I let out a long sigh and start over. This is ridiculous. I’ve worn ties to hundreds of business meetings, formal dinners, social events. I’ve negotiated multi-million-pound contracts without breaking a sweat. And yet today, this simple strip of fabric resists me as if it has sworn to torture me.
Then again, this isn’t an ordinary day.
Today, I’m getting married.
My bedroom door swings open abruptly, without so much as a knock. There’s only one person who considers basic manners optional when it comes to my privacy.
— Is the groom ready to put his head in the noose? Ewan calls out as he strolls in like he owns the place. Or in your case, hang himself with his tie?
— Very funny, I mutter, dropping the offending tie and abandoning the battle—for now. Did you come all the way from the village just to mock me?
Ewan sets a bag on the bed that clinks suspiciously with the sound of bottles.
— I came to make sure the biggest matrimonial event in the Highlands since the last generation doesn’t start with a groom having an existential crisis.
— I’m not having an existential crisis.
— Of course not. Your tie is just naturally crooked and your forehead naturally covered in sweat.
He steps closer and, without ceremony, grabs both ends of my tie.
— Let me handle it, you incompetent CEO. Remember when I had to teach you how to tie this knot for graduation?
I can’t help but smile.
— I mostly remember you showing up completely drunk to said ceremony.
— I was festive, Ewan corrects, expertly manipulating the fabric. And you were so tense I thought you were going to shatter into pieces when the headmaster called your name.
— My father was in the front row with his stopwatch. He was literally timing how long it took me to cross the stage and collect my diploma.
Ewan shakes his head, finishing the knot with an ease that instantly makes me resent his natural coordination.
— Angus McGregor, always so warm and encouraging. And yet, you keep trying to be like him.
I’m about to protest, but stop, knowing he isn’t entirely wrong.
— There, he says, stepping back to admire his work. Now you look like a man worthy of marrying a woman like Jane.
I glance at myself in the mirror. The knot is perfect, of course. I automatically adjust the silver cufflinks that once belonged to my grandfather.
— You’re nervous, Ewan observes.
It’s not a question—more a clinical diagnosis.
— It’s normal to be nervous on your wedding day.
— Even when it’s an arranged marriage?
He walks over to the bag he brought and pulls out, unsurprisingly, a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
— Especially when it’s an arranged marriage that’s starting to look dangerously like something real, I add under my breath.
Ewan freezes, the bottle hovering above the glasses.
— Say that again?
I turn toward the window, watching the flurry of activity in the gardens where the final preparations for the reception are underway.
