“We say we met during my last business trip to the U.S. That things progressed quickly. A whirlwind romance.”
She huffs softly. “You? A whirlwind romance? That’s hard to picture.”
“You might be surprised what I’m capable of when my inheritance is at stake.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “So we met, fell madly in love, and decided to get married immediately. And no one will question that?”
“People have done far stranger things for love.”
“You’re not a romantic, are you, Mr. McGregor?”
“Callum,” I correct automatically. “If you’re going to be my wife, you should at least use my first name.”
“Callum,” she repeats, her American accent wrapping around it in a way that sounds unexpectedly… interesting. “And I’m Jane. Not ‘Miss Carter.’”
“Jane,” I echo.
For a moment, our gazes hold. Something flickers—brief, unexpected—before she looks away.
“If we do this, I have conditions,” she says.
“I’m listening.”
“First, I want to keep working. Maybe not on set, but reading scripts, taking classes, things like that.”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with our obligations, I have no objection.”
“Second, we establish clear boundaries. Private space, agreed schedules for public appearances, freedom to move around, to invite friends if needed.”
“You will not be a prisoner, Jane.”
“I just want that clear from the start.”
“It is.”
“And third, I want an exit clause.”
“In what sense?”
“If this becomes… untenable. If one of us develops feelings for someone else, or if the situation becomes too complicated, we need a way out.”
It’s a reasonable request, even if the likelihood of emotional complications seems minimal.
“We can include such a clause.”
She nods, satisfied. “Good. Now, the wedding. I assume it’ll be discreet?”
“Actually, no. It needs to be real. Not extravagant, but convincing. My family will be there.”
Her eyes widen. “You mean an actual ceremony? With guests and everything?”
“Yes.”
“And when is this supposed to happen?”
“In two weeks.”
“Two weeks?!” she blurts, loud enough to draw attention from the other side of the glass.