Chapter 23
JANE
I desperately try to convince myself my makeup isn’t a disaster. Which is a blatant lie. Somewhere between “effortlessly chic” and “experimental art piece created by an LSD-fueled raccoon,” things went horribly wrong. I sigh and grab a cotton pad.
— Get it together, Jane Carter. Or Jane McGregor. Or Jane Carter-McGregor. Or whatever your name is now.
Last night’s ball was surprising in more ways than one—starting with Callum defending me in front of his mother, then that moment on the terrace…
and that connection I hadn’t seen coming.
We slept in the same bed afterward, without touching, but also without that awkward tension that had defined the nights before.
A significant improvement for a marriage that exists only on paper.
Morning came with a quiet promise that something has shifted between us. No words—just a glance, a smile, his hand brushing mine over breakfast. Small things for most couples. Earthquakes on our scale.
And now here I am, getting ready for what Maggie described as “a small informal gathering for a few friends”—which, translated from McGregor into standard English, probably means a lavish event attended by half the Scottish aristocracy.
I redo my makeup for the second time, and this time, I don’t hate it.
I slip into a navy skirt, a cream blouse, and comfortable ankle boots—lesson learned the hard way after narrowly avoiding at least three sprained ankles on the estate’s uneven terrain.
My hair is twisted into a loose bun my mother would call “perfectly imperfect.” Thinking of her—of how she lives life entirely on her own terms—makes me wonder if, in her eyes, I’m the Callum of this situation.
I sigh. My thoughts are all over the place this morning.
As I leave the bedroom, I nearly collide with Keira, who rushes past in denim overalls and a T-shirt that boldly declares Unicorns Are Real and They’re Rude.
— You look gorgeous, she says, giving me a once-over. Shame it’s for what’s shaping up to be a terrible day.
My stomach drops.
— Why? What’s happening?
— You didn’t hear? Heather’s back.
— Heather? The woman in red who stared me down all night? Wasn’t she supposed to leave after the ball?
Keira shakes her head, her curls bouncing like rebellious springs.
— Apparently she has “business in the area.” About as convincing as a Scottish thong.
— I didn’t know Scottish thongs were a thing, and I’d very much like to keep living in that blissful ignorance, thank you.
— Wise choice, she agrees. Anyway, Heather graciously offered to stop by for tea. And Mother, in her infinite wisdom, accepted.
— Fantastic, I mutter. Exactly what I needed today—tea with my husband’s ex while his mother judges how I hold my cup.
— Don’t worry, I’ll be there too. And I fully intend to be particularly insufferable today. For you.
— You’re my hero, Keira McGregor.
— I know, she grins. Now come on. Let’s go face the dragon in Louboutins.
The main sitting room is bathed in morning light, giving the space an almost warm atmosphere despite the stern McGregor ancestors glaring down from their portraits.
I study their faces, wondering if any of them ever found themselves trapped in an arranged marriage that turned into…
what, exactly? Friendship? Attraction? A contractual complication?
My thoughts are cut short by Callum’s arrival, immaculate in gray trousers and a black turtleneck. My heart stumbles in my chest.
Before we can exchange a word, Jamison enters, rigid as ever.
— Madam, sir. Lady Heather Wallace has arrived.
He delivers the announcement with perfect neutrality, but I’d swear there’s a hint of warning in his eyes.
— Lady? I repeat, arching a brow at Callum.
— Her father is an earl, he explains quickly. Old family. Very traditional.
— Great. I’m officially underqualified for this conversation.
Callum’s hand briefly brushes mine—quick, subtle, but grounding.
— You’re not underqualified for anything, he murmurs. And you don’t have to—
He’s cut off as Heather herself enters the room like she owns it.
Heather Wallace is the kind of British aristocratic beauty that looks like she stepped straight out of a BBC drama—tall, elegant, perfectly styled chestnut hair, porcelain skin that probably makes her dermatologist weep with joy.
She’s wearing an emerald shirt dress that screams effortless chic while costing more than three months of rent.
— Callum, darling! she exclaims, sweeping toward him with open arms.
He accepts her embrace with visible stiffness.
— Heather, he replies politely. This is… unexpected.
She steps back but keeps her hands on his forearms—a gesture that’s both intimate and territorial, and makes me want to growl like Hamish when someone touches his food.
— I had a few matters to attend to with the Highlands Cultural Foundation, and I thought—why not take the opportunity to visit dear friends? Your mother was so welcoming when I called this morning.
Of course she was. Isobel McGregor would welcome Satan himself if he promised to replace me with Heather.
— Jane, Heather says at last, turning to me with flawless icy politeness. It’s so lovely to see you again.
— Lady Wallace. The pleasure is mine.
I give her my best actress smile—the one I used during interviews after that horror film where I died in the first ten minutes in a particularly grotesque way.
Her smile widens, revealing teeth so perfect her dentist must be a millionaire.
— Oh, please, call me Heather. After all, we’re practically family now, aren’t we?
I’m spared from answering as Isobel enters, followed by Maggie and Keira. Isobel practically lights up at the sight of Heather, like sunshine breaking through a week-long Scottish storm.
— Heather, my dear! she exclaims, embracing her warmly. What a delight to have you here.
— Isobel, you’re as elegant as ever, Heather replies smoothly. And Maggie—it’s a pleasure to see you again.
Maggie nods, her sharp gaze flicking from Heather to me to Callum. If looks could speak, hers would say: I see exactly what’s happening here—and I’m thoroughly entertained.
— Lady Wallace, she says, a hint of irony in her tone. Always appearing at the most convenient moments.
— Life is too short for dull ones, isn’t it? Heather replies with a serene smile.
She turns to Keira.
— Keira, my dear… that T-shirt is… colorful.
— Isn’t it? Keira beams. I thought it might brighten the mood. You know, to compensate for certain presences that tend to darken the atmosphere.
I nearly choke, while Callum clears his throat loudly. Isobel shoots her daughter a glare, but Heather remains perfectly composed.
— Still as direct as ever, Keira.
Jamison announces that tea is served, and we all move out onto the terrace. I end up seated between Keira—thank you, seating gods—and Maggie, while Heather is strategically placed between Isobel and Callum.
It feels like a chess match. With scones.
— So, Jane, Heather begins after polite weather talk (apparently mandatory in Scotland), I understand you’re an actress in Hollywood?
She says actress and Hollywood like they’re contagious diseases.
— That’s right, I reply. Mostly supporting roles, but I’ve had some interesting projects.
— Fascinating. I’ve always admired people who devote their lives to pretending to be someone else.
Ouch. First point to Lady Perfect.
— Well, not all of us inherit titles and trust funds, I shoot back smoothly. Some of us have to work for a living.
Keira nearly snorts into her tea, while Callum looks at me with something like surprise—and admiration. Heather, however, doesn’t flinch.
— Of course. I completely understand. My work with the foundation is quite demanding as well. We preserve Scottish cultural heritage—something essential to families like the McGregors.
She places a delicate hand on Callum’s arm, and suddenly I’m considering testing my aim with a fork as a projectile.
— Callum has always been so generous with our foundation, she adds. He understands the importance of protecting our shared heritage.
Our shared heritage.
Every word is a carefully aimed dagger. And suddenly I feel it—what she wants me to feel. That I don’t belong. That I’m an outsider.
— Heather leads the Celtic artifacts conservation department, Isobel adds proudly. Her work is remarkable.
— Really? I ask, genuinely curious despite myself. What kind of artifacts?
Heather hesitates, just slightly.
— Jewelry, ritual objects, manuscripts, primarily. We recently acquired a collection of ninth-century Celtic brooches—absolutely fascinating.
— I’d love to hear more, I say.
— Jane has always had an interest in history, Callum adds, glancing at me in a way I can’t quite read. Haven’t you, darling?
That darling nearly makes me choke.
— Absolutely, sweetheart, I reply sweetly, enjoying his flicker of surprise. Ancient civilizations are fascinating.
— Well, you should visit our museum in Edinburgh, Heather suggests. Callum could take you. He knows it very well, don’t you, Cal?
Cal.
Cal.
No one calls him that. No one except… me. Now. And apparently Lady Coincidence.
— Actually, Callum says, a hint of tension in his voice, I haven’t been in a while.
— Really? Heather says, exaggerated surprise. But we spent so much time there last year, when you were helping me with the Highlands textile exhibition. Do you remember that night we stayed until dawn finishing the presentation?
Her nostalgic look says too much.
Way too much.
My stomach tightens.
— It was for the foundation, Callum clarifies, uncomfortable.
— Of course, Heather smiles. Always so devoted.
She turns to me, her smile soft—but her eyes cold.
— It’s one of the many qualities I’ve always admired in him. His loyalty. His dedication.
A pause.
— It’s rare to find men with such traditional values these days, don’t you think?
The implication lands clean and sharp.
I don’t belong in that world.
And the worst part?
She’s not entirely wrong.
— Absolutely, Isobel adds. Family values are very important to the McGregors. Which is why we were all quite surprised by how quickly this marriage happened.
Her gaze could freeze hell.
— Mother, Callum warns.
— What? I’m simply observing that some decisions require more reflection. Heather and you took your time. Built something based on shared values, shared interests. It was… appropriate.
Appropriate.
The word drops like a stone into still water.
— Times change, Maggie says calmly, spreading jam on a scone. Sometimes love strikes like lightning.
— Or like a well-negotiated business contract, Keira mutters under her breath, making me nearly choke.
Fantastic. I’m about to turn into a tea-spitting llama.
— Exactly, Heather continues smoothly. Love is so unpredictable. One day, you think you know where your life is going, and the next…
She lets the sentence hang, her gaze flicking briefly to Callum before returning to me.
— But I’m sure your marriage is based on a deep connection, despite its… spontaneity.
— Spontaneous, yes, I reply evenly. Like the best things in life.
— Hmm, she hums. A very Hollywood perspective. In families like the McGregors, tradition and stability tend to outweigh impulsiveness.
— Our marriage wasn’t impulsive, Callum says firmly. Jane and I knew exactly what we were doing.
At least that part is true.
What we didn’t plan for… were the feelings creeping in.
— Of course, Heather says smoothly. I didn’t mean otherwise.
She turns back to me, all false sympathy.
— How are you finding life in the Highlands, Jane? It must be so different from Los Angeles. All the sheep… the rain… the rustic charm.
— I love it, I answer honestly.
She blinks.
— It’s real here. People are real.
— Real? she repeats lightly. What a charming way to put it. Though I must say, life here can become rather… monotonous after a while. Especially for someone used to the spotlight.
— Some lights blind more than they reveal, I counter. There’s a kind of beauty in simplicity that Hollywood often misses.
Callum watches me with something close to admiration.
— Jane adapts remarkably well, he says. She’s settled into Scottish life as if she were born to it.
— Really? Heather says, smiling thinly. I seem to recall a small incident at the ball last night.
Heat floods my cheeks.
— A simple accident, Maggie cuts in firmly. One that could happen to anyone.
— Of course, Heather says sweetly.
Then—
— Speaking of the ball, I ran into the Maitlands. They so enjoyed speaking with you, Cal. Especially Aurora.
Aurora.
Alarm bells.
— Aurora Maitland is a colleague’s daughter, Callum explains. A brilliant young woman studying economics at Oxford.
— And absolutely charming, Heather adds. You remember how she admired you at that conference last year? She hung on your every word during your talk on ethical investments.
— I don’t recall, Callum says stiffly.
— Really? Heather says, all innocence. She certainly remembers you. She asked if you were truly married now. She seemed… disappointed.
Message received.
There are other women.
Better suited ones.
— I hope you reassured her, Keira cuts in sweetly. Our Jane is absolutely perfect for Callum. Isn’t she, Grandmother?
— Undeniably, Maggie agrees, winking at me. A breath of fresh air this family sorely needed.
— A hurricane would be more accurate, Isobel mutters.
The tea continues like that—barbed compliments, veiled jabs. Heather keeps bringing up shared memories with Callum, names I don’t know, moments I wasn’t part of.
Each one a reminder.
I don’t belong here.
— Do you remember that ride to the old cairn? she says at one point. The sunset over the loch, the champagne you brought…
— Vaguely, Callum says.
— Oh, Cal, how could you forget? It was so romantic. The blankets, the stars coming out…
That’s it.
I can’t sit here listening to my husband’s romantic past with Miss Perfect.
I push back my chair too fast, nearly knocking over my cup.
— Excuse me, I say tightly. I need to… check something. Make a call. Los Angeles—you know, time difference and all that.
I leave before anyone can stop me, feeling Heather’s gaze on my back—and picturing her smile, sharp and satisfied, like a cat that just cornered a very delicious mouse.