Babe!!! Wedding pics are blowing up in UK tabloids. Your stock is rising in Hollywood. Three casting directors called. You looked STUNNING. Call me, this is URGENT!!!!!
I stare at the screen, stunned. Tabloid photos? Already? How is that even possible?
Another message comes through almost instantly, with links to several articles. I tap the first one—and my chest tightens.
DISGRACED ACTRESS JANE CARTER MARRIES SCOTTISH MILLIONAIRE: FAIRYTALE OR CAREER MOVE?
The article swings between cynicism and romance, suggesting I may have cleverly escaped my Hollywood scandal by marrying a wealthy Scottish businessman—while also admitting we make a striking couple.
And the photos…
They’re beautiful. I can’t deny that.
Callum and me beneath the flowered arch, exchanging vows.
Callum and me kissing—completely lost in each other.
Callum and me dancing, laughing, looking at the world like we share the same one.
We look…
In love.
The word echoes inside me.
In love.
We look like two people deeply, undeniably connected—not like participants in a carefully negotiated arrangement.
And for a fleeting, dangerous second…
I wonder if any of it was real.
CHAPTER 19
CALLUM
Edinburgh is breathtaking this morning, bathed in that peculiar light that turns gray stone into pale gold. It’s one of the things I love most about this city—its ability to look majestic even in the rain, and downright dazzling when the sun decides to make an appearance. Unfortunately, I’m in no mood to appreciate any of it today.
I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for forty-five minutes, sitting in a trendy café on George Street, and I haven’t written a single line of the so-called “urgent” email I’m supposed to be drafting. No matter how many times I mentally rework the opening, the words won’t come. How could they? My mind is completely consumed with replaying last night.
Jane. Her lips on mine. The softness of her skin beneath my fingers. And then my spectacular exit.
— Will that be all, sir?
The waitress is looking at me with a mix of professional politeness and barely concealed impatience. I realize this is the third time she’s asked if I’d like anything else—and my coffee has been cold for at least twenty minutes.
— Another coffee, please. Double espresso.
— Rough day? she asks with a sympathetic smile.
— You have no idea, I reply.
I stop myself from adding that I fled my wedding suite last night after kissing my wife like a desperate teenager, then invented a business emergency this morning just to avoid facing her.
The waitress blinks, and for a split second I wonder if I said that out loud.
— I’ll bring that right away, she says quickly before hurrying off.
