JANE
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to hype myself up.
“Come on, Jane. It’s just dinner. You survivedTropical Loveand the reviews that came with it. You can survive a meal with your fake in-laws.”
My motivational speech is cut short by three sharp knocks on the door. Callum’s tense voice carries through the wood.
“Jane? My mother just arrived. Ten minutes early.”
Of course she did. Because apparently asking the universe for a few extra minutes to mentally prepare for a Scottish inquisition is too much.
“I’m coming!”
I smooth down my dress—definitely too elegant for a “family dinner” according to Callum, but honestly, if I’m going to die tonight, I might as well do it looking fabulous.
When I open the door, Callum studies me with an expression I’ve started to recognize as his version of concern. His brows are slightly drawn, his jaw tighter than usual.
“You remember our story?” he asks, like we’re about to infiltrate MI6 instead of going downstairs to eat.
“Let’s see,” I say, counting on my fingers. “We met at a work event in Los Angeles six months ago, it was love at first sight, we’ve been secretly doing long distance, and now we’re wildly in love. Did I miss anything?”
“Just the part where you don’t mention your… incident with that director.”
“Oh, you mean when I ‘lost my temper’ in public because a fifty-year-old man suggested I audition on his couch? That little detail?”
Callum pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I sigh. “No embarrassing Hollywood stories, no inappropriate jokes, and definitely no mention that our marriage is a business arrangement with an expiration date.”
“Exactly.”
“Relax, Callum. I’m an actress, remember? Playing a role is literally my job.”
“Your last role was ‘woman crying in the rain’ in an antidepressant commercial,” he reminds me.
“And I was convincing,” I shoot back, nudging his shoulder. “Come on, Mr. Sunshine. Let’s go face the McGregor clan.”
As we descend the grand staircase—seriously, who needs that many steps?—my confidence starts to slip. The castle is intimidating during the day, but at night, with shadows flickering along stone walls and portraits that seem to follow you with their eyes, it’s downright terrifying.
“Your mother already hates me, doesn’t she?” I whisper as we near the drawing room.
“She doesn’t know you yet.”
“That is not a comforting answer.”
“My mother values tradition,” he says diplomatically. “She expected me to marry a well-bred Scottish woman with a family tree tracing back to Robert the Bruce.”
“Instead, you brought home an unemployed American actress whose greatest recent achievement is not falling into a mud puddle this morning.”
Before he can respond, we step into the drawing room—and the entire McGregor clan is waiting.
Maggie sits like a queen in an elegant tartan ensemble. Keira lounges on the arm of a sofa, whisky in hand. Lachlan is deep in conversation with a man I don’t recognize—probably Dougal, Callum’s right-hand man. And at the center of it all, positioned like she was placed there for maximum dramatic impact, stands a woman in her fifties whose features mirror Callum’s—just sharper. Colder.
“Mother,” Callum says, stepping forward. “This is Jane.”
Isobel McGregor studies me like a particularly fascinating insect. I extend my hand with my brightest, most practiced smile—the one I usually reserve for skeptical producers.
“Hello, Mrs. McGregor.”
