Page 94 of One Night in Glasgow
“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.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SEAN
The silencethat 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 ajarring 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.”
