Page 48 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)

CHAPTER THIRTY

SEAN

The sterile quiet of my hotel suite felt a world away from the chaotic energy of the Hillsdale Foundation office.

The heavy manila envelope containing Fury’s dossier, sat on the coffee table, a silent testament to the mystery we had just unveiled.

But my attention wasn’t on the dossier. It was on Beth.

She was curled up on the large armchair near the window, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the New York skyline but seeing none of it.

Her body was trembling, not from cold, but from the aftershocks of Kyra’s confession.

The name Stewart Beauchamp hung in the air between us, a toxic ghost that had just drifted across the Atlantic to haunt this room.

I walked over and kneeled in front of her, taking her cold hands in mine. “Beth,” I said softly. “Talk to me. Tell me everything.”

She finally looked at me, her blue eyes dark with a pain so deep it made my own chest ache. “Stewart Beauchamp isn’t just some lord with a weak chin,” she began, her voice a raw whisper. “He’s the man my mother has been trying to force me to marry for the last three years.”

The pieces of the puzzle I’d been assembling suddenly rearranged themselves into a new, much uglier picture. This wasn’t just about a workplace affair or a jealous rival. This was entirely orchestrated from afar.

“She met him at some charity auction,” Beth continued, her voice gaining a bitter, brittle strength.

“He has the title, the lineage, the access to the kind of old-world society my mother desperately craves. But he’s practically broke.

His family estate is crumbling, and he has a taste for a lifestyle he can no longer afford.

So, if he marries me, my mother will offer him a ‘dowry’.

A substantial sum of money, enough to restore his estate and secure his future, in exchange for him marrying me and bringing the MacLeod name into the aristocratic fold she’s always felt just outside of. ”

I felt a cold, hard rage begin to solidify in my gut. This wasn’t just controlling parenting; this was human trafficking dressed up in Chanel and old money. They were selling their own daughter for a title.

“My entire ‘wild child’ phase, Sean,” she said, a humorless laugh escaping her lips, “it wasn’t just about partying.

It was a rebellion. Every headline, every scandal…

it was my way of screaming that I was not for sale.

That I would not be their pawn in some disgusting social-climbing scheme.

I made myself so unmarriageable, so notorious, that I thought no one, not even a man as desperate as Stewart, would have me. ”

She finally met my gaze, her eyes swimming with unshed tears.

“And that’s why I’m so afraid of him. It’s not that I think he’d physically hurt me.

It’s what he represents. He’s the personification of that life I fought so hard to escape.

The cage my parents built for me. The idea of him having any connection to me here, in New York, where I was supposed to be free…

it feels like the walls are closing in all over again. ”

I didn’t say anything. I just pulled her out of the chair and into my arms, holding her tight as the shudders finally wracked her body. I let her cry, her face buried in my chest, my hand stroking her hair. I held her until the trembling subsided, until her breathing evened out.

When she finally pulled back, her face was blotchy, her eyes red, but her gaze was clear. I gently wiped a tear from her cheek with my thumb.

“Listen to me, Beth,” I said, my voice low but fierce, forcing her to meet my eyes. “This ends now. All of it. Your days of fighting these battles alone are over. Do you understand me?”

She nodded, a small, hesitant movement.

“I’m supposed to fly to Austin next week for a couple of gigs,” I continued.

“Then on to Seattle, then Phoenix. I have sixteen events booked.” I shook my head.

“They don’t matter. None of it matters as much as this.

As much as you. I’m canceling everything.

Danny can handle the fallout with the audiobook contract. My priority is you.”

Her eyes widened. “Sean, no. You can’t. Your career…”

“My career is about helping people find the strength to fight for the life they want,” I said, my grip on her hands tightening. “What kind of fraud would I be if I didn’t do the same for the woman I’m falling in love with?”

The words hung in the air between us, a raw, undeniable truth.

“We’re going to Glasgow,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument.

“Tonight. You and me. And we are going to face your parents, and this pathetic excuse for a lord, together. You are not their property. You are not a business transaction. And you are not alone. Not anymore. I promise you that.”

In that moment, watching the hope dawn in her tired, beautiful eyes, I knew this was the most important speech I would ever give.

Later that day, we were seated in a quiet, secluded booth at an upscale restaurant in the Meatpacking District. The kind of place with no sign on the door and a wine list thicker than a phone book. Across from us sat my stepcousin, Fury Gracen, and his executive assistant, Jules.

“Beth, this is Jules,” Fury said by way of introduction. “She’s the one who actually runs my life. Jules, this is Beth MacLeod.”

Jules was sharp, impeccably dressed, with an air of quiet competence. She gave Beth a brief, professional smile and a firm handshake. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Beth replied, holding her own under the woman’s intelligent gaze.

“So,” Fury began, leaning forward, all business now. “You said there was a development. And that it involved Glasgow.”

I took a breath and laid out the entire, sordid story Kyra had confessed. The backer from Scotland. Garrett’s “cash cow.” And Beth’s horrifying suspicion that it was Stewart Beauchamp.

Fury listened without interruption, a muscle ticking in his jaw. When I finished, his dark eyes were cold as ice.

“So, this bastard wasn’t just a workplace predator,” he said finally, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

“He was a con artist. Hired by this Stewart character to deliberately destabilize you, to make your life in New York so miserable you’d have no choice but to run back to Glasgow and into the arrangement your parents set up. ”

“That seems to be the long and short of it,” I confirmed. “Which is why we’re flying to Glasgow tonight. We’re going to confront him.”

Fury nodded, his focus absolute. “Good. Family protects each other. This affects you, it affects us.” He turned to Jules.

“Jules, get Gianni on the line. I want a full digital workup on one Stewart Beauchamp, Baron of Nowhere, or whatever the hell his title is. Financials, communications, known associates, any digital skeletons in his closet. I want a mountain of dirt so high he’ll never be able to climb out from under it. Have it ready by the time they land.”

“Right away, Fury,” Jules said, already discreetly tapping on her phone.

“Thank you, Fury,” Beth said, her voice filled with a gratitude that was almost overwhelming. “But… I don’t think we need the hacker. Not yet.”

Fury turned his full attention to her, his expression softening slightly. “Why not? This man has orchestrated a campaign against you. We should bury him.”

“I know,” Beth agreed, and I saw a new strength, a new resolve in her eyes that hadn’t been there this morning.

“And if we need to, we will. But right now, this is something I need to do myself. I’ve spent my entire life having other people, like my parents, the press, men like Garrett, dictate my narrative.

This time, I want to be the one to write the ending.

I need to look Stewart in the eye and tell him, to his face, that he has no power over me.

I can’t do that from a distance. And I can’t risk tipping him off that we know what he’s done.

The element of surprise is our only advantage. ”

I watched, filled with an immense sense of pride, as Fury considered her words. He saw it too; the fighter in her, the woman who was finally taking back control.

He gave a slow, deliberate nod. “I respect that,” he said. “Alright. We do it your way. But Gianni is on standby. The moment you give the word, I will unleash the digital kraken on this man’s life. You just say when.” He raised his glass. “To confronting bastards head-on.”

We all clinked glasses, a small, determined war council in the heart of Manhattan.

Just as lunch was wrapping up, my phone buzzed with an alert from the airline app. I glanced at it, my expression souring.

“Shit,” I muttered, showing the screen to Beth. “Our flight’s been canceled.”

Her face fell. “What? But why?”

“‘Unexpected mechanical issues’,” I read aloud. “Our flight to London, with the connection to Glasgow. It’s supposed to leave in five hours, but it’s been grounded.”

A wave of frustration washed over me. Getting another transatlantic flight on such short notice would be a logistical nightmare. All our momentum, all our carefully laid plans, were about to evaporate.

Fury, however, looked completely unfazed. He simply caught Jules’s eye. “That’s inconvenient.” He took a sip of his espresso. “Jules, handle it.”

The instruction was simple, direct, and laden with the unspoken understanding of what needed to be done. It wasn’t a display of power; it was a practical solution to a family problem .

“Execu-Jet?” Jules asked, already pulling up a number on her phone as she stepped away from the table.

“Whoever has a G650 or equivalent available at Teterboro,” Fury said, his attention already turning back to us.

“I want them in the air tonight. Direct to Glasgow.” He looked at me, a wry grin on his face.

“One of the few perks of being obscenely wealthy is that you can treat a commercial airline cancellation as a minor scheduling annoyance.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. It was true. We’d grown up with this level of access. While I wasn’t in Fury’s “buy-a-skyscraper” league, a private jet wasn’t a foreign concept. It was just a damn effective tool, and I was grateful he was deploying it.

A few minutes later, Jules returned to the table, a small, satisfied smile on her face.

“The Gulfstream is confirmed,” she announced. “Fueled, catered, and ready for you on the tarmac at Teterboro in three hours. I’ve forwarded the tail number and hangar details to your driver.”

Beth just looked at me, her eyes wide with a quiet astonishment not at the luxury, but at the sheer, loyal efficiency of it all.

“Problem solved,” Fury said simply, taking another sip of his espresso. “Now, about this Stewart character…”

Three hours later, a black car dropped us at a private hangar at Teterboro Airport.

The sleek, white form of the Gulfstream sat waiting on the tarmac, looking less like a plane and more like a beautiful, winged projectile aimed directly at our problems. The overwhelming feeling wasn’t one of awe at the luxury, but one of profound gratitude for the support .

As we stepped onto the tarmac, the wind whipping a strand of Beth's fiery hair across her face, I reached out and gently tucked it behind her ear.

She gave me a small, nervous smile. I couldn't resist. I pulled her into my arms, right there on the windy tarmac under the wing of the jet, and gave her a quick, hard kiss.

"What was that for?" she asked, her eyes sparkling when I pulled back.

"For luck," I said, grinning. "And because I can't keep my hands off you."

The quiet efficiency of the cabin crew greeted us as we boarded. We settled together on a plush leather sofa that ran along one side of the cabin. A flight attendant appeared, offering champagne, which we both happily accepted.

As the jet began its powerful, seamless ascent into the night sky, Beth leaned her head on my shoulder, her fingers lacing through mine. The city lights of New York dwindled below us, a glittering carpet of a life she was leaving behind for this fight.

"You okay?" I murmured, turning to press a kiss to her hair.

"Terrified," she admitted softly. "But it's different this time. I'm not walking in there alone." She lifted her head, her blue eyes searching mine. "I have you."

"You always have me," I promised, and sealed it with another kiss, slower this time, deeper. It was a kiss that certified, that no matter what awaited us in Glasgow, we would face it together.

I raised my glass to her in a silent toast. She returned the gesture, a small, wry smile playing on her lips.

“You’re not nervous confronting your parents, are you?” I asked, my voice carrying easily in the quiet cabin.

She took a slow sip of champagne, her blue eyes sparkling with a familiar, dangerous mischief over the rim of the glass.

“Not for me,” she said, her Scottish lilt full of dry humor.

“I’m used to them.” She set her glass down, her gaze never leaving mine.

“You, on the other hand, are about to walk into the dragons’ den, McCrae.

Just a friendly warning: my mother doesn’t negotiate. She annihilates. Try not to cry.”