Page 47 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)

He began to move, slow, deep strokes that had me gasping with each thrust. His eyes never left mine, the connection between us so intense it was almost frightening.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion. “This isn’t just fucking. This is something else.”

I nodded, unable to deny it, unable to look away from the raw truth in his eyes.

“Say it,” he urged, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. “Tell me what this is.”

“It’s everything,” I whispered, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside me. “You’re everything.”

His control seemed to snap at my words. His thrusts became harder, deeper, his hands firm on my hips to hold me in place as he pounded into me.

The headboard slammed against the wall with the force of his movements, but I didn’t care.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his hand sliding down to circle my clit. “Say it, Beth. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I gasped, feeling another orgasm building impossibly fast. “Oh god, Sean, I’m going to come again.”

“That’s it, baby. Come on my cock. Let me feel you.”

My inner walls clamped down on him as pleasure exploded through me for the third time. He followed me over, his rhythm faltering as he buried his cock deep and let go with a hoarse shout of my name.

For long moments, we lay tangled together, his weight a comforting pressure on top of me, his cock still pulsing inside me. When he finally rolled to the side, he took me with him, keeping us connected, his arms tight around me as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

“What was that?” I whispered against his chest, my voice shaky.

“That,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, “was what happens when someone takes the time to love you properly.”

Later, as we sat cross-legged on the plush hotel bed, surrounded by the remnants of a room service breakfast, the heavy manila envelope Fury had given him lay between us like an unexploded bomb. The explosive intimacy of the morning had evaporated, replaced by a tense, nervous energy.

“Are you sure you want to see and read all this?” Sean asked, his voice gentle. “I can just give you the highlights. It’s… ugly.”

I shook my head, my resolve hardening. “No. I need to see it all. I need to know exactly what kind of game they were playing.”

He nodded, understanding. He slid the dossier out of the envelope. It was thick, a hundred pages at least. He didn’t just hand it to me; he sat beside me, his shoulder pressed against mine, a silent, solid presence as he walked me through it. He was my partner in this, not just a spectator.

The first few pages were corporate headshots and professional histories.

Garrett Reeves. Kyra Monroe. They looked so polished, so respectable.

Then came the evidence. The hotel receipts from Miami and the Hamptons, cross-referenced with foundation expense reports signed off by Kyra herself.

The dinners for two, the spa treatments.

The sheer, blatant audacity of it made me feel sick.

They had been funding their affair with money meant for charity, for children, for people who had nothing.

“Like their own personal bank,” Sean explained, his voice a low, angry growl as he pointed to a highlighted spreadsheet.

Then came the emails. Sean had printed out the most damning ones.

They were sickeningly sweet on the surface, full of corporate doublespeak, but the subtext was crystal clear.

“Confirming our strategy session for the Miami conference…” followed by a hotel confirmation for a single king suite.

It was a tangled, ugly web of lies and entitlement.

But it was the last section that made the air leave my lungs. Fury’s hacker, Gianni, had recovered a string of deleted text messages from the night of the gala. I read them, my hands trembling.

Garrett: Are you insane? I just saw the post. You leaked the photo. After everything I told you, you actually did it.

Kyra: I saw how you were looking at her all night. You were all over her on that balcony. What was I supposed to do?

Garrett: You were supposed to trust me. This jealous, psycho act is exactly why we’re done, Kyra. It’s over. Stay away from me and stay away from her. My business with her is my own.

Kyra: Over? What are you talking about? After two years, you’re throwing us away for some little rich-girl tramp? I love you, G. Don’t do this.

Garrett: There is no ‘us’ anymore. This has nothing to do with you and me. That’s been over for a while. This is business. A very lucrative business. Don’t interfere again. Lose my number.

I looked up at Sean, my stomach churning.

It was all there in black and white. The validation of my instincts was a cold, bitter comfort.

Kyra’s venom wasn’t just professional jealousy; it was the fury of a woman scorned, a woman desperately in love, watching her lover move on.

And Garrett… his interest in me wasn’t romantic.

It was cold, transactional. A “lucrative business.” He hadn’t been trying to seduce me for himself; he was using me for something else entirely, and I had no idea what it was.

He hadn’t just played me; he had used me as a pawn in a game I didn’t even know I was playing.

“He played me,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “The whole time, he was playing me.”

“He tried,” Sean corrected, his hand covering mine. “But he underestimated you. He showed his hand, and now we have the whole deck.” He tapped the thick dossier. “This isn’t just proof, Beth. This is power. You get to decide the next move.”

I looked at the files spread across the bed, at the cold, hard evidence of their deceit.

A new resolve, cold and sharp as steel, settled in my chest. Kyra was right about one thing she’d said at the gala: I wasn’t just an intern anymore.

I was a player. And I was done letting other people move my pieces around the board.

“Okay,” I said, meeting Sean’s gaze, my voice steady. “Let’s go to work.”

We walked into the Hillsdale Foundation side-by-side, the dossier a heavy, powerful weight in my tote bag. Sean hadn’t questioned my decision; he’d simply asked, “What’s the plan?” He was my backup, my silent, imposing partner, and his presence gave me a confidence I hadn’t felt before.

The atmosphere in the office was the same as yesterday—hushed whispers, averted gazes. But today, it didn’t bother me. Let them whisper. They had no idea what was coming.

We found Kyra near the coffee station, chatting with one of the junior marketing assistants.

Her laughter was bright and tinkling, the sound of a woman completely secure in her position at the top of the office food chain.

Her face, however, froze when she saw us approaching, her smile dissolving into a mask of pure disdain.

“What do you want?” she snapped, dismissing the junior assistant with a flick of her wrist.

I didn’t answer right away. I just smiled, a calm, polite smile, and placed the heavy manila envelope on the counter between us. “I believe this belongs to you,” I said, my voice equally calm. “Or, well, it’s about you. And Garrett. A rather comprehensive collection of your… ‘special projects’.”

I saw her eyes flicker to the envelope, then back to my face. A wave of panic washed over her features before she quickly suppressed it, replacing it with a look of haughty indignation.

“I have no idea what that is,” she said, her voice a little too high. “But whatever fabricated nonsense you’ve cooked up, it’s inadmissible. Hearsay. You can’t use any of that in court.”

“Oh, Kyra,” I said with a sigh of mock sympathy.

“Who said anything about court? That seems so… messy. So public. I wouldn’t want to drag the foundation’s good name through the mud.

” My voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“No, I was just thinking of having a quiet, private chat with Ms. Henderson. To express my ‘concerns’ as a intern about potential fiscal mismanagement and inappropriate staff relationships. I’m sure she’d be very interested to see the do cumentation I’ve compiled.

She seems like a woman who appreciates thorough research. ”

Checkmate.

The color drained from her face. Her carefully constructed facade crumbled, revealing the desperate, cornered woman underneath. Her whole body began to tremble.

“You can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “We’ll be ruined. We’ll be…”

“Fired?” I supplied helpfully. “Yes, I imagine so. At the very least.”

She finally broke. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her perfect makeup.

“It was Garrett’s idea!” she sobbed, her voice a torrent of angry, jealous confession.

“All of it! He was obsessed with you from the moment you walked in. He found those tabloid articles from Glasgow, and after that he wouldn’t shut up about you.

I just…I wanted you gone! I saw him on the balcony with you, and I just…

I snapped! He told me he was just playing you, that it was all a game to get to your family’s money, but I knew he was falling for you! ”

“My family’s money?” I asked, my blood running cold. “What are you talking about?”

“His backer!” she cried, a wild look in her eyes. “Someone from Scotland who was feeding him information about you! Garrett was always bragging about this powerful connection he had who was going to make him rich. His ‘cash cow.’” She let out a hysterical, watery laugh.

The room tilted. Every bit of air rushed from my lungs. It could only be one person. Only one person could be this determined to get me down for the count. “Stewart,” I breathed, the name bitter on my tongue. “Stewart Beauchamp.”

The puzzle pieces didn’t just click into place; they slammed together with the force of a car crash.

The anonymous gifts. Garrett’s sudden, intense interest in me.

His questions. It hadn’t just been about a workplace affair or a jealous rival.

This was bigger. This was about Glasgow. It was about Stewart.

The fresh start I thought I’d found in New York was a lie. I hadn’t escaped the game at all. I had just walked onto a different, more dangerous part of the board.