Chapter 28
Cameron
Direct. Precise. Ruthless.
If I had to turn my morning into a marketing pitch, it would sound something like this:
When your personal communications strategy implodes and your grandmother summons you like an eight-year-old caught stealing cookies.
The reality is worse than that.
Maggie’s message arrives at eight in the morning.
She doesn’t come find me in the dining room for a private conversation.
No.
She sends a text.
Maggie
Drawing room. 10:00 a.m. Don’t be late.
In crisis communication terms, that’s what you call an official summons.
The kind that makes you want to pack a bag and flee to New Zealand.
Or Mars.
Do they take volunteers for manned missions to the red planet?
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The dark circles under my eyes could compete with a raccoon’s.
My hair is sticking out in every direction.
I look like a man who hasn’t slept because he spent the entire night measuring the monumental scale of his own stupidity.
Connor knocks on my door.
“Cam? You awake?”
“Unfortunately.”
He walks in without waiting for permission.
“Maggie’s in one of her moods,” he announces immediately. “I tried bringing her tea this morning. She looked at me like I was a fly on her birthday cake.”
“Fantastic.”
“She seems really mad at you.”
I turn toward him.
“Oh, really? What gave it away?”
Connor raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t know. Let’s see. Maybe the fact that she summoned the entire family to the castle at ten in the morning? Or that Isobel looks like she’s heading to a funeral? Or that Keira texted me last night saying, Your brother’s an idiot and he’s about to get slaughtered tomorrow?”
I collapse onto the bed.
“Fantastic.”
“So what exactly is the problem?” Connor asks as he sits on the edge of the mattress. “Because the rumors around the village are... varied.”
“I turned my relationship with Clementine into a marketing campaign.”
The words come out before I can stop them.
No filter.
No defense.
Connor lets out a low whistle.
“Wow. That’s... creative?”
“It’s stupid.”
“That too.”
He studies me with an expression I don’t often see from him.
Something halfway between brotherly sympathy and I told you you were a complete idiot.
“You really love that girl?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No rationalization.
No marketing metaphor to explain how I feel.
Connor nods slowly.
“Then you’re going to have to face Maggie. And the rest of the family. And you’re probably about to get torn apart in ways you’ve never experienced before.”
“I know.”
“Good luck, brother.”
He pats my shoulder and leaves.
I look down at my phone.
Stupidly, I feel a flicker of hope that maybe Clementine has sent me a message.
She hasn’t.
All I see is the time.
9:58 a.m.
I walk down the staircase of McGregor Castle with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man heading toward the guillotine.
Each step brings me closer to the drawing room.
Each footfall echoes like a countdown.
You could still run.
There’s a window on the first floor.
Jump. Break a leg. At least you’d have a valid excuse for avoiding Maggie.
I don’t run.
Because I deserve this.
Because Clementine deserves for me to own what I did.
And because even if I fled, Maggie would find me.
Easily.
I stop in front of the drawing-room door.
It’s closed.
I take a deep breath.
Then I open it.
They’re all here.
Every single one of them.
Maggie sits in her usual armchair, spine perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap, wearing the expression that says I raised seven boys, so I know exactly how to deal with black sheep.
To her right, Isobel looks on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Connor is sprawled across the sofa.
Keira and Alistair sit near the fireplace.
Keira is staring at me with an expression sharp enough to cut glass.
Mary sits beside her with her arms crossed and a look of open disapproval.
Finn stands near the window looking vaguely uncomfortable to be witnessing what appears destined to become a public execution.
Even Callum is here, along with Jane and little Charlie.
Everyone has busy lives.
Except maybe my twin, who somehow manages to spend entire days doing things I still don’t fully understand.
Yet apparently the universe decided today was the perfect day for all of them to be available.
“Sit down, Cameron,” Maggie says.
It isn’t a suggestion.
It’s an order.
I sit in the chair opposite her.
The one positioned dead center in the room.
The one where everyone can see me without effort.
Perfect.
Truly perfect.
The silence is absolute.
Nobody speaks.
Everyone watches me.
It feels like sitting in a crisis-management meeting, except the shareholders are my family and the failed product is me.
Maggie slowly intertwines her fingers.
“My boy,” she begins in a terrifyingly gentle voice, “you turned a relationship with a good woman into a marketing product. Explain yourself.”
If Maggie ever needed a personal motto, that would be it.
Direct.
Precise.
Ruthless.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Try to find an angle.
A framework.
Some way to present this that sounds less catastrophic.
Nothing comes.
“I... I didn’t...”
“Yes, you did,” Keira cuts in. “You absolutely did. I saw your Instagram posts. The Modern-Day Haunted Couple. Videos from the manor. Stories with captions like When History Repeats Itself. You turned your relationship into content.”
“That wasn’t—”
“Wasn’t what?” Mary asks. “Intentional? Because those posts looked very intentional, Cameron.”
Connor speaks next.
For once, there’s no humor in his voice.
“You used all of us for your little Instagram show. We thought we were helping with your relationship. We didn’t realize we were starring in your campaign.”
The word campaign hits hard because that’s exactly what it was.
I treated our relationship like a marketing campaign.
Objectives.
Optimized content.
Engagement-driven stories.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to what?” Isobel asks softly, though her voice trembles. “Didn’t mean to hurt her? Didn’t mean to turn her into a character in the story you created? Didn’t mean to use her private life for your work?”
“I just wanted to... help her.”
Keira lets out a disbelieving laugh.
“Help her? By posting pictures of her without explicit consent? By telling your story to thousands of followers? By turning Fraser Manor into a tourist attraction?”
“You made your life public without asking us, Cameron,” Alistair says. “Our reputation and our privacy are involved too.”
I feel sick.
Truly sick.
Like I swallowed something toxic and it’s spreading through my entire system.
“I’m sorry.”
“That isn’t enough,” Maggie says.
She rises slowly and walks toward me.
Then she looks me directly in the eyes.
“You’re intelligent. Talented. Hardworking. But you have one fundamental problem: you believe that if you tell a story well enough, it becomes true. You believe narrative can replace life.”
She places a hand on my shoulder.
Not a comforting gesture.
A burden.
A reminder of responsibility.
“Clementine is not a manor house you’re trying to sell.
Her life is not a promotional campaign. She is not social-media content.
She’s a person. A woman who trusted you.
A woman who chose to stay in Scotland for you.
A woman who wanted to leave her life in Paris because she believed in what the two of you were building together. ”
Every word lands like a punch.
And I get stuck on wanted to.
Has Clementine changed her mind?
Is she going back to France?
“And you,” Maggie continues, “took all of that and turned it into an Instagram story.”
Silence returns.
Heavier than before.
Finn speaks for the first time.
“Clementine is methodical. Rational. She plans everything. And yet she made a completely irrational decision: she chose to stay here. For you.”
He pauses.
“Do you know what that costs someone like her? Choosing uncertainty over control? Choosing a relationship over an established career?”
I don’t answer.
Because I do know.
Mary adds quietly,
“She gave you the greatest gift she could offer: her trust. And you used that trust as marketing content.”
Callum, who has been silent until now, finally speaks.
“Honestly, Cameron, I’m disappointed. This isn’t how you treat someone you love.”
Jane nods.
“When Callum and I first got together, things were complicated. There were obstacles. Misunderstandings. But never—not once—did he turn me into a concept. He never shared our private life without asking. Because that’s what respect looks like.”
Charlie babbles happily in her arms, completely unaware of the drama unfolding around him.
Connor stands.
“You want to know what disappoints me most?”
He stares at me with an intensity I rarely see.
“You’re so much better than this. You’re my brother. My twin. I know you. I know you never wanted to hurt her. I know that in your marketing brain, you genuinely thought this was a good idea. That you were creating value or whatever nonsense you told yourself.”
He shakes his head.
“But intentions don’t matter. Actions do. And the result is that Clementine is sitting alone in that manor right now wondering whether everything the two of you shared was real or just a performance for your followers.”
His words cut deeper than anything else.
Maggie speaks again.
“Now this is what’s going to happen.”
She returns to her chair.
Folds her hands.
And fixes me with a look that leaves absolutely no room for debate.
“You are going to delete every post involving Clementine. Every single one. No exceptions. Then you’re going to contact every media outlet, blogger, and journalist who has written about the two of you and request that the articles be removed.
You will make it clear that this story is private and will not be commercially exploited. ”
“Then,” Isobel adds, “you’re going to write Clementine a real apology. Not a text. Not an email. A handwritten letter. One where you explain exactly what you did wrong and why it was unacceptable.”
“And after that,” Keira says, “you’re going to ask yourself a very serious question. Are you capable of having a relationship without turning it into a product? Because if the answer is no, then leave Clementine alone. She deserves someone who sees her as a person, not content.”
Finn nods.
“And if the answer is yes, if you’re capable of changing, then you’re going to have to prove it. Not with words. Not with promises. With actions.”
“Concrete actions,” Mary adds.
“That means no more posts about your relationship. No more stories. No more content. Your private life needs to become private again.”
Alistair leans forward.
“And if you ever use our family, our village, or anyone else in a campaign again without explicit consent, I can guarantee it won’t end well.”
The message is crystal clear.
Maggie rises once more.
“You have talent, Cameron. But talent without ethics is manipulation. And I did not raise a manipulator.”
She looks at me with something far worse than anger.
Disappointment.
“You need to use your skills to create real value, not exploit other people’s emotions. But you need to choose now. Because Clementine won’t wait forever.”
She steps closer and cups my cheek the way she did when I was a child and had done something wrong.
“I love you, my boy. But you’ve lost your way, and you need to fix this.”
Then she points toward the door.
“Now get out. And figure out how to make this right.”
I stand.
Look around the room.
Every face is fixed on me.
Disappointment.
Pity.
Hope.
Anger.
Connor gives me a single nod.
The only encouragement I receive.
I leave the drawing room.
The door closes behind me.
And I remain standing in the castle hallway, completely shattered.
My entire family has just confronted me with the most brutal truth imaginable:
I turned my story with the woman I love into a marketing campaign.
And the worst part?
They’re right.
Every single one of them.
I go upstairs to my room.
Sit on the edge of the bed.
And pull out my phone.
I open Instagram.
All the posts are still there.
Photos of Clementine at the manor.
Videos of us together.
Carefully crafted captions about history repeating itself.
Perfectly selected hashtags.
Eighteen posts in total.
Eighteen times I turned our life into content.
I start deleting them.
One by one.
Each click hurts.
Not because I’m losing high-performing content.
Not because my engagement numbers will drop.
But because I finally see how blind I’ve been.
I thought I was telling a story that would help Clementine.
I thought I was creating something beautiful.
I thought sharing it with the world would make our relationship feel more real.
More legitimate.
More important.
But I wasn’t telling our story.
I was telling the version I wanted to sell.
The optimized version.
The version designed for maximum engagement.
And somewhere in that process, I forgot the real person.
The final post disappears.
My Instagram profile is now completely free of any trace of Clementine.
It’s a start.
But it’s going to take a lot more than that to fix what I broke.
I stand.
Walk to my desk.
Pull out a sheet of paper and a pen.
Then stare at the blank page.
For the first time in my life, I have no idea how to tell this story.
Because this isn’t a story.
It’s a confession of failure.
And I don’t know how to package failure.
So I do the only thing I can do.
I write the truth.
No strategy.
No angle.
Just words.
Raw.
Imperfect.
Real.
Exactly the way I should have done it from the very beginning.