Chapter 33
CALLUM
I look at Jane, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and I feel something inside me crack. She’s afraid I’ll regret marrying her? That I’d prefer some perfect Scottish Lady? If only she knew how completely the opposite is true…
—You’re afraid I’ll regret marrying you, I say slowly, trying to follow her logic. So your solution is to leave before that happens?
She looks away, fidgeting with the bracelet on her wrist.
—When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.
—Because it is, Jane.
My tone is harsher than I intend, but that fool Alistair McKenzie and that viper Heather have managed to plant enough doubt in her mind that she’s actually considering walking away from everything. Our marriage. Our life together. Me.
—Listen, Jane says, clearly frustrated. I’m being realistic. Hollywood is offering me an incredible opportunity. Martin Scorsese! It’s… it’s every actress’s dream.
—Then go, I say simply, unable to endure this conversation any longer. If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you.
Her expression darkens.
—See? That’s exactly it! You never say what you really feel. You hide behind this wall of cold politeness instead of admitting that you might, I don’t know, have actual human emotions!
I flinch as if she’s slapped me. Human emotions? If she only knew how hard I’m fighting not to beg her to stay… But I can’t. I won’t be the man who stands in the way of her dreams. I love her too much for that.
Did I really just think that? I love her too much?
—Jane, I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, I respect your right to pursue your career. I understand how important this opportunity is to you.
—That’s not what I’m asking, Callum! she bursts out, exasperated. I’m asking what you want. Do you want me to stay? Or would you be relieved if I left?
How can she possibly think I’d be relieved? After everything we’ve been through? After the cabin, after the Highland Games, after all those nights spent talking until dawn?
But I can’t tell her that. I can’t lay my feelings on her when she has this once-in-a-lifetime chance. If she’s even considering leaving, then maybe—deep down—what we have isn’t enough for her. Even if she won’t admit it.
—What I want doesn’t matter, I say at last. This is your decision, Jane. Your career. Your life.
She looks at me as if I’ve just confirmed her worst fears.
—Okay, she says softly. I understand.
She walks toward the door, then pauses with her hand on the handle.
—You know, I thought our arrangement had turned into something real. Something worth fighting for. But clearly… I was wrong.
The door closes quietly behind her, and I stand there, motionless, with the sinking certainty that I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
I don’t sleep. How could I, knowing Jane is down the hall in the guest room—or at least trying to sleep? Knowing that every passing hour brings her closer to a decision that could take her out of my life for good?
At dawn, I grab my car and drive without thinking. I need air. Space. Distance. Away from the castle. Away from my family’s questioning looks.
I end up, almost by accident, outside the village pub. The Grumpy Sheep is closed at this hour, of course. Ewan lives just at the edge of the village. Without really thinking, I pull out my phone and call him.
—McGregor? a groggy voice grumbles. Do you have any idea what time it is?
—It’s seven in the morning, I reply after checking my watch. Not exactly the middle of the night.
—On a Saturday? That’s practically dawn! What’s going on?
—I’m in the village. Can I come by?
There’s a pause, then a resigned sigh.
—Give me ten minutes.
Exactly eight minutes later, I pull up outside Ewan’s old family house. My best friend appears at the door, disheveled but dressed, his red hair a mess and his expression caught somewhere between concern and irritation.
—You’d better be dying, McGregor, he mutters, opening the door. Or at least bleeding heavily.
—Sorry for waking you, I say flatly, following him inside.
—Oh no, it’s nothing, he shoots back. I had nothing better to do on a Saturday morning than listen to a millionaire in a kilt have an existential crisis.
The house is quiet and dim. Ewan heads straight for the bar in the living room, switches on a lamp, and pours two generous glasses of whisky.
—A bit early for a drink, isn’t it? I remark.
—Says the man who wakes me at dawn looking like he just attended a funeral, he retorts, handing me a glass. So what brings you here at this ungodly hour? Let me guess—marital problems?
I take a sip, grimacing as the whisky burns its way down.
—Jane is thinking about going back to Los Angeles, I say after a moment.
Ewan lets out a low whistle.
—For good? Or just for a shoot?
—For good, I think. She got an offer for a major film. Martin Scorsese.
I add that last part as if it somehow changes anything.
—Impressive, he says. And what about you? You going with her?
The question catches me off guard. Go with her? The idea hasn’t even crossed my mind. Leave Scotland, the McGregor lands, the family business? Unthinkable.
—It’s not that simple, I say. The company is here. My family is here…
—And Jane is there, Ewan finishes. So what—long-distance marriage? You visit her between board meetings?
I stare into my glass, unable to answer. The idea of being separated from Jane—of only seeing her occasionally—suddenly feels unbearable. These past months with her have changed my life in ways I never imagined.
—She didn’t ask me to go with her, I say finally. In fact, she hasn’t even decided if she’s leaving yet.
Ewan stares at me like I’ve just confessed to being spectacularly stupid.
—And what exactly did you say to her when she told you about this opportunity?
—That I understood it was important to her and that I didn’t want to stop her from pursuing her career.
—That’s it? he presses. You didn’t tell her—you know—that you love her and don’t want her to leave?
I shift uncomfortably.
—It’s not my place to ask her to give up her dreams to stay here.
Ewan rolls his eyes so hard I’m briefly concerned they might get stuck.
—For God’s sake, Callum! You are the king of idiots. Your wife—who moved to a foreign country for you, who learned to enjoy the Highland Games, who even tamed a psychotic sheep—asks if you want her to stay, and all you can come up with is “I understand your career is important”?
When he puts it like that… it does sound incredibly stupid.
—It was the noble thing to do, I protest weakly.
—Noble? he scoffs. You’re not noble—you’re a coward. You’re so afraid she’ll choose her career over you that you’re making it easier for her by pretending it doesn’t matter.
His words hit like a punch. Is that what I’ve done? I’ve always told myself my restraint was respect—that I wasn’t influencing her. But if Ewan’s right… if my silence is actually cowardice…
—What do you suggest? I ask, at a loss. That I beg her to give up the opportunity of a lifetime to stay in a damp castle in the middle of nowhere with a Scottish husband who can barely express his feelings?
—I suggest you tell her the truth! Ewan snaps, slamming his hand on the counter. That the thought of her leaving breaks your heart, that you love her more than anything, and that you want to build a life with her—here or anywhere!
I fall silent, turning his words over in my mind. Tell the truth. Lay everything bare. No filters. No restraint. No armor of logic to hide behind.
The idea is terrifying.
—And what if it’s not enough? I murmur. What if—even knowing how I feel—she still chooses to leave?
Ewan looks at me with unexpected compassion.
—Then at least you’ll know you did everything you could. That you didn’t let pride or fear decide for you. And she’ll leave knowing exactly what she’s walking away from.
He’s right. Of course he is. Typical Ewan—seeing clearly while I drown in my own complications.
—She thinks I’d be relieved if she left, I admit. That our marriage is too far from what I originally planned. That I’d prefer someone like Heather.
—Heather? Ewan nearly chokes. That woman with the warmth of an iceberg and the empathy of an oyster? That’s ridiculous!
—Not to Jane. She’s convinced I secretly regret not marrying a perfect Scottish Lady who knows every tradition and which fork to use.
Ewan bursts out laughing.
—Callum, before Jane came into your life, you were the most boring man in Scotland. You lived like a robot programmed to honor family traditions and grow the business. You never laughed at my jokes, never danced at ceilidhs, never did anything remotely unpredictable.
I’m about to protest, but he leans in, suddenly serious.
—And then this American actress shows up—with her humor, her enthusiasm, her ability to turn disasters into adventures. And suddenly—miracle—the great Callum McGregor starts smiling. Laughing. Living. She made you human, my friend. She saved you from yourself.
His words hit me like a revelation.
He’s right.
Before Jane, I existed—but I didn’t really live. I was so focused on meeting expectations—my father’s, my mother’s, my ancestors’—that I never stopped to ask what I wanted.
And what I want… is Jane.
Not a perfect Scottish Lady. Not a wife who knows every tradition. But this unpredictable, vibrant, infuriating, extraordinary woman who turned my orderly life upside down—and made it infinitely richer.
—I need to talk to her, I say, standing abruptly.
—No, really? Ewan says dryly. I thought I might have to draw you a diagram.
—Thank you, Ewan, I say sincerely. For the wake-up call—and the whisky at seven in the morning.
—Anytime, he replies with a grin. Now go win back your wife before she decides Hollywood actors are more appealing than brooding Scots.
1 Traditional dance gathering.