“How much is he offering?”
A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Now we’re talking. One million dollars. For one year. With the possibility of an early divorce under certain conditions.”
I let out a low whistle despite myself.
“A million dollars to play the perfect wife? That sounds too good to be true. There’s got to be a catch.”
“The only ‘catch’ is that you’d have to live in Scotland for the duration. In a castle, by the way. A real ancestral castle in the Highlands.”
“A castle?” I repeat. “What, with ghosts and freezing drafts?”
“I assume they’ve discovered heating by now,” Max says dryly. “But yes. A genuine Scottish castle. The views are incredible, apparently.”
I go quiet, thinking.
One year in Scotland.
Far from paparazzi. From headlines. From Ryan and his stupid Spielberg glow.
One year to rebuild.
To breathe.
To earn a million dollars.
“What exactly would I have to do?” I ask slowly. “Pretend to be in love?”
My stomach twists.
How far does this role go?
Would I have to… sleep with him?
“Mostly public appearances,” Max says. “Family events, photos, maintaining the illusion of a real marriage. Privately, you’ll have separate spaces. There are no… conjugal expectations, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I let out a nervous laugh.
“How romantic.”
“And,” he adds, “he’s not exactly hard on the eyes.”
He opens a file and slides a photo across the desk.
I glance down?—
—and blink.
Okay.
Well.
That’s… unexpected.
Callum McGregor is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Impeccably dressed. Serious. Intense.
Definitely not hideous.
