Chapter 3
JANE
The next morning, I walk into Max’s office wearing oversized sunglasses to hide my swollen eyes—and maybe to survive the brutal hangover currently trying to kill me—armed with an extra-large coffee like it’s life support.
Max’s assistant ushers me in immediately.
Which is never a good sign.
Usually, he makes me wait at least twenty minutes to maintain the illusion that he’s wildly important and overbooked.
“Jane!” he exclaims the second he sees me. “You look…”
“Terrible? Desperate? Like I’m having a full-blown existential crisis?”
“I was going to say ‘ready for a fresh start,’” he says, wincing slightly. “But your version feels more accurate.”
He gestures for me to sit, then steeples his fingers under his chin.
Uh-oh.
That’s his I’m about to pitch something insane pose.
“So?” I say, too exhausted to play along. “What’s this mysterious offer?”
“Have you ever considered marriage?”
I choke on my coffee.
“Excuse me?”
“Marriage. Two people. Rings. A dress. A ridiculously overpriced cake.”
“I know what marriage is, Max. I just don’t understand why you’re bringing it up.”
He gets up and starts pacing.
Definitely nervous.
“I received an unusual proposal from a man named Callum McGregor. He’s a Scottish businessman who needs to get married quickly for… personal reasons. He’s offering a substantial sum to his future wife in exchange for a temporary marriage.”
I stare at him.
I must still be drunk.
There’s no other explanation.
“You’re suggesting I enter an arranged marriage?” I choke out. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“It’s an opportunity, Jane!” Max insists. “Think about it. You disappear from Los Angeles for a year—let the scandal die down. You come back newly divorced, rebranded, with a fresh image and a very healthy bank account. Meanwhile, I rebuild your reputation and line up new projects.”
“This is insane. I’m not marrying a stranger.”
“He’s not a stranger—he’s a respected businessman. I did my research. The McGregors own a thriving family company. Scottish spirits, sheep farming—”
“Sheep?” I repeat, horrified.
I can practically hear them bleating already.
“They’re wealthy, respected, and completely off Hollywood’s radar,” Max continues. “Which is exactly what you need right now.”
I shake my head.
“And why does this man need to get married so urgently? Is he on the run? Wanted by Interpol? Terminally ill? Worse… is he ugly?”
Max snorts.
“None of the above. His father made it a condition of inheritance—he has to be married before his next birthday. Old family. Traditional values.”
“And he couldn’t find anyone in Scotland? He has to import a wife from America?”
Max shrugs.
“He’s on a deadline. And your situation works for him. You need to disappear. He needs someone who won’t get emotionally attached and understands it’s temporary. Also…” He hesitates. “He specifically requested an actress. Someone who can convincingly play the role.”
I shoot to my feet, pointing at him.
“Stop trying to sell me on this. It’s completely insane. I’m not selling my soul for money.”
…Okay, technically, isn’t that kind of what I already do?
I shove that thought away.
“You’re not selling your soul,” Max says calmly. “It’s a business arrangement. You’d be playing a role—the wife. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”
That hits.
Because he’s right.
I am an actress.
Or I was… before a viral video torched my reputation.
I slowly sit back down.
“How much?”
Max blinks.
“I’m sorry?”
“How much is he offering?”
A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Now we’re talking. One million dollars. For one year. With the possibility of an early divorce under certain conditions.”
I let out a low whistle despite myself.
“A million dollars to play the perfect wife? That sounds too good to be true. There’s got to be a catch.”
“The only ‘catch’ is that you’d have to live in Scotland for the duration. In a castle, by the way. A real ancestral castle in the Highlands.”
“A castle?” I repeat. “What, with ghosts and freezing drafts?”
“I assume they’ve discovered heating by now,” Max says dryly. “But yes. A genuine Scottish castle. The views are incredible, apparently.”
I go quiet, thinking.
One year in Scotland.
Far from paparazzi. From headlines. From Ryan and his stupid Spielberg glow.
One year to rebuild.
To breathe.
To earn a million dollars.
“What exactly would I have to do?” I ask slowly. “Pretend to be in love?”
My stomach twists.
How far does this role go?
Would I have to… sleep with him?
“Mostly public appearances,” Max says. “Family events, photos, maintaining the illusion of a real marriage. Privately, you’ll have separate spaces. There are no… conjugal expectations, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I let out a nervous laugh.
“How romantic.”
“And,” he adds, “he’s not exactly hard on the eyes.”
He opens a file and slides a photo across the desk.
I glance down—
—and blink.
Okay.
Well.
That’s… unexpected.
Callum McGregor is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Impeccably dressed. Serious. Intense.
Definitely not hideous.
Actually… very much the opposite.
“Alright,” I admit reluctantly. “He’s… presentable.”
“Presentable?” Max scoffs. “Sweetheart, I’d eat him for breakfast. He’s gorgeous, Jane. Admit it.”
“I admit he doesn’t look like a mountain troll, which feels like a solid baseline for an arranged marriage.”
“So?” he presses. “What do you think?”
I look back at the photo… then up at Max.
“This is completely insane. I should say no immediately.”
“But?”
“But my career is in ruins. My bank account is on life support. And I have zero prospects in Los Angeles right now.”
“Exactly!”
“And a year in Scotland could be a fresh start?”
“Precisely!” Max beams.
“I’d need to meet him first,” I say firmly. “I’m not marrying a psychopath—even a good-looking one.”
“Of course. He’ll be in Los Angeles soon for business. I’ll set it up.”
I exhale slowly.
A week ago, I was on the verge of becoming a star.
Now I’m considering marrying a stranger.
“I guess this is what rock bottom looks like,” I mutter. “When marrying a random Scottish man starts to feel like a reasonable option.”
“I prefer to think of it as an unexpected plot twist in your life story,” Max says brightly.
I suspect his enthusiasm has a lot to do with whatever commission he’s getting out of this.
“A plot twist that sends me to Scotland. Away from Hollywood.”
“Sometimes you have to leave to come back stronger.”
“Leave? You’re suggesting I move to another continent!”
I pause.
Wait.
Is the UK technically a continent?
Wow. That’s… concerning.
Case in point: I know absolutely nothing about Scotland.
Rain. Castles. Kilts. Sheep.
A mental image flashes—windswept cliffs, haunted halls, men in kilts chasing monsters through misty lochs.
And then—completely unhelpfully—another image:
Callum McGregor.
In a kilt.
…Okay. Maybe Scotland has some appeal.
And really—am I in any position to say no?
I take a deep breath.
“Alright. Set up the meeting. But I’m not promising anything.”
“That’s all I need, darling!” Max grins. “Oh—and one more thing. Apparently, his grandmother is… formidable. The kind of woman who tests people. So be ready for a very sharp Scottish matriarch.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Perfect. A contract husband and a manipulative grandmother. What could possibly go wrong?”
“This could be the beginning of a great love story,” he says with a wink.
“Don’t push it, Max. I’m already considering an arranged marriage—don’t add fairy tales to the mix.”
As I leave his office, I can’t help thinking about the movies Savannah and I watched last night.
In rom-coms, the heroine always goes through chaos before she gets her happy ending.
Maybe this arranged marriage is my chaos.
The disaster before everything finally works out.
Or maybe it’s just another terrible decision in an already catastrophic week.
Either way…
It’s definitely more interesting than staying in Los Angeles watching my career crumble while the media feasts on it.
Standing in front of the elevator, I glance down at the photo of Callum McGregor I accidentally pocketed.
I study his serious expression… those sharp blue eyes.
Then I murmur under my breath,
“Well, Mr. McGregor… let’s see if you’re as intimidating in person as you are in this picture.”
A small smile tugs at my lips.
“Hope you like washed-up American actresses who talk too much… and have an irrational fear of sheep.”