— I’ve signed a preliminary agreement with William Fraser for the renovation. A real professional. Not a historian playing interior designer.
Each word lands like a blade—but I refuse to let him see it.
— Alistair will never agree to that, I say, more firmly than I feel.
— Alistair will do what’s best for the family business, Malcolm replies. Unless, of course, he’s prepared to be disinherited.
The silence that follows is glacial.
— You’re bluffing, I say.
— Am I? he replies, a humorless smile curving his lips. Are you willing to risk his future to find out? Because that’s what this is, Miss McGregor. His future. His place in this company, in this family. Everything he’s worked for.
He stands and walks to the window, looking out over the estate.
— If you truly care about him—and I’m beginning to suspect you do—you’ll free him from this lie before it destroys everything he’s built.
His words hit harder because they strike something I’ve been trying not to face.
I’m in love with Alistair.
This isn’t an arrangement anymore. Not for me.
— And of course, he adds, turning back to me, you won’t mention this conversation to Alistair. That would be… counterproductive.
The threat is clear.
— Now, shall we return to dinner? And remember, Miss McGregor—some arrangements aren’t meant to last.
The restof the evening passes in a blur. I smile. I nod. I pretend to eat. I answer Mary’s questions. But my mind is stuck, replaying Malcolm’s words over and over.
When Alistair returns, apologizing for the length of his call, I barely register it. It’s only when he takes my hand and asks if I’m okay that I realize how distant I must seem.
— I’m just tired, I say with a forced smile. It’s been a long day.
He watches me carefully, but doesn’t push.
After dessert—a soufflé I barely touch—he offers to drive me back. I say goodbye to Mary, who hugs me warmly and says she hopes to see me again soon. Malcolm only nods, his gaze heavy with meaning.
In the car, the silence is deafening. I stare out at the dark countryside, searching desperately for a solution that won’t break anyone’s heart.
There isn’t one.
— Are you sure you’re okay? Alistair asks, glancing at me. You’ve barely said a word since I got back.
— Alistair… I think we should stop.
The words come out too fast. Too blunt.
— Stop what? he asks, confused.
— All of this. Our arrangement. The engagement. It was a mistake from the start.
He brakes suddenly, pulling the car onto the side of the road. When he turns to me, his face is a mix of shock and pain.
— What? Why? What happened?
I look away, unable to face him.
