Page 2 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)
The woman’s hair was soft in my fingers as I yanked, trying to reach her phone. Someone screamed—maybe me or her. The room dissolved into chaos around us, but all I was focused on was destroying that damned phone before?—
Strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back. My father’s presence cut through the fog of booze and rage.
“That’s enough, Elisabeth,” he growled in my ear, his voice carrying decades of disappointment. “You’ve done quite enough.”
The last thing I saw before I puked in the middle of the ballroom was Stewart’s disgusted face, Jacques’s pitiful worried look, and my mother’s perfectly masked devastation. Then I passed out stone cold.
Consciousness came back like a tide of broken glass, each wave bringing fresh pain and sharper regrets. The gala. The champagne. The dark-haired Frenchman, Jacques something. And then... oh fuck.
My mouth tasted like something had crawled in and died, probably my dignity. I cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it. Even the filtered sunlight was like ice picks straight to my brain .
“Good morning, daughter .”
The dry voice sent fresh spikes of pain through my skull. I recognized that tone. It was my mother’s “I’m-so-disappointed-I-can’t-even-be-bothered-to-yell” voice. Somewhere beyond the hangover, my stomach clenched.
I forced my eyes open again, fighting waves of nausea as the room slowly came into focus. Not my flat. The Dorchester Suite, Mummy’s favorite place to handle family scandals.
Mother sat in a wingback chair like it was a throne, her Chanel suit pristine despite the early hour. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed a sleepless night, carefully concealed but visible to anyone who knew her well.
“What…” I tried to sit up, but the room tilted alarmingly. “What time is it?”
“Time to face the consequences of your actions,” she said, each word precise as a surgeon’s cut. She picked up a tablet from the side table. “Would you like to see what four hundred of Glasgow’s most influential people witnessed last night? The video’s already ‘trending,’ I think is the word.”
“How bad is it?” I asked, not sure I wanted the answer.
“Well, the doctor says you’ll pull through, but I’m not so sure your standing in our circles will survive this one. See for yourself.”
I squinted at the screen, my stomach dropping as I read the headline: “THE MACLEOD MENANCE STRIKES AGAIN: BETH MACLEOD’S DRUNKEN RAMPAGE AT CHILDREN’S CHARITY GALA.”
There I was, in all my shit-faced glory, screaming at some poor woman and yanking her hair like a demented banshee.
Christ, I looked like a proper nutter. The video continued, showing my father at the edge of the frame, his face a mask of controlled fury as I kicked and screamed.
I cringed as I watched myself being half-carried, half-dragged out of the ballroom, my dress hiked up indecently high.
The last frame caught my face in perfect clarity, drunk, mad, and utterly lost.
“Oh god,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Mummy, I?—”
“Save it, Elisabeth Fiona MacLeod,” she cut me off using my full name. That was never a good sign. “You’re lucky she’s not pressing charges. But your father and I have had enough. This ends now.”
Mother set the tablet aside. “The board of directors has already called an emergency meeting. The charity’s biggest donors are threatening to withdraw their support. And Stewart Beauchamp’s mother… a dear friend, I might add… is absolutely mortified.”
“Fuck Stewart,” I muttered, then immediately regretted it as Mother’s face went carefully blank.
“Yes, well, that’s rather the problem, isn’t it? You seem bound to... what’s the phrase? ‘Fuck up’ every opportunity we provide.” She stood, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. “Your father and I have come to a decision.”
The room suddenly seemed colder. I pulled the duvet higher, as if it would shield me from what was coming.
“This will be your last chance. ‘Fuck up’ one more time, and we cut you off. Completely.” Her voice softened slightly, which somehow made it worse. “We can’t keep watching you destroy yourself, Beth. And we won’t let you drag the MacLeod name down with you.”
“You can’t be serious?—”
“Oh, I’m deadly serious.” She moved to the window, adjusting the curtains. “I’ve made arrangements with the Bright Futures Foundation. ”
“The what foundation? Made arrangements? What are you talking about?” I croaked.
She turned back to me. “It’s about time you contribute to our family’s reputation in a positive way.
Or… you could simply get married. I talked with Stewart after…
,” Mum said, her tone deceptively casual.
“Marriage will settle you down, make you stop your wild ways. You’re twenty-nine, Elisabeth. It’s time.”
The idea made me sick, and she knew it. “Christ, Mummy, he’s revolting.
Even you wouldn’t marry him for his fancy titles.
You told him to be there, didn’t you? You were trying to set me up with him, weren’t you?
This is not the first time, Mother. You have been trying to push Stewart on me for years. ”
“I would stop talking right now, if I were you. Stewart is stable. Respectable. Everything you seem intent on not being.”
My stomach churned like a washing machine full of last night’s bad decisions and cheap booze.
“He’s repulsive is what he is. What makes you think I’d ever want him?
He’s dull and has no passion. Plus, he only wants to marry me for Father’s money, Mum.
You realize, don’t you, his family has squandered theirs, and just because he has ties to French and Scottish royalty doesn’t mean he’s a good person for me.
Stop trying to control my love life! I’m not some pedigree dog for you to breed! ”
Mum sniffed and stuck her chin out, trying to maintain her composure. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“No, we won’t. Stewart and all that marriage sh… stuff is out of the question.” My voice was firmer than I let on, but in the back of my mind, dread was creeping in. She would never stop pushing him on me.
Mother let out a sigh of pure, theatrical exasperation, waving a dismissive hand as if batting away my childish protests.
“Believe me, Elisabeth, if it were solely my decision, Stewart or poverty would be your only choices. A suitable marriage is the only cure for this… melodrama. But your father…” She rolled her eyes.
“…he insisted. He has some sentimental notion that you should be given one more chance to ‘prove your worth’ before we take more drastic measures. He seems to think a bit of charity work will suddenly turn you into a responsible adult.” Her eyes narrowed, resembling chips of ice.
“Make no mistake, Beth. From now on, every choice you make will either be an investment in this family's reputation... or the beginning of a life lived entirely without its support. The choice is yours. Make it wisely.”
I stared at my mother, my mind reeling. The hangover and this bombshell were too much to process at once. “Investment? How?” I asked frantically.
Mum’s eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed by my pitiful state. “Like I said, there’s a foundation called Bright Futures. For homeless and abused children.” Her tone dripped with irony. “Considering the charity you’ve just... well, let’s say ‘disappointed,’ it seems rather fitting, don’t you agree?”
I winced, remembering flashes of my behavior last night. “Mum, I?—”
She held up a hand, silencing me. “I’ve already reached out to the organizers. You’ll be at their office, nine AM Monday as their new volunteer.”
“Volunteer?” I sputtered. “But I don’t know the first thing about fundraising?—”
“Then I suggest you learn quickly,” Mum cut in, her voice steady. “Because if you don’t show up, Elisabeth, the free ride ends. Do I make myself clear? ”
I nodded weakly, my stomach queasy from more than just the hangover.
Mum smoothed down her skirt. “Good. I’ll leave you to your... recovery.” She paused at the door, her hand on the knob. “Don’t let us down again, Beth. Please.”
The door clicked shut with the finality of a coffin lid. I lay back, staring at the ceiling. The MacLeod name had always been my ticket to whatever I wanted. Now it was like a noose.
“Fuck,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice cracking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”