Page 40 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)
Danny sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look, man, I get it. You’re all in on this girl. It makes you crazy.” He pulled out his phone, his expression turning grim. “And unfortunately, that’s not the only fire I have to put out this morning.”
My stomach clenched. “What do you mean? The sponsors?”
“Worse. I just got off the phone with Reach New Heights,” Danny said, his voice grim. “They’re threatening to terminate the audiobook contract.”
“They can’t do that,” I whispered.
“They can, and they are,” Danny said, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“They’re citing the morality clause. They’re panicking over this new balcony photo.
I told them they were being idiots, that the narrative of you ‘saving’ her from this office creep is PR gold, but they’re a bunch of stuffy old suits who can’t see the forest for the trees.
They see a ‘pattern,’ and they’re too afraid of a little heat to see the opportunity.
We’re not a liability, Sean; they’re just cowards. ”
He was right. They’re cowards. But this wasn’t just a few nervous sponsors anymore. This was a multi-year, seven-figure contract, gone. Vanished because of a series of impulsive decisions I had made, all in the name of… what? Love ?
“This is because of her,” I said, the words tasting like poison. “Every bit of this chaos started the moment I met her.”
Danny just looked at me, his expression a mix of pity and frustration.
“No, Sean,” he said quietly. “This isn’t because of her.
This is because of you. It’s because you couldn’t get her out of your mind.
You’re like obsessed with her, man. You could have laid low after Glasgow, let the whole thing die down.
But you didn’t. You flew to New York. You chose the drama.
” He leaned forward, his voice low. “You’re the one driving the car, man.
She’s just the passenger you decided to pick up in the middle of a hurricane. ”
I stared at him, the anger draining out of me, replaced by a vast, hollow emptiness. He was right. About all of it. I’m a jealous prick. I hadn’t trusted her. And I had single-handedly torpedoed one of the biggest deals of my career. And for what?
I had come to New York to save Beth from her own self-destruction, and in the process, I had managed to set my own life on fire.
I sat in my hotel room for hours, the silence a heavy blanket. Danny’s words on repeat in my head: “You’re the one driving the car, man.”
He was right. I had acted like a controlling, jealous asshole.
I hadn’t given Beth the benefit of the doubt for a single second.
I had seen a picture and, fueled by my own insecurities and suspicions about Garrett, I had condemned her.
I had treated her exactly like her parents did; like someone who needed to be managed and controlled.
I had become the very thing she was running from.
The realization was a cold, hard stone in my gut.
I thought about Olivia. I had come here thinking I was honoring her memory, protecting someone else from the pain of public humiliation.
But I had failed. I hadn’t protected Beth; I had attacked her.
I had used my own trauma as an excuse to justify my possessiveness.
I had to fix this. Not for my career, not for my brand, but for us. For her. For me. For the possibility of what we could be, if I hadn’t just destroyed it.
My first impulse was to call her, to plead, to apologize over the phone.
But that felt like a coward’s move. This required a real gesture.
My eyes landed on the small, neatly wrapped box on the hotel dresser.
The antique music box I’d bought for her in Philadelphia.
I had intended to give it to her as a romantic surprise, a symbol of a hopeful future.
Now, it felt like my only possible peace offering.
I grabbed the box, along with my wallet and keys. On the way out, I stopped at the cafe near the hotel, the one where we'd had our first coffee date. I bought two lattes and two chocolate croissants, the order now painfully familiar.
The entire taxi ride to her Brooklyn apartment, my stomach was in knots. She would probably see me and slam the door in my face. I wouldn’t blame her.
I didn’t go up to her door. That felt too invasive. Instead, I sat on the bottom step of her stoop, the coffee getting cold in the bag beside me, and waited. After psyching myself up for ten minutes, I pulled out my phone.
Me: I’m outside. I have coffee. And something for you. I know I don’t deserve it, but please, will you come down?
I stared at the screen, watching the three dots appear, disappear, then appear again. Each second felt like an hour. Finally, a reply came through.
Beth: Give me five minutes .
It wasn’t forgiveness, not even close. But it was an opening.
It was a start. A few minutes later, the front door of the brownstone opened.
Beth stepped out, wrapped in a thick cardigan, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Her face was pale, her eyes holding the shadows of the hurt from this morning.
“The coffee’s already cold,” I said, my voice rough as I stood up, holding the bag out to her. It was a stupid thing to say, but it was all I could think of.
She took it without a word. The silence was brutal.
“I also have this,” I said, holding out the small, wrapped box. “I bought it for you in Philadelphia... before everything. It reminded me of you.”
She looked from the box to my face, her expression wary. With hesitant fingers, she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. The soft, intricate melody of "Clair de Lune" floated into the quiet street. Her breath hitched, and her eyes weltered with fresh tears as she looked up at me.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” I started, my voice low. “Lunch. Anywhere you’d like. Please?”
She looked down at the music box, then back at me, a long, unreadable expression on her face. Finally, she gave a single, sharp nod.
“Okay,” she said, her voice fragile but firm. “One hour. Veselka. Don’t be late.”
I met her at the Ukrainian diner in the East Village an hour later. The atmosphere between us was fragile, brittle. She wouldn’t meet my eyes at first, just stared down at her menu.
“Thank you for agreeing to lunch,” I started, my voice low .
She looked up then, her eyes still holding a shadow of the hurt from this morning. “I almost didn’t.”
“I know,” I said. “And I wouldn’t blame you if you hadn’t.
” I paused. “Beth, what I said this morning… it was inexcusable. My jealousy, my insecurity… it all got the better of me. I saw that picture, and I didn’t see you.
I just saw my own fear. Fear of losing something that was starting to feel incredibly important to me.
That’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth. I am so sorry.”
She listened, her expression unreadable. She finally spoke, her voice quiet. “You didn’t trust me, Sean.”
“I know,” I admitted, the words tasting like shame.
“And I had no reason not to. I let a picture, and an article written by a stranger have more weight than the woman I was holding in my arms this morning. I broke the most fundamental rule of any relationship, and I did it without a second thought. I am so sorry.”
She was quiet for a long moment, just stirring her coffee.
“That man, Garrett,” she began, finally meeting my gaze.
“He’s been… difficult. He cornered me on that balcony.
He was being aggressive. The hug… I was trying to de-escalate.
That picture was taken right when he got handsy with me.
I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this. I didn’t want to cause more drama.”
Every word was another knife in my gut. I had not only failed to trust her, but I had failed to protect her. I had left her to deal with that creep alone, and then I had blamed her for it.
“Beth,” I said, my voice thick with a self-loathing so profound it was almost choking me. “I am so much sorrier than I was a minute ago.”
“I know,” she said softly, and I saw a flicker of forgiveness in her eyes. “But you need to know, Sean, I can’t be with someone who doesn’t trust me. I spent my whole life this far being second-guessed by my parents. No more. I’m done being judged by people. No matter who they are. Even you.”
“You won’t have to,” I said, reaching across the table and taking her hand.
“I promise. I will earn your trust back, every single day, if you’ll let me.
” I looked into her eyes, laying my own soul bare.
“The reason I reacted so badly, the reason I’m so terrified of losing you, is because… Beth, I’m falling in love with you.”
Her eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. The confession hung in the air between us, raw and real.
A slow, tentative smile touched her lips. “You know,” she said, her voice a near whisper, “for a guy who just acted like a complete bastard, you have ridiculously good timing.” She squeezed my hand. “Because I think… I think I’m falling in love with you, too.”
The tension between us didn’t just break; it dissolved, replaced by a wave of relief so powerful it was dizzying. We sat there for a moment, just looking at each other, the noise of the diner fading away.
“A fresh start?” I asked, my voice hopeful.
“A fresh start,” she agreed, her smile finally reaching her eyes. “But if you ever accuse me of something like that again, I will personally introduce your face to a brick wall.”
I laughed, a real laugh this time. “Fair enough.”