“I see your agent explained the situation.”
“Oh yes. Great pitch. ‘Wealthy man seeks temporary wife to secure inheritance. Bonus: castle included, eccentric grandmother free of charge.’ I almost asked if there was a full script or if we were improvising.”
I straighten, already irritated by her tone. “If you find this so amusing, why agree to meet?”
Her coffee arrives, briefly interrupting the tension. She takes a sip, closes her eyes for a moment, then looks at me again.
“Because I’m in a professional mess, and disappearing from Hollywood for a year might be exactly what I need. And because, contrary to what you seem to think, Mr. McGregor, I haven’t accepted anything yet. I don’t make major life decisions without meeting the person involved.”
“Reasonable,” I concede. “What would you like to know?”
“Why me? You could’ve chosen anyone. Why specifically an American actress?”
A fair question. I take a sip of my espresso before answering.
“For several reasons. I need someone who understands the temporary nature of this arrangement, someone who won’t develop emotional attachments. Someone used to performing in public while keeping their private life separate. Ideally, someone with a compelling reason to leave the United States—and to do so quickly. Say… tomorrow.”
Her eyes widen in surprise.
“And how did you find me?” she asks.
“My assistant conducted research. Your recent scandal suggested you might benefit from time away from the spotlight.”
A flush rises to her cheeks, equal parts embarrassment and irritation.
“So you specifically looked for a disgraced actress. Charming. I’m flattered.”
“I looked for someone whose interests align with mine,” I correct evenly. “A mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“A marriage of convenience. Very romantic.”
“Romance is not a requirement,” I reply. “Clarity and mutual understanding are.”
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Then let’s talk about those terms.”
I slide the folder from my briefcase and place it between us. “It’s quite straightforward. We get legally married, you move to my family estate in Scotland, and we maintain the appearance of a normal marriage for approximately one year. After that, we divorce discreetly, you receive the agreed payment, and we go our separate ways.”
“And during that year?” she asks, arching a brow. “Am I expected to play the perfect little housewife? Make breakfast in an apron and smile sweetly while you go off to work?”
Her sarcasm is starting to grate.
“You would be expected to attend family and business events, interact convincingly with my relatives, and, more generally, avoid drawing attention to the artificial nature of our arrangement.”
She takes another sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim. “And your grandmother? My agent mentioned she’s… sharp.”
“Maggie is stubborn, not unkind. If we are convincing, she will have no reason to question us.”
Jane lets out a soft laugh. “You’ve never worked with actresses, have you?”
“I fail to see the connection.”
“We can spot fake emotions from a mile away. It’s literally our job. And if your grandmother is as perceptive as you say, she’s going to test us. Constantly.”
She isn’t wrong, which is precisely what makes it irritating.
“We’ll be prepared,” I say curtly. “And I don’t intend to lie to her about the arrangement itself—only about its duration.”
“And the living situation?” she asks, more directly now. “I assume I won’t be sharing your bedroom.”
