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 sixteendirection 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.
