Page 1 of One Night in Glasgow
CHAPTER ONE
BETH
I was backin my childhood bedroom, a gilded cage I thought I’d escaped years ago. The emerald silk of the gown, chosen by my mother, naturally, felt like a chic straitjacket against my skin. I was just applying a slash of defiant crimson lipstick, the shade aptly named “Rebellion Red,” when a discreet, almost apologetic knock sounded at the door.
“If that’s you, Angus, and you’ve come bearing last-minute edicts from on high, you can tell Her Majesty I’m indisposed,” I called out, my voice tight.
My parent’s butler entered, his posture impeccably straight, but his eyes, when they met mine in the mirror, held that familiar weariness. Poor sod, he’d seen decades of MacLeod family dramas; I was probably responsible for at least half of them.
“Your mother wished me to convey her expectations for this evening, Miss Elisabeth.”
“Expectations?” I capped my lipstick with a sharp click andspun on my stool to face him. “Or marching orders, Angus? Let me guess—dazzle the donors, don’t embarrass the family name, and for the love of all that is holy and tax-deductible, bat my eyelashes at Stewart bloody Beauchamp.”
Angus cleared his throat, a sound that conveyed years of practiced diplomacy and quiet suffering. “Mrs. MacLeod was particular about Lord Beauchamp. She emphasized the importance of you making him feel attended to.” He paused, as if bracing himself. “She’s made arrangements that, ah, benefit from a…congenial atmosphere.”
My laugh was short and harsh. “Congenial atmosphere? Or my soul sold for a hefty donation? So, she’s weaponizing charity now? That’s a new low, even for her.” I rose, the silk rustling around me like angry whispers. “Well, Angus, you can tell my dear mother that I shall be the absolute pinnacle of congeniality. Just perhaps not in the way she envisions.”
I stalked over to the antique decanter on my side table, pouring a generous measure of amber whisky into a crystal tumbler. The fiery liquid went down in one smooth, confident gulp, a welcome contrast to the icy dread coiling in my stomach.Liquid courage, Beth. You’ll need it.
“The car is waiting, Miss Elisabeth,” Angus said, his gaze carefully neutral, as if he hadn’t just witnessed me downing scotch like it was water.
“Let it,” I retorted, the burn of the whisky already fortifying my resolve. “The sacrificial lamb will proceed to the slaughter when she’s damn well ready.”
My phone buzzed on the side table, a jarring sound in the tense quiet of my room. I glanced at the screen, a name I hadn’t seen in years flashing on the display: Colter. A ghost from my past, from a wilder, freer time before my parents hadfully tightened the leash. A small, genuine smile touched my lips for the first time all day.
Colter:Beth, you in town? Need to see you. The Pot Still tomorrow? Say 8? Urgent-ish.
I typed back immediately, a surge of defiant energy coursing through me. This was exactly what I needed. A link to my real life, not this suffocating performance.
Me:Colter! Blast from the past. Yeah, I'll be there. God, I need to be around a normal fucking person for a change.
He replied instantly.
Colter:Attagirl. See you then.
Tossing the phone into my purse, I felt a fresh wave of resolve. Tomorrow, I’d see Colter. But tonight, I’d face the vipers' den alone.
I watchedmy reflection swimming in the crystal champagne flute as I drained it. What was it? My fourth? Fifth? The bubbles had stopped tickling my nose an hour ago. The charity gala swirled around me in a haze of glittering gowns and penguin suits. All here tonight in Glasgow’s finest halls for...something. Orphans? Whales? Honestly, who cares? We all know I’m the one truly up for auction.
Christ, I needed something stronger than champagne.
“Bethie, darling!” A plump woman air-kissed my cheeks. “So good of you to support the cause.”
I plastered on my best pageant-winner smile, the one that said ‘delighted to be here’ while my soul was screaming for a drink. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love.” As soon as she toddled off, I rolled my eyes. These stuffy events were only good for booze and potential hookups.
“Another, miss?” A server materialized at my elbow; his tray balanced perfectly despite my slight wobble into him. His eyes flickered with recognition. Of course, he knew who I was. Everyone in this godforsaken circle recognized Elisabeth MacLeod, Glasgow’s favorite tabloid train wreck.
“God, yes,” I said, snagging a fresh glass while kicking off my Jimmy Choos under the nearest table. Six hours in these heels was criminal, even if they were stunning. “And if anyone asks, I’mnotme.”
He gave a discrete nod, probably used to the drama of high society by now. As he glided away, I caught the murmurs beginning anew behind antique lace fans and into Cartier-draped ears.
“...can’t believe the MacLeod’s brings her to this…”
“...she’s twenty-nine, for heaven's sake. Getting a bit old for these sorts of antics, isn't she?"
"Honestly. You'd think she'd be desperate to settle down. Lord Beauchamp is a saint for not moving on.”
“...such a waste of potential...”
