Chapter 22
CALLUM
I check my phone for the fifth time in five minutes.
The party hasn’t even started, and I’m already exhausted.
How am I supposed to explain to my grandmother that the idea of a grand ball to celebrate our marriage is completely unnecessary?
After weeks of uncertainty, Jane and I are only just managing to navigate the murky waters of our “post–non-contractual kiss” situation.
Adding two hundred guests, five traditional musicians, and a dozen Scottish dances into the mix feels downright cruel.
— Planning to merge with that wall?
I look up to find my best friend standing there.
Ewan hands me a glass of whisky, which I accept with the gratitude of a dying man.
— I’m seriously considering it, I mutter, taking a long, comforting sip. Either that or hiding in the library until everyone leaves.
— A tragic strategy for a newlywed, he comments, scanning the already crowded room. Especially when said newlywed defended his wife’s honor against a discount Hollywood actor not long ago. Your husband-of-the-year stock is at an all-time high—why not enjoy it?
I grimace at the memory of the confrontation with Ryan Fowler.
— I was just playing my role, Ewan.
He arches a skeptical brow.
— A role? Really? You looked ready to rearrange his face with your bare hands, and God knows you’re not exactly a fan of physical violence.
— It was a logical reaction, I attempt.
— Of course. And I’m the reincarnation of Robert Burns.
Ewan raises his glass in a mocking toast.
— To professional indignation, then.
We’re interrupted by my grandmother’s arrival, resplendent in a deep violet velvet gown that must date back to the Victorian era—but somehow suits her perfectly.
— Callum, my boy! she exclaims, inspecting me from head to toe. You look magnificent in your kilt. A true McGregor. Your father would be proud.
I incline my head slightly, knowing she appreciates these small displays of formal respect.
— Thank you, Grandmother. The hall looks stunning.
That’s an understatement. The castle’s grand ballroom, rarely used these days, has been transformed into something worthy of a nineteenth-century Scottish ball.
Hundreds of candles flicker, clan-colored draperies cascade from the walls, and floral arrangements fill the air with intoxicating scents…
Maggie McGregor never does anything halfway.
— Where is your charming wife? she asks, scanning the crowd. I hope she hasn’t fled the castle the way you did the morning after your wedding.
I suppress a grimace. My grandmother hasn’t forgiven my little escape to Edinburgh and never misses a chance to remind me.
— Jane is getting ready, I reply. Keira is helping her with the… uh… final touches.
A gleam I know all too well lights up my grandmother’s eyes—the unmistakable sign that one of her schemes is underway.
— Perfect, perfect. I can’t wait to see her in the gown I chose for her.
— The gown you… what?
— Oh, don’t look so alarmed, my boy. It’s a family tradition. The grandmother gifts the new bride an outfit for the post-wedding ball. I did it for your mother, and now for Jane.
She pats my cheek fondly.
— It’s a beautiful dress, suited to her complexion. And perfect for dancing.
— Dancing, I repeat weakly.
— Of course, dancing! she declares, as though I’m being particularly dense tonight. You’ll open the ball with a traditional Scottish reel. I hired the best instructor in the Highlands for Jane. They’ve been practicing for days.
How did I not know about this? Clearly, I’ve underestimated my grandmother’s ability to orchestrate conspiracies inside my own home.
— Grandmother, I’m not sure that—
— Your attention, please!
Jamison’s voice echoes through the hall, cutting me off. The butler, impeccable in his formal attire, stands at the foot of the grand staircase.
— Ladies and gentlemen, Lady Jane Elizabeth Carter-McGregor.
My heart stops.
Jane appears at the top of the stairs, and for a moment, everything else fades away.
The gown my grandmother chose is a deep green that highlights her fair skin and hazel eyes.
The fabric seems to float around her, elegant and clearly designed for movement, with just a hint of our family tartan woven into a draped sash across her shoulders.
Her hair is partially pinned up, soft strands framing her face.
She’s breathtaking.
— Close your mouth, my boy, you’ll catch flies, my grandmother murmurs, nudging me.
I realize I’m staring at Jane like a teenager at his first dance and clear my throat awkwardly. But how could I not? She descends the steps with effortless grace, fully aware of every gaze fixed on her.
— You might want to go greet your wife, Ewan suggests, clearly entertained.
I pull myself together and move toward the foot of the stairs.
Jane spots me, and her face lights up with a smile that hits me like a punch to the chest. The past few weeks have been tense between us, despite our united front against Ryan.
We’ve never really talked about what happened on our wedding night, and that smile feels like an unexpected truce.
— Mrs. McGregor, I say, offering my hand as she reaches the last step. You look absolutely stunning tonight.
A faint blush warms her cheeks.
— Mr. McGregor, she replies, placing her hand in mine. You don’t look bad yourself. That kilt suits you very well.
— I can thank my grandmother for the dress, I murmur, leaning closer. I had no idea she had a talent for styling.
— Oh, trust me, you have no idea what that woman is capable of, Jane whispers back. Did you know the McGregors have a specific clan dance? Extremely complicated, with sixteen direction changes and a part where the woman literally has to fly?
— I’m sorry, what?
— And guess who has to perform it in exactly… (she glances at the clock) twelve minutes?
Her smile is a fascinating mix of terror and determination.
— Jane, I’m sorry, I had no idea. I can talk to my grandmother—
— Don’t even think about it, she cuts in. I spent three days being tortured by an eighty-two-year-old man who thinks “faster” is the solution to every choreography problem and isn’t above whacking shins with his cane when you mess up. I’m dancing that damn dance even if it’s the last thing I do.
I can’t help but laugh at her fierce determination.
— In that case, may I offer you a drink before our performance, my wife? Alcohol doesn’t improve coordination, but it does significantly reduce anxiety.
— Offer accepted, my husband. I’ll take a whisky. Double.
— You? Whisky? I ask, surprised.
— I’ve developed a taste for Scottish things lately, she replies with a wink that triggers an entirely unreasonable reaction in me.
We cross the room, greeting guests along the way. The crowd is a fascinating mix of major figures in Scottish finance, family friends, and a few local celebrities. I even spot a government minister deep in conversation with Cousin Lachlan, which feels like a potentially explosive combination.
— Callum, Jane murmurs, leaning toward me, who is that woman staring at me like I insulted ten generations of her ancestors?
I follow her gaze and suppress a curse. Heather Wallace, my ex-girlfriend, stands near the buffet, stunning in a form-fitting red dress—and yes, her glare could kill.
— That’s Heather. My ex.
— The famous Heather? The one your mother adored? The one who collected paperweights?
— Porcelain figurines, I correct automatically. And yes, that’s her.
— Charming. And what exactly is she doing here?
— Excellent question. I assume my mother invited her.
Jane raises a skeptical brow.
— Your mother invited your ex-girlfriend to our wedding ball? Is that another Scottish tradition I wasn’t aware of?
— No, that’s more of an “Isobel McGregor refuses to accept that her son married someone other than the woman she chose for him” tradition, I reply with a grimace.
— I see. Should I be worried about her slipping rat poison into my drink?
— Heather? No. She’s passive-aggressive, not homicidal. She’ll probably ask polite questions about your career while subtly implying that the experimental theater she funds is the only valid form of art.
Jane lets out a small laugh, which only deepens Heather’s glare.
— I can’t wait. After surviving a tyrannical director, a media scandal, and your disapproving look when I put my feet on the coffee table, I can definitely handle a vindictive ex.
— I do not give you a disapproving look when you put your feet on the coffee table, I protest.
— Callum, you purse your lips like you just swallowed a lemon.
— I have never—
I stop as the orchestra begins tuning. The dance is imminent.
— Oh God, Jane murmurs, following my gaze. This is it. If I die on that dance floor, promise me you’ll write something flattering on my tombstone. Not “She tripped to death.”
— I promise. I’ll write “She waltzed gracefully into the afterlife.”
— It’s not a waltz, it’s a warrior ritual disguised as a ballroom dance, she groans. Who needs to spin eight times while holding only your partner’s pinky?
I laugh again. Stress brings out Jane’s dramatic side—and it’s honestly adorable.
— Ladies and gentlemen, my grandmother announces, stepping into the center of the room, tradition dictates that the newlyweds will now open the ball with the traditional McGregor dance.
Polite applause ripples through the room as Jane shoots me a look that clearly says save me or kill me, but do something. I offer her my arm with what I hope is a reassuring smile.
— Let’s go, I murmur. I’ll guide you.
— That’s what the sadistic old man said too, and he still let me crash to the floor during the jump.
We take our place at the center of the dance floor. I feel Jane trembling slightly and squeeze her hand, trying to steady her.
— Look at me, I say softly. Not at them. Just me.
Her eyes find mine, and suddenly a strange calm settles between us. The music begins, and we move.