Page 71 of One Night in Glasgow
Every word was another knife in my gut. I had not only failed to trust her, but I had failed to protect her. I had left her to deal with that creep alone, and then I had blamed her for it.
“Beth,” I said, my voice thick with a self-loathing so profound it was almost choking me. “I am so much sorrier than I was a minute ago.”
“I know,” she said softly, and I saw a flicker of forgiveness in her eyes. “But you need to know, Sean, I can’t be withsomeone who doesn’t trust me. I spent my whole life this far being second-guessed by my parents. No more. I’m done being judged by people. No matter who they are. Even you.”
“You won’t have to,” I said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. “I promise. I will earn your trust back, every single day, if you’ll let me.” I looked into her eyes, laying my own soul bare. “The reason I reacted so badly, the reason I’m so terrified of losing you, is because… Beth, I’m falling in love with you.”
Her eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. The confession hung in the air between us, raw and real.
A slow, tentative smile touched her lips. “You know,” she said, her voice a near whisper, “for a guy who just acted like a complete bastard, you have ridiculously good timing.” She squeezed my hand. “Because I think… I think I’m falling in love with you, too.”
The tension between us didn’t just break; it dissolved, replaced by a wave of relief so powerful it was dizzying. We sat there for a moment, just looking at each other, the noise of the diner fading away.
“A fresh start?” I asked, my voice hopeful.
“A fresh start,” she agreed, her smile finally reaching her eyes. “But if you ever accuse me of something like that again, I will personally introduce your face to a brick wall.”
I laughed, a real laugh this time. “Fair enough.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BETH
I walkedinto the Hillsdale Foundation the next morning feeling like a gladiator entering the Colosseum, armed with nothing but the lingering warmth of Sean’s promises. After our fight and reconciliation, after he’d explained his fears, things between us felt both fragile and more real than ever. His belief in me was a shield, but it felt terrifyingly thin against the guillotine I was sure was waiting for me: the new tabloid story featuring the photo of me and Garrett on the balcony.
Every tick of the subway car’s wheels had been a countdown to my professional execution. I fully expected to be unceremoniously sacked the moment I walked through the door. Losing this position wasn’t just about professional failure; it meant losing my visa, losing my foothold in New York, losing this new life I was so desperately trying to build. It meant being sent back to Glasgow with my tail between my legs, then straight to Switzerland for my parents’ six-month “wellness” ultimatum.
The polished lobby felt different today. The air itself seemed charged with judgment. The security guard, who usually gave me a friendly nod, suddenly found his computer screen incredibly fascinating as I swiped my temporary badge. At least it still let me inside. The whispers started the moment I stepped out of the elevator into the development department, a low hiss of gossip that followed me like a toxic cloud. Conversations didn’t just stop; they were decapitated mid-sentence, replaced by a heavy, pointed silence. I could feel the eyes on me, a physical weight on my shoulders, seeing not Beth the intern, but “The Human Wrecking Ball” from the headlines.
It was Glasgow all over again, but with better lighting and more expensive suits.
I kept my chin up, my expression a carefully constructed mask of indifference I’d perfected over years of enduring society functions. This time, however, the mask didn’t feel quite so brittle. I wasn’t just the MacLeod train wreck anymore. I was Sean’s… something. And that thought gave me a strength I hadn’t realized I was missing. It was the only thing keeping my spine straight as I navigated the minefield of cubicles to my desk.
I walked directly to Ms. Henderson’s office door and knocked before I could lose my nerve.
“Come in,” her voice called, clipped and professional.
I stepped inside, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Ms. Henderson, you wanted to see me?”
She looked up from her computer, her gaze cool and assessing. There was no anger there, no disappointment. Nothing. Her complete neutrality was more unnerving than any lecture could have been. It was the look of a woman who had alreadycalculated every possible outcome and was simply waiting to see which one played out.
“Elisabeth,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. “Please, sit.”
I sat, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to keep them from trembling. This was it. The axe was about to fall. I opened my mouth, a pre-emptive apology already on my lips, ready to explain, to beg if I had to.
But she spoke first. “I’ve been reviewing your work here,” she began, her eyes flicking back to her screen. Here it comes, I thought, bracing myself. “Your efficiency with the mailings has been noted. You’re fast, and your error rate is negligible.” She looked up at me again. “Which is why I’ve concluded that envelope stuffing is hardly a strategic use of our resources, or your time.”
I blinked, confused. The words didn’t compute. I’d been expecting a lecture on morality clauses, not a performance review. “I’m sorry?”
She finally looked directly at me. “I’m reassigning you. We have a list of mid-level corporate donors whose contributions have lapsed over the last two years. Their philanthropic chairs have changed; their corporate interests have shifted. It’s a dead file, essentially. I want you to resurrect it. Research them. Find out who the new decision-makers are, what their current charitable passions are, and compile a dossier for me on the top twenty most promising prospects for re-engagement.”
My mind struggled to catch up. She wasn’t firing me. She was giving me… a real assignment? A project that required research, intelligence, strategy? This was more than I had even hoped for.
“I… Of course, Ms. Henderson,” I stammered, my shock rendering me temporarily incoherent. “I’d be happy to. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said with a curt nod, her attention already back on her screen in a clear dismissal. “Just provide results. You can start immediately. Abigail has the preliminary files.”
I walked out of her office in a complete daze. I hadn’t just dodged a bullet; it was as if the gun had never been loaded in the first place. She hadn’t mentioned the article, the photo. Nothing. It made no sense. It was almost as if… as if the scandal had never happened.
