall.
I offer Clementine a small bow.
“If you’d care to follow me into my cellar?”
“Of course. What girl doesn’t dream of a date in a dark, damp basement?”
We laugh, and I lead her inside.
Crossing the hall, I push open the heavy door that leads downstairs.
The smell hits me immediately—a mixture of cold stone, damp air, and old paper.
“Part of the family archives is stored in a vaulted room at the back of the basement,” I explain. “The shelving probably dates back to the Victorian era.”
Yellowed light barely illuminates rows of boxes and filing binders stacked with no apparent logic.
Maggie has always said the entire place needs reorganizing.
Nobody has ever actually done it.
Clementine pauses in the doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans, amusement written all over her face.
“Wow. This is even more romantic than I imagined.”
“I warned you.”
She steps inside, glances around, and coughs lightly when a cloud of dust rises into the air.
“So where do we start?”
I gesture vaguely toward a section of shelves on the left.
“The documents I’m looking for should be over there. In theory. Assuming nobody moved them. Lost them. Or used them to start a fire.”
“Very reassuring.”
“Welcome to the McGregor archives.”
We get to work.
Clementine pulls down a box, opens it, and grimaces at the dust cloud that immediately escapes.
I do the same on my side.
For several minutes, neither of us says anything.
Just the sound of shifting boxes.
Rustling papers.
Our breathing in the quiet basement.
It’s nice.
In a strange way.
“Find anything?” she asks eventually.
“Bills from 1923. A furniture inventory. A letter from some guy named Archibald complaining that his neighbor stole his cow.”
“Thrilling.”
“What about you?”
“Construction plans for a barn. And a blackberry jam recipe written on the back of a will.”
I laugh.
“That doesn’t sound very McGregor.”
We keep searching.
I move to another shelf and grab a box that looks older than the others.
The label is mostly faded, but I can still make out a few letters.
Fra... r Man...
I frown.
“Clementine?”
“Mmm?”
“I think I found something you might want to see.”
She comes over and leans over my shoulder.
Her perfume—something soft and floral—distracts me for half a second before I focus on the box again.
Carefully, I open it.
Inside are leather-bound ledgers with cracked spines, letters tied together with twine, and several neatly folded documents.
Everything bears the same seal:
Fraser Manor.
Clementine sucks in a breath.
“Are those documents from the manor?”
“Looks like it.”
I pull out the first ledger.
The handwriting is cramped and slanted. The date has faded away.
An inventory, apparently.
Furniture purchases.
Household items.
Repairs.
Repair of drawing room fireplace — 12 pounds.
Replacement kitchen tiles — 8 pounds.
Purchase of rose bushes for the garden — 3 pounds.
Clementine reads over my shoulder in silence.
I turn the pages.
More lists.
More expenses.
Nothing remarkable.
Just the everyday life of a manor house, year after year.
But there’s something touching about that consistency.
Those small sums spent maintaining, repairing, improving.
No grand renovations.
Just steady, methodical care.
“They really loved this place,” Clementine whispers.
“Yeah.”
I set the ledger down and dig deeper into the box.
My fingers close around a folded document thicker than the others.
A red wax seal is still attached, cracked by time.
Carefully, I unfold it.
A will.
Written in old-fashioned legal language.
I skim the opening lines.
The usual formalities.
Names.
Dates.
Then halfway through, one clause stops me cold.
I read it.
Then read it again.
I can feel Clementine leaning closer.
The manor shall remain within the Fraser family, so that others may build there what we ourselves have built. Let it never be sold to strangers, but passed on to those who will make it a home.
Clementine reaches for the document and reads it herself.
Her lips move slightly as she silently repeats the words.
“They... they wanted someone else to live there.”
“Yes.”
“And not just anyone.”
“No.”
“Someone from the family.”
“Yes.”
She lifts her gaze to mine.
There’s something in her eyes.
Understanding.
Realization.
Maybe even fear.
“My inheritance isn’t a burden.”
I slowly shake my head.
She places the will back into the box with almost reverent care.
Then she straightens, rubs at her eyes, and takes a deep breath.
“What exactly did they mean?” she asks, her voice slightly unsteady.
I look around at the ledgers, letters, and scattered documents.
All this dusty paperwork telling a story nobody has bothered to read in decades.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I think they had a good life. A life they chose. Together.”
Clementine watches me.
Her eyes shine a little, and I can’t tell whether it’s emotion or dust.
“The village tells so many different versions of their story,” she says. “Some people think they were miserable. Others think they were wildly in love. Others say she wanted to leave and he stopped her.”
“Villages tell stories. That’s what villages do.”
“And you?” she asks, holding my gaze. “What do you think?”
I take a moment before answering.
Not that long ago, I would’ve said the truth didn’t matter. That perception was everything. That the best story was the one worth telling.
But standing here in this dusty cellar with Clementine, with this will between us talking about legacy and home and something that lasts longer than a single lifetime, I can’t hide behind my usual storytelling tricks.
“I think they built something simple,” I say. “Something real. A place to come home to. A place to cook, to read, to just... exist. Without needing to justify it or explain it to anyone. A home.”
She says nothing for several seconds.
“They didn’t want the manor to leave the family.”
“No.”
“If I sell it, I’m betraying their final wishes. But if I keep it, restore it, and live there... am I following my own path? Or the path my ancestors wanted for me?”
“It’s your life, Clem. You get to decide which road you take. Nobody has the right to tell you what to do. Least of all ancestors you never even met.”
She turns toward me.
There’s something different in her expression now.
Something determined.
“And you?” she asks. “What are you building?”
The question catches me completely off guard.
Me?
I build concepts.
Marketing strategies.
Stories that perform well on Instagram.
I turn flaws into selling points.
I film cottages at sunset and write captions that make people dream about a life they’ll never actually live.
But that’s not what she’s asking.
She’s asking:
What are you building for yourself?
What are you building that’s real?
Without an angle. Without a filter. Without an audience.
And I don’t have an answer.
Because I’m always busy telling someone else’s story.
“I don’t know,” I admit at last.
Clementine nods slowly.
“I didn’t know either,” she says. “Before. But now…”
She leaves the sentence unfinished.
I pull myself together and return to the box.
I take out more letters while Clementine carefully unfolds them.
We read everything together.
Most of it is ordinary.
Supply orders.
Delivery confirmations.
A letter from a solicitor regarding a piece of land.
Then, tucked between two invoices, we find something different.
The handwriting is elegant.
Careful.
The letter is dated June 1892.
My dear Brodie,
The roses you planted this spring are blooming beautifully.
I told you the location was perfect.
You should listen to me more often.
Mrs. MacLeish stopped by yesterday with jars of jam. She asked again when we planned to have children.
I told her we are very happy exactly as we are.
She didn’t seem to understand, but that’s all right.
The manor is exactly what you promised it would be.
A home.
Our home.
I can’t wait for you to return.
With all my love,
Mairenn
Clementine reads the letter again.
Twice.
Three times.
“There was never any tragedy,” she says softly. “No drama. Just two people who chose their life and were happy.”
“The village invented a hundred different versions of their story. Some sad. Some romantic. Some mysterious.”
“But the truth was simpler.” She smiles faintly. “And probably more beautiful. They built a happy life together. That’s all.”
She carefully folds the letter and returns it to the box.
A noise echoes somewhere in the basement.
Clementine jumps slightly before smiling at me.
“We should probably head back upstairs,” I suggest. “Before Maggie finds us and recruits us to reorganize the entire archive.”
“Good idea. But you still haven’t found the documents you came for.”
I look at her for a moment.
“I found something better.”
Color rises in her cheeks.
Without even realizing it, I move closer.
My hand comes up to cradle her face.
Clementine leans into my palm and never takes her eyes off mine.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Then I lean down and kiss her.
I don’t know if it’s romantic enough.
But Clementine doesn’t pull away.
She kisses me back, and something new blooms inside my chest.
Warm.
Sweet.
Sharp.
All at once.
When we finally break apart, we’re both a little breathless.
It feels like several minutes pass before either of us remembers how to think.
Reluctantly, I step back and place the documents inside the box again.
Clementine rests a hand on the lid.
“Can I take it?” she asks. “I’d like to read everything properly.”
“Of course. It’s your family history.”
We climb the stairs in silence.
After the darkness of the cellar, the light in the hall is almost blinding.
Clementine stops on the final step and turns toward me.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For inviting me to carry dusty boxes.”
I smile.
“That was about the bare minimum level of romance.”
“And for finding this,” she adds, indicating the box I’m carrying for her. “I think I needed it.”
“To understand what?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Her gaze drifts somewhere beyond my shoulder as if she’s searching for the right words.
“Do you believe in fate?” she finally asks.
I study her, genuinely considering the question.
“I never really did. But now that you’re here, and now that you’re thinking about staying... I think I’m starting to. A little.”
She smiles.
Then she places her hand against my cheek, just like I did earlier.
This time, she kisses me.
And suddenly I’m sure of one thing.
I don’t want to just tell stories anymore.
I want to live one.
With Clementine.
That evening, I sit alone in my office thinking about Brodie Fraser’s will.
The same sentence keeps returning to me.
So that others may build there what we ourselves have built.
It isn’t a curse.
It isn’t an obligation.
It’s an invitation.
An invitation to create something lasting.
Something bigger than marketing.
Bigger than storytelling.
Bigger than carefully crafted narratives.
Something real.
My phone vibrates on the desk.
Clementine
Are you asleep?
I check the time.
A little after eleven.
Cameron
No. Thinking.
Clementine
About the will?
Cameron
Yeah. You?
Clementine
Same. I started reading the ledger. There’s an expense for thyme seeds in 1899. And another in 1900. And another in 1901.
Cameron
They planted thyme every year?
Clementine
Apparently. I think it was their thing. Their little tradition.
I smile.
Cameron
That’s cute.
Clementine
Also slightly obsessive and completely unnecessary considering thyme grows naturally all around the manor.
Cameron
Reminds me of someone I know who likes making methodical inventories.
Clementine
Touché.
A textual silence settles between us.
I watch the three little dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Finally, her message arrives.
Clementine
Do you think we could build something? The two of us?
My heart does something strange in my chest.
Like a triple backflip with a twist.
I stare at the screen.
Read the question once.
Twice.
Three times.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I type an answer.
Delete it.
Type another.
Delete that one too.
Yes.
I don’t know.
I hope so.
I’m scared.
In the end, I send the only honest answer I have.
Cameron
I think we already are.
I hit send before I can change my mind.
The three little dots appear again.
My heart pounds way too hard.
It’s ridiculous.
I’m an adult.
I shouldn’t be this nervous over a text message.
Then her reply comes through.
Clementine
Yeah. I think so too.
And I smile because, for the first time in a very long time, I’m not telling a story.
I’m living one.
And it’s terrifying.
But it feels pretty damn good too.