Chapter 13
JANE
— Callum McGregor, if I’d known you were hiding an Instagram-worthy picnic beneath that stern businessman exterior, I might’ve actually read the marriage contract more carefully.
We’re sitting on the blanket, surrounded by crumbs of scones and the remains of our countryside breakfast, and I feel strangely at ease despite how bizarre this whole situation is.
Maybe it’s the crisp Highland air, or the champagne at ten in the morning (a habit I could absolutely get behind), or maybe it’s simply the breathtaking scenery that makes all my Hollywood problems seem ridiculously small.
— The contract didn’t mention anything about my picnic skills, Callum replies with that half-smile I’m starting to recognize. I like to keep a few tricks up my sleeve.
— Tricks like knowing the most spectacular spots in Scotland or having your butler carry champagne to impress na?ve American women?
— Both, he admits, taking a sip. But you have to admit—it works.
— Completely. I’m officially impressed. And slightly tipsy from drinking champagne on an empty stomach.
Callum methodically packs away the remnants of the picnic into his bag with a precision that makes me smile. Even out here, surrounded by wild beauty, he can’t help being organized.
— We should head back, he says, checking his watch. The final dance rehearsal is at three, and you have your last dress fitting at two.
— Always watching the clock, I comment as I stand. You know, we could just… I don’t know, stay here forever and avoid all this wedding madness?
— Tempting, but I suspect my grandmother would send out a search party with tracking dogs. And possibly Hamish.
The image of Maggie McGregor leading a rescue operation with Hamish at the front makes me burst out laughing.
— Okay, let’s leave before the sheep reinforcements arrive.
The walk back feels oddly shorter, maybe because we’re talking more freely now.
Callum tells me about growing up in the castle, the pranks he and Keira used to pull on each other, their father—strict but fair.
I share a few disastrous filming stories, tell him about my Hollywood dreams that slowly turned into B-movie nightmares.
When we reach the castle, there’s an unusual buzz in the courtyard. Several cars are parked out front, and I spot Jamison deep in conversation with a group of people I don’t recognize.
— What’s going on? Callum asks, frowning.
— No idea. A haggis fan invasion?
Jamison notices us and quickly walks over, looking concerned.
— Sir, Miss, I’m relieved to see you. Lady McGregor is waiting for you in the study. There’s been… an incident.
— An incident? Callum repeats. What kind of incident?
The butler glances toward the cars.
— I believe it would be best if Lady McGregor explained herself.
Callum and I exchange a worried look before following him inside. As we cross the hall, I notice the staff seem on edge, and a few people are staring at me with open curiosity.
— Do I have something on my face? I murmur.
He gives me a quick glance and shakes his head.
— No.
The McGregor study is an imposing room of dark wood and leather chairs. Maggie sits behind a massive desk, looking grave, while Keira paces near the window. Dougal, Callum’s right-hand man, is there too, in deep conversation with Isobel.
Everyone falls silent when we walk in.
— Ah, there you are at last! Maggie exclaims. Where have you been?
— I was showing Jane the hills, Callum replies. What’s going on?
Keira steps forward and hands me a tablet.
— This is what’s going on.
I look down at the screen and feel my blood turn to ice. It’s a Hollywood gossip site, and the headline screams: “JANE CARTER: FROM DIRECTOR SCANDAL TO SHOCKING SCOTTISH WEDDING.” And beneath it, a photo.
Of me.
On my knees in front of Callum, my hands on his half-lifted kilt, caught in a position that, out of context, looks… well, very explicit.
— Oh. My. God, I choke out, horrified.
Callum leans over my shoulder, and I hear him suck in a sharp breath.
— How is this possible? he asks, voice tight. Who took this?
— A paparazzo, apparently, Keira answers. He must’ve slipped onto the property during the dance lesson.
I scroll through the article, and it’s worse than I imagined.
They describe the “kilt incident” as a calculated performance on my part, a desperate attempt to grab media attention after being blacklisted from Hollywood.
They even suggest our wedding is staged—a publicity stunt to revive my failing career.
They’re dangerously close to the truth—for all the wrong reasons.
— My God, this is a nightmare, I whisper.
I look up at Callum, searching for support, but his expression is unreadable. Cold. Distant. Calculating.
— The timing is… suspicious, he says slowly.
— What does that mean? I ask, incredulous.
— The American media suddenly discovers your Scottish wedding—with a perfectly compromising photo—right when your career could use a boost?
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
— You think I orchestrated this?
The words nearly choke me.
We lock eyes.
— I didn’t say that, he replies carefully. But you have to admit… this kind of publicity, even scandalous, could work in your favor.
I take a step back like he just slapped me.
— Wait. You seriously think I arranged for a paparazzo to take a photo that makes it look like I’m giving you a blowjob in public? In what universe would that help me?
— Jane, Maggie interjects, no one is accusing—
— Yes, I cut in, eyes fixed on Callum. That’s exactly what he’s doing. He thinks I staged this disaster for cheap publicity.
Callum presses his lips together.
— I think we should all take a moment to calm down, Maggie suggests, ever pragmatic. This isn’t the first media storm the McGregor family has faced—and it won’t be the last.
— I’ll contact our legal team, Dougal says, pulling out his phone. We can probably get the photo taken down for invasion of privacy.
— Good luck, I snap. Once something’s online, it never really disappears. Trust me—I know better than anyone.
— Well then, Maggie says, I think we’ll leave you two to handle this privately. Keira?
— What? No! she protests.
But one warning look from Callum is enough to change her mind. She sighs before following her grandmother out. Dougal slips away discreetly.
Once we’re alone, Callum turns back to me. I cross my arms, jaw tight.
— You have to admit, it’s a troubling coincidence.
— A coincidence? I tripped during a dance. You were there!
— What I’m saying is, someone must have tipped off the paparazzi about your presence here. Someone who knew where to find you.
Anger starts to boil inside me, quickly replacing the humiliation.
— And that someone would be me, right? Because of course—the washed-up actress can’t resist the spotlight, even at the cost of her dignity?
— That’s not what I said, he replies, but there’s no conviction in his voice.
— But it’s what you think, I shoot back, my voice trembling. You really believe I’d expose us—expose you, your family—to this kind of public humiliation for a little attention?
— I haven’t known you very long, Jane, he says quietly, almost apologetically. I’m just trying to understand how this happened.
That hurts more than anything else.
After the past few days… after this morning… after letting him see a part of me so few people ever do—he still sees me as an unknown variable. A potential threat.
— And naturally, your first instinct is to suspect me, instead of considering that I might be the primary victim here?
— My family’s business is at stake, Jane. Our public image is essential for our international clients.
— Oh, of course. The business, I mutter bitterly. I almost forgot—that’s the only thing that really matters in this marriage.
A heavy silence settles between us.
I study his face, searching for anything—any sign he believes me, that he’s on my side. But all I see is the businessman, coldly calculating the potential damage to his family, his company, his reputation.
— I’ll let you handle this crisis, I say finally. After all, I’m just a temporary contractual inconvenience—not a real McGregor.
— Jane, wait—
But I’m already at the door.
He catches up and grabs my arm.
I pull free and turn to face him.
— You know what the problem with trust is, Callum? You can’t buy it. And you can’t demand it either. If you don’t believe me—if you won’t even give me the benefit of the doubt—then I don’t see how this marriage, this arrangement, whatever you want to call this masquerade, can possibly work.
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t even know if I expected him to. Still, the disappointment cuts deep.
— I need some air, I say before storming out.
I stride through the castle, ignoring the curious looks from the staff. All I want is distance—to escape this suffocating atmosphere where I suddenly feel like an intruder.
A fraud.
Which, in reality, I am. A fake fiancée. An actress playing a role.
Except now, that role is costing me what little dignity I had left.
I slip out through a side door and into the gardens. Without thinking, I take a path leading into the park, putting as much distance as possible between the castle and me… between Callum and me.
How could he think I orchestrated this? After everything we’ve shared these past few days? After this morning, when for the first time, I felt like I saw the real Callum—not just the businessman or the future husband of convenience, but the man beneath the mask?
I stop near an old oak tree and lean against the trunk, trying to steady my breathing. Around me, the park is peaceful—just rustling leaves and the occasional birdsong. Such a stark contrast to the chaos I just fled.
— Get it together, Jane, I mutter. You’ve survived worse than a compromising photo.
But it’s not just the photo that hurts.
It’s Callum’s reaction. His lack of trust. The way he immediately assumed the worst of me.
— Excuse me? Are you alright?