My Fake Highland Wedding Disaster (Highland Chaos #1)

Chapter 1

CALLUM

I lock eyes with Mr. Mitchell, searching for even the faintest flicker of humor in his steel-gray gaze. Nothing. At seventy, with his perfectly knotted tie and that immovable posture behind his mahogany desk, the McGregor family lawyer looks carved out of stone.

“You’re joking. Right?”

“I would never joke about your father’s final wishes, Mr. McGregor. I’m a lawyer, not a comedian.”

I rake a hand through my hair, the motion sharp with frustration. Outside the office window, the rolling green Highlands stretch endlessly, a view that usually grounds me. Today, it feels like every blade of grass is laughing in my face.

“It’s 2025, not the Middle Ages. You can’t tie an inheritance to marital status. That’s got to be illegal.”

Mr. Mitchell adjusts his glasses on his aquiline nose, studying me like I’m a particularly slow law student.

“I assure you, everything is perfectly legal, Mr. McGregor. I drafted the will myself, and I can guarantee it is airtight. Your father was very clear on this point.”

I push to my feet and start pacing. The portraits of generations of Mitchell lawyers lining the walls seem to track my every move, all wearing the same silent disapproval.

“Besides, my grandmother runs the company. It’s not like she’s retiring tomorrow. She’s in perfect health.”

“Mrs. McGregor has already signed all necessary documents to transfer her shares and fully step down on your thirty-third birthday. Exactly one year from now.”

A chill snakes down my spine.

“She did that? Without telling me?”

“She simply complied with your father’s will. In summary: you are married by that date and inherit the company… or the shares pass to your cousin, Lachlan McGregor.”

I stop dead in my tracks.

“Lachlan? The same Lachlan who tried to convince our board that our premium whisky should be sold in raspberry-flavored cans?”

“It is not my role to judge the business decisions within your company, Mr. McGregor,” he says dryly, “but yes, that does sound like something your cousin would propose.”

I drop into the leather chair across from him, a headache already pounding at my temples.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. Your father was deeply attached to family tradition. He believed a McGregor does not rule alone. His marriage to your mother was, in his own words, ‘the foundation of every success the company has known.’”

I roll my eyes before I can stop myself.

“And how exactly am I supposed to find a wife in a year?”

“Your father believed that was sufficient time for you to find…” He glances at his notes. “Ah yes. ‘A partner worthy of the McGregor name and capable of sharing its responsibilities.’”

I press my fingers to my temples. The migraine is already blooming.

“And if I contest this ridiculous will?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“You would lose. I ensured this document is court-proof.”

“One year to find a wife. That’s insane.”

Mr. Mitchell closes the file with quiet finality.

“Many men your age have been married for years and already have families.”

“Are you giving me marital advice now?”

“I wouldn’t presume to. I’m simply stating the facts. You have exactly three hundred sixty-five days to marry. After that, control of McGregor & Sons passes to Lachlan McGregor, as per your late father’s wishes.”

I stand, done with this conversation.

“Anything else I should know?”

He adjusts his glasses one last time.

“One detail: it must be a genuine marriage. Your father included a specific clause against marriages of convenience.”

I frown.

“And how exactly do you prove whether a marriage is real?”

“Oh, there are ways. Private investigators, testimonies from acquaintances, proof of cohabitation… Your father was not easily fooled, Mr. McGregor. And I personally added several legal safeguards against fraud.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

“Thank you for that delightful piece of information, Mr. Mitchell. Have a wonderful day.”

In the back of the Bentley heading toward the estate, I stare out at the Highlands without really seeing them. I pull out my phone and call the one person I can talk to about this mess.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Ewan. You’re not going to believe what I just found out.”

He sighs on the other end.

“Let me guess. Your father put some ridiculous clause in his will forcing you to get married to inherit the company.”

I go silent.

“How the hell did you—”

“I know your family like I’m part of it.”

I close my eyes.

I’m screwed. Completely, thoroughly screwed.

“That man was diabolical.”

“He was worried about you, Callum. And about the company.”

“If he was so worried, he wouldn’t be threatening to hand it over to Lachlan from beyond the grave.”

“He knew that’s the only thing that would make you move,” Ewan says bluntly. “Look, I get it. It’s complicated. But you’re going to have to deal with it. I’m at the office. Come by—we’ll figure something out.”

I glance at my watch. Almost noon.

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

Ewan’s office is the complete opposite of mine. Where I like order and clean lines, he thrives in chaos—stacks of papers, half-empty coffee cups, neon Post-its everywhere. Somehow, it works. Just like his brain.

“So Mitchell gave you a year,” he says after I finish explaining. “That’s better than I expected. Your grandmother was pushing for six months.”

I sink into the chair across from him.

“A year, six months… what’s the difference? I’m not getting married just to satisfy some archaic will.”

He peers at me over his glasses—eerily similar to Mitchell earlier.

“Really? You’d rather watch Lachlan turn your premium single malt into an energy drink?”

A cold sweat prickles down my back as images flood my mind—our distillery plastered with neon ads, fluorescent plastic cups for tastings, a bubblegum-flavored whisky line, servers in glow-in-the-dark kilts… maybe even TikTok dances in the aging cellar.

No. Absolutely not.

“There has to be another way,” I mutter.

Ewan leans forward, suddenly serious.

“You know I’ve got your back no matter what. But think about the employees. The families depending on McGregor & Sons. Is staying single really worth risking all of that?”

That lands harder than I want it to.

McGregor & Sons isn’t just a business. It’s the heartbeat of our community. Generations of families. My father. My grandfather. Everything.

“Let’s say I consider this… option,” I concede reluctantly. “Where exactly am I supposed to find a woman willing to marry me under these conditions?”

He shrugs.

“I know this is a revolutionary concept for you, but you could start by going out and meeting people.”

“Very funny. You know I don’t have time for that. Between running the company, distributor meetings, endless business dinners—”

“Exactly. You’ve turned your life into one long meeting.”

My phone buzzes on the desk.

Grandmother

Hope your meeting with Mr. Mitchell went well. Dinner tonight with the Campbells. 7 p.m. Wear your kilt. Moira says her daughter Eleanor loves tradition.

I show him the screen. He laughs.

“Well, your grandmother’s making it easy for you. She’s already working the angle.”

“That’s exactly what worries me,” I mutter.

Dinner with the Campbells is every bit as painful as expected.

Eleanor is lovely. Smart. Polite. She’ll make someone a perfect wife.

Just… not me.

“So, Callum, how is the family business?” Mr. Campbell asks, carving his roast.

I clear my throat, acutely aware of my grandmother watching me from across the table.

“It’s doing well. Our exports to the U.S. are up fifteen percent this year, and our new port-cask whisky has received several international awards.”

“Fascinating,” Eleanor says with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m sure it’s very… fulfilling.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

My sister Keira coughs to hide a laugh.

“Callum loves numbers and spreadsheets,” she says sweetly. “I once caught him talking to his Excel sheet. He called it ‘my precious.’”

I shoot her a glare.

“I was verifying a complex formula out loud.”

“Of course you were,” she says, winking at Eleanor. “And the time you canceled a date for an ‘urgent report’—was that about a formula too?”

Heat creeps up my neck.

“That report was urgent,” I mutter.

Mercifully, my grandmother claps her hands.

“Who wants dessert? I asked Finley to make his famous cranachan with fresh raspberries from the garden.”

The rest of the evening blurs into forced conversation and pointed looks from my grandmother.

When the Campbells finally leave, I collapse into a chair like a man who’s run a marathon.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Maggie says, sitting across from me. “Eleanor is a delightful girl.”

I stare at her, wondering if age has finally gotten to her.

“Absolutely charming,” Keira adds. “Especially when she tried explaining literary periods while you checked your watch three times in five minutes.”

“I did not—”

“You did,” they say in perfect unison.

I groan.

“Look, I get what you’re trying to do. But it’s not going to work. I’m not marrying someone I barely know just to meet the conditions of a will.”

Keira perches on the arm of my chair.

“So what? You’re just going to let Lachlan take over?”

I close my eyes.

That’s the problem, isn’t it?

“I need another option,” I insist.

My grandmother stands, smoothing her skirt.

“There isn’t one, Callum. Your father was as stubborn as you are. If he wanted this enforced, it will be.”

She rests a hand on my shoulder.

“Sometimes traditions exist for a reason. McGregors are stronger in pairs. Your grandfather knew it. Your father learned it the hard way.”

Then she leaves, cryptic as ever.

Silence settles.

“You know she won’t drop this,” Keira says.

“I know. She’s already planned three more dinners this week.”

She smiles, but there’s worry behind it.

“Then what’s your plan?”

I hesitate… then Ewan’s idea pushes its way back in.

“What if… I found someone willing to play along? A mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Keira blinks.

“You mean a marriage of convenience? In 2025?”

“Not exactly. More like a partnership. A contract. Clear terms. End date.”

She snorts.

“That’s still a marriage, Callum. Call it what it is.”

I grimace.

“Fine. A marriage. But with someone who benefits too. Someone who needs stability. A fresh start.”

She studies me… then laughs.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that’s not completely stupid. It’s almost logical—for you.”

“Glad I have your confidence.”

“Don’t get used to it.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “But where exactly are you going to find someone desperate enough to marry a workaholic with a manipulative grandmother and a leaking castle?”

“I hate the way you phrase things.”

She grins.

“I’ll help you. Because despite your many, many flaws… you’re my brother. And I’d rather see you in charge than that idiot Lachlan.”

“That’s very touching.”

“I know.” She winks. “And Callum? For what it’s worth… I think you’d make a better husband than you think. Even in a fake marriage.”

Then she’s gone.

Later, I sit alone in front of the fire, a glass of whisky in hand, watching the flames dance.

An arranged marriage.

In this day and age.

It’s insane.

And yet… the more I think about it, the more it feels like the only viable option.

One year.

An eternity—and not nearly enough.

It has to look real. It has to feel real.

Mitchell mentioned investigators. Proof. Cohabitation.

This won’t be easy.

My phone buzzes.

Ewan

So? How was dinner? Future Mrs. McGregor?

Callum

Absolutely not. But your idea this morning… maybe it’s not as crazy as it sounds.

His reply comes instantly.

Ewan

Want me to start looking into options?

I stare at the screen, my glass half empty.

This is it. The moment I decide.

Do I walk into this madness… or hand everything over to Lachlan?

Callum

Do it. Discreetly. And Ewan? I want someone who knows exactly what she’s signing up for. No lies. No surprises. Fair deal on both sides.

Ewan

Got it. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, enjoy your whisky tasting with the McLeods tomorrow night. Heard their daughter’s into distillation.

I groan.

Of course she is.

I look back at the fire, my mind spinning.

What will my life look like in a year?

Married to a stranger… to save my family’s legacy.

It should terrify me.

Instead… it makes me curious.

Who is she?

What kind of woman would agree to something like this?

What story would lead her straight into a deal with a stubborn, overworked Scottish man?

Guess I’m about to find out.

Because one way or another… the next twelve months are going to change everything.

Now all I have to do…

is find the perfect woman for the most ridiculous role of my life.

Someone who understands it’s just a temporary arrangement.

A transaction.

No emotions. No complications.

Someone who has as much to gain as I do.

Someone who probably doesn’t exist.