Page 41 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BETH
I walked into the Hillsdale Foundation the next morning feeling like a gladiator entering the Colosseum, armed with nothing but the lingering warmth of Sean’s promises.
After our fight and reconciliation, after he’d explained his fears, things between us felt both fragile and more real than ever.
His belief in me was a shield, but it felt terrifyingly thin against the guillotine I was sure was waiting for me: the new tabloid story featuring the photo of me and Garrett on the balcony.
Every tick of the subway car’s wheels had been a countdown to my professional execution.
I fully expected to be unceremoniously sacked the moment I walked through the door.
Losing this position wasn’t just about professional failure; it meant losing my visa, losing my foothold in New York, losing this new life I was so desperately trying to build.
It meant being sent back to Glasgow with my tail between my legs, then straight to Switzerland for my parents’ six-month “wellness” ultimatum .
The polished lobby felt different today.
The air itself seemed charged with judgment.
The security guard, who usually gave me a friendly nod, suddenly found his computer screen incredibly fascinating as I swiped my temporary badge.
At least it still let me inside. The whispers started the moment I stepped out of the elevator into the development department, a low hiss of gossip that followed me like a toxic cloud.
Conversations didn’t just stop; they were decapitated mid-sentence, replaced by a heavy, pointed silence.
I could feel the eyes on me, a physical weight on my shoulders, seeing not Beth the intern, but “The Human Wrecking Ball” from the headlines.
It was Glasgow all over again, but with better lighting and more expensive suits.
I kept my chin up, my expression a carefully constructed mask of indifference I’d perfected over years of enduring society functions.
This time, however, the mask didn’t feel quite so brittle.
I wasn’t just the MacLeod train wreck anymore.
I was Sean’s… something. And that thought gave me a strength I hadn’t realized I was missing.
It was the only thing keeping my spine straight as I navigated the minefield of cubicles to my desk.
I walked directly to Ms. Henderson’s office door and knocked before I could lose my nerve.
“Come in,” her voice called, clipped and professional.
I stepped inside, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Ms. Henderson, you wanted to see me?”
She looked up from her computer, her gaze cool and assessing.
There was no anger there, no disappointment.
Nothing. Her complete neutrality was more unnerving than any lecture could have been.
It was the look of a woman who had already calculated every possible outcome and was simply waiting to see which one played out.
“Elisabeth,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. “Please, sit.”
I sat, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to keep them from trembling. This was it. The axe was about to fall. I opened my mouth, a pre-emptive apology already on my lips, ready to explain, to beg if I had to.
But she spoke first. “I’ve been reviewing your work here,” she began, her eyes flicking back to her screen.
Here it comes, I thought, bracing myself.
“Your efficiency with the mailings has been noted. You’re fast, and your error rate is negligible.
” She looked up at me again. “Which is why I’ve concluded that envelope stuffing is hardly a strategic use of our resources, or your time. ”
I blinked, confused. The words didn’t compute. I’d been expecting a lecture on morality clauses, not a performance review. “I’m sorry?”
She finally looked directly at me. “I’m reassigning you.
We have a list of mid-level corporate donors whose contributions have lapsed over the last two years.
Their philanthropic chairs have changed; their corporate interests have shifted.
It’s a dead file, essentially. I want you to resurrect it.
Research them. Find out who the new decision-makers are, what their current charitable passions are, and compile a dossier for me on the top twenty most promising prospects for re-engagement. ”
My mind struggled to catch up. She wasn’t firing me. She was giving me… a real assignment? A project that required research, intelligence, strategy? This was more than I had even hoped for.
“I… Of course, Ms. Henderson,” I stammered, my shock re ndering me temporarily incoherent. “I’d be happy to. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said with a curt nod, her attention already back on her screen in a clear dismissal. “Just provide results. You can start immediately. Abigail has the preliminary files.”
I walked out of her office in a complete daze. I hadn’t just dodged a bullet; it was as if the gun had never been loaded in the first place. She hadn’t mentioned the article, the photo. Nothing. It made no sense. It was almost as if… as if the scandal had never happened.
I spent the next hour diligently organizing the files Abigail gave me, but my mind was elsewhere. I waited until I saw Abigail get up to head to the break room for her mid-morning tea. Perfect.
I followed a few moments later, catching her as she was adding milk to her mug. “Abigail, can I ask you a quick question?” I said, keeping my voice light and casual.
“Of course, dear. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s just… Kyra,” I began, feigning a bit of newcomer confusion. “She seems to really have her finger on the pulse of everything that happens here. She runs the gala committee, right? She must be incredibly dedicated.”
Abigail snorted into her tea. “Dedicated? That’s one word for it. Territorial is another. She guards that gala like a dragon guards its treasure. Don’t get on her bad side.”
“Oh, I’ll try not to,” I said with a practiced, innocent smile. “I was just so impressed by her at the gala. So polished. She must have a very supportive husband.”
Abigail’s eyes lit up with the unmistakable gleam of someone about to share a juicy piece of gossip.
She glanced around the break room before leaning in closer.
“Supportive? Love, her husband is some high-powered investment banker who’s barely ever in the country.
If you ask me, the only thing he’s supporting is her credit card bill. ”
“Oh,” I said, feigning surprise. “They must not get to see each other much, then.”
“That’s the rumor,” Abigail whispered, her voice conspiratorial.
“And there are… other rumors, if you catch my drift. About her not being so lonely. A few of the girls from marketing saw her getting very cozy with a client or something at a ‘late-night work meeting’ a few months back. They said she looked like the cat who got the cream.”
My heart started to beat a little faster. “A client? Did they say who?”
“No names,” Abigail said, shaking her head with a hint of disappointment.
“They couldn’t get a clear look. But Kyra was very flustered when she saw them.
All very hush-hush.” She took another sip of her tea.
“Look, you didn’t hear it from me. But my advice?
Steer clear of Kyra. She plays for keeps. ”
“Thanks, Abigail,” I said, my mind racing. “I appreciate the advice.”
I walked back to my desk, the puzzle pieces swirling.
Kyra was married, but her husband was barely around.
There were rumors of her sneaking around with a client.
And she had a clear, venomous hostility towards me.
But why? Was it just professional jealousy?
Or was there more to it? Garrett seemed to think it was about him.
That she was jealous about his interest in me.
Maybe… but it was years ago they had their little fling.
My first move was to find Garrett. He knows a lot more than he lets on. His office was empty.
“Have you seen Garrett?” I asked Malinda at the desk next to mine .
“Oh, he had to leave for an emergency off-site meeting,” she said, not looking up from her work. “He left in a real hurry about an hour ago.”
Of course, he did, I thought with a humorless smile. The coward was avoiding me. He knew I’d be coming for him after Saturday.
I spent the rest of the day working on the new assignment with a ferocious focus. I dropped the idea of chasing Garrett down. Let him run. Let him wonder.
My phone buzzed on the desk beside me, pulling me from my thoughts. A text from Sean.
Can’t focus. Thinking about last night. This is your fault, MacLeod.
A slow, warm heat spread through my belly. I smiled, a real, secret smile just for me. My fingers flew across the screen.
Is that a complaint, McCrae? Because I seem to recall you being an enthusiastic co-conspirator.
His reply came back almost instantly.
Enthusiastic doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m thinking about that little green dress. And what was under it. Or, more accurately, what wasn’t under it by the end of the night.
My cheeks flushed. God, he was impossible.
I needed to hear his voice. I glanced around the open-plan office.
No privacy here. With a sudden decision, I stood up and headed for the ladies’ room.
I pushed the door open, my eyes immediately scanning the floor.
The room was a row of five stalls. I quickly ducked down and checked under each door.
Empty. Perfect. I slipped into the furthest stall, locked the door, and leaned against the cool wall, my heart thumping as I dialed his number.
He answered on the first ring. “Finally,” he said, his voice a low, intimate rumble that went straight between my legs. “I was beginning to think you were going to make me wait all day.”
“Some of us have important donor research to conduct, you know,” I whispered, a laugh in my voice.
“Is that what you’re doing right now? Important research?”