Page 93 of One Night in Glasgow
We got out, the air cool and damp against my skin. As we walked toward the front door, I reached for her hand. Her fingers laced through mine, her grip firm and steady.
The final battle was about to begin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BETH
The airinside 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. Andyou’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 asideshow, 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. Youcommitted 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.
