— I know, she grins. Now come on. Let’s go face the dragon in Louboutins.
The main sittingroom 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.
