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Page 54 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

SEAN

The silence that followed my call was a living thing. It filled the cavernous drawing room, thick and heavy with disbelief. Stewart stood frozen, his triumphant smirk collapsing into a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. His perfectly orchestrated trap had just been detonated, but not by him. By me.

Beth stared at me, her eyes wide, a silent “no” forming on her lips. I gave her a small, almost imperceptible shake of my head, trying to convey a reassurance I was far from feeling. I’ve got this. Trust me.

The wait felt like an eternity. We were three figures frozen in a tableau of ruin: a battered, stunned lord; a horrified, beautiful woman; and me, the man who had just willingly set fire to his own life to keep her from getting burned.

The distant wail of sirens grew steadily closer, a sound that signaled both my surrender and my victory.

When the uniformed constables finally arrived, their presence was a jarring intrusion of reality into the gothic drama of the estate.

Two officers stepped into the room, their expressions grim and professional as they took in the scene: the overturned armchair, the blood on Stewart’s lip, the tension crackling in the air.

“We received a call about an assault,” the senior officer said, his gaze landing on me.

I stepped forward, my hands held out away from my sides in a clear gesture of capitulation. “That was me,” I said, my voice steady and calm. “I made the call. I assaulted him.”

Stewart, finally jolted from his stupor, pointed a trembling finger at the television screen, which was still playing the silent, damning loop of my attack. “He attacked me! Unprovoked! It’s all right there!”

“Is that true, sir?” the officer asked, turning back to me.

“Yes,” I confirmed without hesitation. “My actions were my own. I take full responsibility.” I glanced at Beth, whose face was a portrait of frantic desperation. “Ms. MacLeod had no part in this. She tried to intervene, to stop me.”

“That’s not true!” Beth cried, rushing forward. “He provoked him! He said… he said horrible things! He admitted to drugging me!”

The senior officer looked from her distraught face to my calm one, then to the bleeding lord on the floor.

His expression hardened with a weary professionalism.

“Ma’am, with all due respect, what I have is a confession and clear video evidence of an assault.

Whatever was said is a matter for the courts. ” He turned to his partner. “Cuff him.”

The metallic click of the handcuffs locking around my wrists was a sound of absolute finality. I met Beth’s panicked gaze over the officer’s shoulder, trying to send her a message with my eyes: It’s okay. This is the only way .

As they led me out of the drawing room and down the long, portrait-lined hall, I could hear her frantic explanations behind me, her voice cracking with despair as she tried to make them understand. It was the sound of her fighting for me, and it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

They were walking me across the gravel driveway toward the waiting police car, the damp Scottish air cool on my face. This was it. The point of no return. I had made my choice, and I was ready to face the consequences.

And then I heard it. The crunch of tires on gravel, fast and aggressive. Two sleek, black sedans swept up the long driveway, braking to a sharp halt just feet from us, boxing in the police car.

The doors opened, and Alexander MacLeod emerged from the lead car.

He was not the broken, defeated man I had seen at the country club.

He stood tall, his expression a mask of cold, hard fury.

He was flanked by a team of three stone-faced men in impeccable suits who radiated an aura of expensive, ruthless competence. His lawyers.

Alexander walked directly to the senior officer, completely ignoring a sputtering Stewart, who had followed us out. “Constable,” he said, his voice a low, powerful command that stopped everyone in their tracks. “You are arresting the wrong man.”

The officer frowned. “Sir, we have a confession and video evidence of an assault.”

“I’ve heard,” Alexander said calmly. He gestured to one of his lawyers, who stepped forward and presented the officer with the thick manila envelope: Fury’s dossier.

“While you are here, I would like to file a formal criminal complaint against that man.” He pointed a steady, damning finger at Stewart.

“ Lord Stewart Beauchamp. For fraud, extortion, and conspiracy to the tune of two million pounds.”

The officer took the envelope, his eyes widening as he flipped through the first few pages, taking in the bank statements, the wire transfers, the glossy photo of Stewart with his Aston Martin.

The simple assault case had just become a complex, high-stakes, white-collar crime investigation, complete with meticulously documented evidence.

“What is this?” Stewart shrieked, his voice high with panic. “This is an invasion of my privacy! That’s illegally obtained!”

“That will be for the Crown prosecutor to decide,” Alexander said coldly. “My lawyers have already been in contact with the fiscal’s office. They are very interested in this evidence. And in speaking with you, Lord Beauchamp.”

Stewart’s face, already bruised, turned a pasty, sickly white. The hunter had just become the hunted. His triumphant victory had crumbled to dust in a matter of seconds.

The senior officer looked from the dossier to a panicked Stewart, then back to me. A new understanding dawned in his eyes. He turned to his partner. “Take Lord Beauchamp into custody for questioning as well,” he ordered.

As the second pair of handcuffs clicked shut around Stewart’s wrists, his smug arrogance was completely gone, replaced by the raw, naked terror of a man whose entire world had just imploded. He was babbling, protesting, but no one was listening.

The balance of power had shifted, completely and irrevocably.

Hours later, I was sitting in the quiet, wood-paneled office of Alexander’s lead solicitor, a cup of hot tea in my hands.

The chaos of the police station, the processing, the questions—it all felt like a surreal dream.

Alexander had posted my bail without a moment’s hesitation, his lawyers moving with a swift, brutal efficiency that left no room for argument.

Alexander sat across from me, a glass of whisky in his hand. He looked at me, his gaze no longer filled with the suspicion of a protective father, but with a new, profound respect.

“You were willing to go to prison for my daughter,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t just gratitude; it was awe.

“She’s worth it,” I said simply.

He nodded, taking a slow sip of his whisky.

He was quiet for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought.

“There’s something else you need to know,” he said finally, his voice grim.

“When you and Beth left the club yesterday after… after my confession, I had a suspicion.” He looked down at his glass, a deep shame in his eyes.

“I checked Fiona’s phone logs. She made a thirty-minute call to Stewart’s private number right after we left her. ”

The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place, cold and sharp. Stewart had been prepared. The cameras, the recording… it had all been set up because my future mother-in-law Fiona had betrayed her own daughter. Again.

“She warned him,” I said, the words a statement, not a question.

“She did more than that,” Alexander said, his voice heavy with a pain so deep it seemed to age him before my eyes. “I don’t know exactly what was said on that call. I don’t know if I want to. But she didn’t just warn him, Sean. She conspired with him. She helped him set the trap.”

I stared at him, the true depth of Fiona’s treachery finally clear.

This wasn’t just a mother trying to control her daughter’s life.

This was something darker, more twisted.

She hadn’t just been willing to sell Beth off; she had been willing to send the man Beth loved to prison to achieve her goals.

I was out on bail, but the assault charge still hung over my head, a weapon Stewart and Fiona could still potentially use. We had the dossier on him, but he had the video of me. A stalemate.

I thought of Beth, waiting for me back at the hotel. We had won the battle, but the war, I realized, was far from over. And the real enemy wasn’t just a broke, desperate lord. It was the woman who had given Beth life, and who seemed determined to control it, no matter the cost.