— Perfect, Madame Gordon, Maggie thanks her. Jane, you look lovely. Callum will be dazzled.
— If he notices anything, Keira comments. My brother would probably miss it if you got married in a wetsuit.
— Very well, Maggie says, standing. Jane, once you’re changed, join me in the sitting room for the lesson on the Quaich ceremony. Isobel, Keira, will you join us?
— Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Keira says brightly.
— I have calls to make, Isobel declines politely. But I’m sure Jane will rise to the occasion.
Her tone is less cold than before, and I choose to take that as a small victory.
Once the three women leave, Madame Gordon helps me carefully out of the dress.
— You know, she says as she folds the precious gown with care, I’ve worked for the McGregor family for twenty-five years. I’ve dressed Lady McGregor for countless occasions, I made Isobel’s wedding gown. I’ve watched Callum grow from a serious little boy into the man he is today.
She pauses, adjusting her glasses.
— He’s never been the type to quote poetry or call in the middle of the night to talk about the stars.
My heart skips a beat. Has she figured out I was lying?
— But you know what? she continues with a knowing smile. It was a beautiful story. And the way you told it… your eyes were brighter than the pearls on this dress.
— I don’t understand, I stammer.
— Sometimes, my dear, the stories we invent reveal more truth than the ones that are real.
With those cryptic words, she gathers her things and leaves me alone, confused and unsettled.
I change quickly. The situation is so absurd I’d laugh if I weren’t still shaken by Madame Gordon’s words. The old woman clearly didn’t believe a single thing I said. If the seamstress isn’t fooled, how can I hope to convince Callum’s family?
I made up everything—the flowers, the poem, the late-night call… none of it happened. It was a performance, nothing more. My job is to be convincing when I tell stories that aren’t real.
And yet, a small voice in my head reminds me that the best performances come from a place of truth. What does it say about me that I was able to imagine, so easily and so convincingly, a romantic, passionate version of Callum?
I shake my head, pushing away the thought, and head toward the sitting room where my next Scottish lesson awaits. I need to focus on the immediate goal: survive this wedding, convince Callum’s family, and honor our contract. No room for confusing feelings that have no place in this arrangement.
But as I walk down the grand staircase, I can’t help wondering—what would Callum actually be like in love? Would he really quote poetry? Would he call in the middle of the night just to talk about the stars?
And more troubling still—why does that image make my heart beat a little faster?
I shake my head again. It’s probably just wedding stress. Or maybe a side effect—acupuncture style—of the forty pins that tried to assassinate my ribs during that fitting. Yes, that must be it. Nothing to do with inappropriate feelings for my future fake husband.
Absolutely nothing.
CHAPTER 12
CALLUM
I check the time on my watch for the third time in five minutes. It’s 7:28 a.m. I told Jane we’d leave at exactly 7:30, which gives me precisely two minutes to brood over Ewan and his annoyingly brief message from 5:45 this morning:
EWAN
Sorry, mate, can’t make it. Work issue. Enjoy the one-on-one time with your future wife
That wink. That damn winking emoji.
I’ve known Ewan since we lost our baby teeth, and I can say with absolute certainty that his distillery is running just fine. The only thing that runs better is his imagination when it comes to pushing me out of my comfort zone.
