Page 53 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

BETH

The air inside Stewart Beauchamp’s crumbling ancestral home was cold and damp, carrying the scent of decay and forgotten history.

It was the smell of my potential future, and it made my skin crawl.

The butler, a man who looked as ancient and dusty as the portraits lining the hall, had led us into a grand drawing room.

The room was a study in faded glory—threadbare tapestries, tarnished silver, and furniture that probably hadn’t been properly polished since the last king named George.

And in the center of it all, standing by a grand, unlit fireplace, was Stewart.

There was no sign of panic, no hint of a man whose world was about to be obliterated.

He greeted us with an unnerving, smug calm, a slight, condescending smile playing on his lips.

He looked like a man who had been expecting us all along. What the hell.

“Elisabeth,” he said, his voice smooth as aged whisky. “How lovely of you to finally accept my invitation. And you’ve brought your American friend. The motivational one. How delightful.”

Sean stood beside me, a silent, imposing wall of strength. His hand rested on the small of my back, a quiet reminder that I wasn’t alone. But this stage was mine. I had spent a lifetime running from men like Stewart, from the life they represented. No more.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries, Stewart,” I said, my voice as cold and hard as the marble mantelpiece behind him. “This isn’t a social call. This is a reckoning.”

I walked to the ornate coffee table and placed the thick manila envelope on its polished surface. I didn’t open it. Not yet. I wanted him to see it, to wonder what was inside, to let his arrogance curdle into fear.

“I had a very interesting few weeks in New York,” I began, my voice calm, measured. “I was working at a charitable foundation, trying to do something useful for a change. And I had a very attentive colleague. A man named Garrett Reeves. Does the name ring a bell?”

Stewart’s smile didn’t falter, but I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. “Can’t say that it does,” he lied smoothly.

“That’s a shame,” I said, a slow, predatory smile of my own spreading across my face.

“He was quite the admirer of me. So much so that he orchestrated a rather elaborate campaign to get my attention. Anonymous flowers. Unsolicited gifts. All while feeding you information about my life, my new relationship. All on your dime, of course.”

I watched him, enjoying the first crack in his polished facade. He was good, but I was better. I’d been trained in the art of the social takedown since I could walk.

I let the silence hang for a beat before I continued, my voice dropping lower.

“But the New York scheme was just a sideshow, wasn’t it?

A distraction. You couldn’t tolerate me finding a little happiness, so you had to sabotage it.

But that’s not the real story. The real story, the one that’s truly fascinating, is the one about the money.

” I tapped the envelope. “Your two-million-pound story.”

I didn’t need to look at the dossier. I had memorized the details. Gianni’s report was a masterpiece of digital evisceration.

“It started three years ago, didn’t it?” I said, circling the table like a shark.

“With a simple loan from my father. Half a million pounds for ‘urgent castle restorations.’ A noble cause, to be sure. My future home.” I paused, letting my words sink in.

“Then it was half a million for more renovations. And then the smaller transfers began, tens of thousands at a time. All on a gentleman’s agreement, of course.

No messy contracts. Because soon, you would convince me to marry you. ”

I stopped directly in front of him, my eyes locked on his.

“The thing about traditional digital transactions, Stewart, is that they leave a trail. A beautiful, permanent, and very traceable trail. For instance, did you know that three days after receiving funds for your ‘castle restorations,’ a payment of four hundred and forty-eight thousand pounds was made to an Aston Martin dealership in London? Or that over half a million pounds of my father’s money was funneled through a shell corporation in Panama directly into your accounts at three different online casinos in Malta?

You weren’t restoring a castle, Stewart. You were gambling. And losing. Badly.”

His face was pale now, the smug smile gone, replaced by a look of disbelief.

Did you really think no one would ever look?” I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. “You didn’t just con my family. You committed fraud on a massive scale. You used my life as collateral in your pathetic little scheme. And now, it’s over.”

I straightened up, my voice returning to its cool, conversational tone.

“So here’s the deal. You are going to sign a full confession, detailing every transaction.

And a legally binding repayment plan, the terms of which will be dictated by my father’s lawyers.

You will do this today. Or this entire, beautiful dossier, complete with bank statements, incriminating emails, and photos of you with your new car, goes public.

The tabloids will have a field day with the story of the broke, gambling lord who conned the MacLeod’s.

I imagine your social standing won’t quite recover. The choice is yours.”

For a long moment, Stewart just stared at me, his face a mask of shock. I felt a surge of pure, triumphant power. I had done it. I had faced the dragon in his den and won.

Then, to my utter astonishment, a slow, condescending smile returned to his lips.

He sank into a nearby armchair. “A truly impressive performance, Elisabeth. Really. The delivery, the pacing… magnificent.” He picked up his glass of whisky from a side table.

“But you’ve overlooked one small detail in your otherwise flawless presentation. ”

“And what’s that?” I asked, my confidence unwavering.

He took a slow sip, his eyes twinkling with a dark, predatory light.

“I mean, first of all, who’s Garrett Reeves?

Never heard of the fellow, but more importantly, I’m curious.

Do you still have that little heart-shaped birthmark on your left inside thigh?

A lovely, intimate detail. Your dossier, however comprehensive, couldn’t possibly have included that. ”

The air rushed out of my lungs. The room tilted. My blood turned to ice. It was true. A small, faint birthmark I’d had my entire life, one I was self-conscious about, one only a lover would ever see. But I had never, ever been with this man .

“What? How…” I whispered, my voice trembling. “How could you possibly know that?”

Stewart leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur.

“I had to inspect the merchandise before committing to your mother’s proposal, of course.

I remember it clearly. A few years ago, at your mother’s summer garden party?

You were quite drunk. It was remarkably easy to slip something a little extra into your last glass of champagne.

You passed out in the library. I simply…

took a look. A taste, even. To make sure the goods were as advertised. ”

A wave of pure, primal violation washed over me. The nights I couldn’t quite remember, the times I’d woken up feeling foggy and wrong… had he…?

Before I could even process the full horror of his whispered confession, a guttural roar of pure rage erupted from beside me. I saw a blur of motion as Sean launched himself across the room. He didn’t just hit Stewart; he tackled him, sending them both crashing over the armchair and onto the floor.

“Sean, no!” I screamed, but he couldn’t hear me.

He was a man possessed, his face a mask of murderous fury. He straddled Stewart, one hand gripping his collar, the other landing a brutal punch, then another, the sound a sickening crack of bone against bone.

“You son of a bitch!” Sean snarled, his voice a raw growl. “You touched her. You fucking drugged her.”

I grabbed Sean’s arm, trying to pull him off, but he was pure, unmovable rage. “Sean, stop! You’ll kill him!”

It took all my strength to finally haul him back. He stumbled to his feet, his chest heaving, his knuckles bloody. Stewart lay on the floor, groaning, a trickle of blood coming from his split lip. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up, a triumphant, bloody smile spreading across his face .

“Thank you, Mr. McCrae,” he rasped, dabbing at his lip with a silk handkerchief. “That was exactly what I was hoping for.”

He casually picked up a small remote from the table beside him.

“I’m talking about preparation. About knowing your opponent.

” He pressed a button. A large, ornate painting above the fireplace slid silently upwards, revealing a massive, flat-screen television.

The screen flickered to life, showing not one, but four different camera angles of the very room we were in.

Crystal-clear, high-definition video. It was all there.

My monologue. My threats. And then, Sean’s brutal, sustained assault.

“As you see, I was expecting you,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

The entire confrontation, my moment of triumph… it was all a performance, and he had been the director. The power I had felt just moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, sickening dread. We hadn’t walked into the lion’s den. We had walked into a cage.

Stewart leaned back in a different, undamaged chair, the picture of absolute triumph.

“So, now we have a new arrangement,” he said, his voice a purr of pure victory.

“Your dossier of illegally obtained evidence against my assault charges, which are, as you can see, very well-documented.” He gestured to the screen showing Sean beating him on the floor.

“Assault and battery carries a sentence of, what, two to three years here in Scotland? Your American friend wouldn’t fare well in our prisons. ”

My mind raced, searching for an escape, an out. There was none. My brilliant victory had turned into a catastrophe. I had led Sean into this. He was going to prison because of me.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice hollow .

“Simple,” he said with that predatory smile.

“You are going to walk out of here, take your little dossier with you, and you are going to burn it. You will forget any of this ever happened. You will never speak of it, or me, again. In return, I will be generous and not press charges against your… very passionate boyfriend.”

The game was over. I had lost. He had used my own righteous fury, and Sean’s protective love, as weapons against us.

I looked at Sean. His face was pale, but his eyes were clear, his rage replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I couldn’t let him do this. I couldn’t let him sacrifice his freedom for me. I opened my mouth to agree to Stewart’s terms.

“No,” Sean said, his voice quiet but absolute. He took out his phone.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, my heart seizing with panic.

He looked at me, a deep, unwavering love in his eyes. “He’s right about one thing. It’s checkmate. But he’s not the one who gets to call it.” Before I could stop him, he hit dial.

“Hello, police?” he said into the phone, his voice steady and calm. “I’d like to report an assault. Yes… I’m the one who did it.”