Page 12 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)

CHAPTER SEVEN

BETH

The relentless buzzing of my phone jolted me from a deep slumber, the sound slicing through the fog of sleep like a siren.

I groaned, cracking one eye open to the harsh light streaming in, and raising a hand to my forehead, feeling like I’d been flattened by a freight train.

My head throbbed, a painful reminder of last night’s ill-advised drinking binge that was meant to wipe out the memory of the disaster with the photographer.

Groaning, I reached for my mobile, squinting at the screen.

Why the hell do they make these screens so bright?

“Fuck me sideways,” I muttered, my eyes widening as I scrolled through the endless notifications. Missed calls from Mum, Dad, Kinna, and about a dozen numbers I didn’t recognize. Text messages. Instagram tags and other social media mentions.

It was like the same nightmare playing repeatedly, waking up to bad news.

My stomach lurched as I opened the first news alert. The headline affronted me in all caps: “WILD CHILD HEIRESS BETH MACLEOD CAUGHT IN STEAMY CLINCH WITH AMERICAN MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER!”

“No, no, no,” I whispered, my hands shaking as I continued through the article. There it was, in full color glory, a photo of Sean and me locked in that passionate kiss in the garden. My face was clearly visible, my red hair a dead giveaway.

I felt the bile rise in my throat as I read the speculation about our “torrid affair” and “secret rendezvous.” They’d dug up every sordid detail of my past, painting me as some kind of party girl seductress who’d ensnared poor, innocent Sean McCrae.

I almost threw my phone across the room, when it buzzed with an incoming call. Mum.

Fuck.

I took a moment and answered. “Hello?”

“Elisabeth Fiona MacLeod,” my mother’s voice was a sliver of ice in my ear. “You will come to the house. Immediately. Your father and I are waiting in the study.”

The line went dead before I could utter a word. No room for excuses. It wasn’t a request; it was a summons.

I looked around my messy room, feeling the weight of dread settle in my stomach.

Getting dressed up was pointless. My life was over anyway.

But I couldn’t show up like a disaster either.

That’d give my parents too much joy in being right about me.

I quickly pulled on a fitted black sweater and a pair of jeans, hoping to at least be presentable.

After a cursory glance in the mirror, noting the wild strands of my hair and the remnants of last night’s makeup, I sighed and ran a quick brush through my hair. Whatever.

Grabbing my keys, I hurried out to my car. As I drove toward my parents’ upscale manor in Glasgow, my chest tightened with dread, each pulse mirroring the chaotic thoughts swirling in my mind. I knew exactly what this meeting was about.

Pulling into the driveway, I felt an icy knot of nerves tighten in my stomach. The house stood over me like a fortress, all intimidating angles and heavy vibes, just brimming with expectations and judgement.

As I parked, I steadied myself to face whatever punishment awaited me. I had the urge to slam the car in reverse and peel out of there; I mean, who wouldn’t want to run from their problems, right? Classic move. Shit. I was totally screwed.

Each step toward the front door felt monumental. Before my hand could even touch the heavy brass knob, the door swung open. Angus stood there, our lifelong butler, his posture as impeccably straight as ever.

“Miss Elisabeth,” he said, his voice a perfectly neutral baritone.

“Angus.” I stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scent of polished wood and beeswax.

He took my coat, his movements precise and practiced.

But as he turned to hang it in the hall closet, his eyes met mine for just a fraction of a second.

There was no judgment there, none of the cold disappointment I knew I was about to face.

Instead, I saw a flicker of something else—a deep, weary sadness.

The kind of pity a man has for a lamb he’s about to lead to the slaughter.

He cleared his throat. “They are waiting for you in the study, miss,” he said quietly. “The... atmosphere is quite charged.”

It was the closest he would ever come to a warning. With a final, almost imperceptible nod, he turned and disappeared toward the back of the house, leaving me alone in the grand, silent hall. The only sound was the low rumble of my parents’ angry voices floating out from the study.

I paused outside the door and prepared myself. Part of me wanted to run, to hide from the storm I knew was coming. But I’d been running for too long. It was time to face the music.

I entered, bracing myself for impact.

My father was pacing, his face red with anger. My mother, however, sat perfectly poised in her wingback chair, her eyes boring into me with cold disappointment.

“We know that you’ve embarrassed this family for the last time,” Mum said, her tone icy. “We’ve tried to help you, Elisabeth. We’ve given you chance after chance. But clearly, you’re incapable of change.”

I felt tears pricking at my eyes. “That’s not true. I’ve been trying, I swear. The outreach program with the kids?—”

Dad’s laugh was laced with scorn. “Oh yes, Bright Futures. The one you’ve now dragged through the mud with your antics. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I said, my voice small. “I just... I met someone, and for once, it felt real. This is nothing like last time. This is just social media gossip, blown completely out of proportion by the tabloids.”

“Felt real? Like what?” Mum sneered, ignoring my defense. “True love? Grow up, Elisabeth. He’s an American, who’s here in Glasgow for a few weeks on business. Men like that aren’t interested in your charming personality. They want one thing, and once they get it, they’re gone. Back to America.”

Her words stung more than I wanted to admit. Because deep down, I knew she was right.

My father, looking to her for his cue, finally spoke, his voice heavy with finality. “This has to stop, Elisabeth. Your wild ways end now. ”

“Your father is correct,” Mum continued, taking control of the conversation again.

She steepled her fingers, her gaze pinning me in place.

“We have been in contact with a wonderful private wellness clinic in Switzerland. A beautiful, discreet place in the Alps where you can rest, reset, and learn the tools of emotional regulation that seem to elude you. A place where there are no… distracting influences. We have you signed up for six months to start.”

I stared at them in disbelief. “Rehab? For an entire six months? You can’t be fucking serious. That’s a prison sentence. I don’t have a problem!”

A flicker of defiance surged through me. I still had the foundation. I had that. I lifted my chin, latching onto the only piece of leverage I had.

“And I can’t go,” I said, my voice suddenly firm. “I have responsibilities.”

My mother’s eyebrow arched slightly, a sign of faint, condescending amusement. “Responsibilities? To whom, pray tell?”

“To the foundation,” I said, pressing my advantage.

“To Bright Futures. You’re the ones who insisted I take this on, to prove I could be responsible.

I am doing that. I have children there who are counting on me, a project I’m committed to.

Surely you wouldn’t want me to dishonor my responsibility to the foundation, Mother?

Think of the message that would send to their board. ”

A small, cold smile touched Fiona’s lips.

“Oh, Elisabeth. How noble of you to hide behind the very opportunity you’ve just jeopardized.

Let’s not be naive. You are confusing a consequence with a career.

That position is a penance we arranged. And given this new, very public ‘romance’ you’ve flaunted, I imagine the foundation’s board is, as we speak, having a very serious conversation about the liability of keeping a ‘wild child heiress’ around their vulnerable children.

Your ‘responsibility’ there is likely already obsolete. ”

My stomach plummeted. She was right. Of course, she was right. She was always five steps ahead.

“Your mother is right. Don’t think for a second they won’t fire you,” Dad boomed, stepping back in to deliver the final blow, his voice leaving no room for doubt.

“They will. And when they do, if you still refuse to go to Switzerland, then you’re cut off.

Completely. No allowance, no credit cards. You’ll be on your own.”

My mother stood, her movements graceful and final. “The choice is yours, of course,” she said, though her tone made it clear there was no choice at all. “A restorative six-month retreat to Switzerland, or the harsh reality of a world that does not coddle the MacLeod name.”

Back in my apartment, I kicked off my shoes and plopped down on the bed, tossing my mobile onto the pillow.

How had everything turned into such a nightmare? Just a few days ago, I’d been on top of the world, thinking I could have it all, the wild nights out and the responsible volunteer work. Now it was all crumbling around me.

My phone buzzed again, and against my better judgment, I picked it up. It was a message from Kinna: “You okay, babe? It’s a shit show out there. Call me if you need me.”

I opened a social media account, scrolling through the endless mentions and hashtags. #WildChildBeth was trending, along with #MacLeodScandal and #MotivationalMistress. Each tweet felt like a knife to the gut .

Once a party girl, always a party girl. #WildChildBeth

Poor Sean McCrae, getting mixed up with that train wreck. #MacLeodScandal

Guess money can’t buy class. Or common sense. #MotivationalMistress

I kept scrolling, powerless to look away from the train wreck. Former classmates weighing in with their own “wild Beth” stories. Acquaintances distancing themselves, claiming they’d always known I was trouble.