Chapter 19
CALLUM
Edinburgh is breathtaking this morning, bathed in that peculiar light that turns gray stone into pale gold.
It’s one of the things I love most about this city—its ability to look majestic even in the rain, and downright dazzling when the sun decides to make an appearance.
Unfortunately, I’m in no mood to appreciate any of it today.
I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for forty-five minutes, sitting in a trendy café on George Street, and I haven’t written a single line of the so-called “urgent” email I’m supposed to be drafting.
No matter how many times I mentally rework the opening, the words won’t come.
How could they? My mind is completely consumed with replaying last night.
Jane. Her lips on mine. The softness of her skin beneath my fingers. And then my spectacular exit.
— Will that be all, sir?
The waitress is looking at me with a mix of professional politeness and barely concealed impatience. I realize this is the third time she’s asked if I’d like anything else—and my coffee has been cold for at least twenty minutes.
— Another coffee, please. Double espresso.
— Rough day? she asks with a sympathetic smile.
— You have no idea, I reply.
I stop myself from adding that I fled my wedding suite last night after kissing my wife like a desperate teenager, then invented a business emergency this morning just to avoid facing her.
The waitress blinks, and for a split second I wonder if I said that out loud.
— I’ll bring that right away, she says quickly before hurrying off.
Perfect. Now, in addition to being a runaway husband, I’m also the weird customer who unnerves waitstaff. Jane would be laughing herself to tears if she saw me.
Jane. Again.
I can’t get her out of my head. I close my eyes and rub my temples, trying to regain some control over my thoughts.
— Callum McGregor, married less than twenty-four hours and already off on a solo trip to Edinburgh. Not exactly a promising start to marital bliss, my friend.
That voice.
That insufferable, polished, arrogant voice I’d recognize anywhere.
I open my eyes to confirm what I already know: Alistair McKenzie is standing in front of me, impeccably dressed in a navy suit that probably costs the GDP of a small country, a smug smile fixed on his perfectly groomed face.
Well. The day just got worse.
— Alistair, I say coolly. What an unpleasant surprise.
— And still as charming as ever, I see. Is that what won over your lovely wife?
Without waiting for an invitation, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits down as if he owns the place—which, given the size of his business empire, might not be entirely inaccurate.
— I’m here on business, I reply sharply. And I don’t have time for verbal sparring.
— Business, of course, he says, casting a pointed glance at my blank laptop screen. I forgot how devoted you are to your company. Even the morning after your wedding.
I snap the laptop shut, irritated by his accuracy.
— What do you want, Alistair?
— Simply to congratulate you on your marriage. I saw the photos in the papers this morning. Your new wife is very photogenic.
My heart stumbles.
— What photos?
Alistair smiles, clearly delighted.
— You didn’t know? Your wedding is splashed across several tabloids. “American actress and Scottish heir: a modern fairy tale.” A bit cliché, but the photos speak for themselves.
The waitress returns with my coffee, gives Alistair a curious glance, then leaves again after he orders an Earl Grey—with a splash of milk, no more.
— I haven’t read the papers this morning, I admit reluctantly.
— Of course not. You were too busy running away.
I glare at him.
— I’m not running from anything.
— Callum, let’s not insult each other with that performance. I’ve known you since university. You’re in Edinburgh, alone, the day after your wedding, staring at a blank screen.
— Are you spying on me now?
— Simple observation. This café is across from my office.
He gestures toward the imposing building across the street, where the McKenzie Industries logo gleams discreetly—but unmistakably.
— Wonderful, I mutter. Of all the cafés in Edinburgh…
— Funny how fate works, isn’t it? he says lightly. But back to your charming wife. Jane Carter. I must admit, I was surprised by your sudden marriage. She’s not exactly your type.
— And what exactly makes Jane “not my type”? I ask through clenched teeth.
— Well, for starters, she has a personality. Wit. A career independent of yours. Quite the opposite of Heather, who existed solely to reflect you.
— Don’t talk about Jane like you know her.
— Oh, but I’d like to, he says with a smile that makes me want to dump my coffee over his immaculate suit. She seems fascinating. That confrontation with a director in Hollywood? Impressive. Takes real backbone to stand up to men like that.
My hands curl into fists. How dare he talk about her like that? Admire her, even, without ever having met her? And why does it bother me so much?
The waitress brings his tea. Alistair thanks her with that calculated charm that’s made him a formidable negotiator.
— So, he continues after a sip, how is married life? As idyllic as those photos suggest?
— Perfect, I say evenly, despite how far from the truth that feels. Jane and I are very happy.
Alistair studies me, unconvinced.
— Callum, Callum… still a terrible liar. You never could hide your emotions—even back at university when you pretended not to care that I won the moot court competition.
— The judges were clearly biased.
— Of course they were, he says dryly.
I take a long sip of coffee, wishing it were something stronger.
— Don’t you have anything better to do than torment me? Struggling companies to acquire? Orphanages to turn into parking lots?
— Such imagination. I’m flattered. But no, I have a meeting in… he checks his watch, an hour and a half. Plenty of time for this fascinating conversation.
— Lucky me.
— Indeed. But back to your wife. I assume she stayed at the castle? Enjoying your mother’s legendary hospitality?
The image of Jane alone with my family hits me hard. What did she tell them? What does she think of my disappearance?
A wave of guilt must show on my face, because Alistair nods with satisfaction.
— Ah. I see. She doesn’t even know where you are, does she?
— My private life is none of your concern, Alistair.
— Of course not. But it is interesting. Callum McGregor—the most methodical businessman in Scotland—suddenly marries an American actress with a complicated past, then disappears less than twenty-four hours later. If it weren’t you, I’d call it a publicity stunt.
A troubling thought flashes through my mind.
— You don’t think Jane—
— Orchestrated it to revive her career? he laughs. No, even I’m not that cynical. The look on her face in those photos…
He shakes his head, and I hate myself for hanging on his every word.
— You can’t fake that, he continues. That woman is genuinely in love with you. Though I can’t imagine why.
My heart skips.
Jane. In love with me?
That’s absurd. This is a professional arrangement. A transaction. And yet… I remember the way she looked at me last night. The way her hands framed my face. The way she kissed me like it meant something.
— Jane is not a subject for your analysis, Alistair.
— No. She’s a remarkable woman who deserves better than a husband who runs at the first sign of difficulty.
The words hit like a punch.
Because he’s right.
I ran.
— You know nothing about our situation, I say, my voice rough.
— I know you’re terrified, he replies simply. Terrified because for the first time in your life, you’re not in control. This woman makes you feel things you didn’t plan for—and instead of exploring them, you retreat into your neat little world of numbers and contracts.
I stare at him, stunned by his accuracy. How can he see so clearly what I refuse to admit?
— If Jane were my wife, he continues, casually but with an edge in his eyes, I wouldn’t have left her alone the morning after our wedding. In fact, I probably wouldn’t let her out of bed for at least a week.
A sharp, irrational wave of jealousy surges through me.
— Don’t talk about her like that.
— Like what? Like she’s desirable? Because she is. Those expressive eyes, that mouth that always looks ready to deliver something cutting… not to mention her figure—
— That’s enough! I snap, louder than intended, drawing curious glances from nearby tables.
Alistair smiles, satisfied.
— You’re jealous. Which suggests your feelings go well beyond a simple arrangement.
I go still.
Is it that obvious?
— What are you talking about?
— Spare me the outrage, Callum. Rumors travel fast in certain financial circles.
I don’t know exactly what pushed you into this—some inheritance clause, a persistent grandmother, a ticking deadline?
Either way, you suddenly find yourself married to a stranger.
It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots.
I drag a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted.
— You’re exhausting.
— People gossip, but there’s no proof. And after seeing those photos… if this is an arrangement, you’re both far better actors than I thought.
His words drag me back to the wedding.
Was any of it just performance?
— It’s not that simple, I murmur.
— It never is, he agrees, unexpectedly serious. That’s why men like you and me prefer equations and contracts over relationships. They’re predictable. Controllable.
Of all the people who could force me to confront reality, I never imagined it would be Alistair McKenzie.
— Careful, McKenzie.
He lifts his teacup, never taking his eyes off me.
— You’re starting to sound like a friend who actually cares.
He sets the cup down slowly, and I could swear there’s the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.
— Almost, Callum. Almost.