CHAPTER ONE

Beth

I was back in 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 and spun 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 had fully 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 watched my 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’m not me.”

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...”

I knocked back half the champagne in one go, letting the bubbles burn away their words. I was beyond caring. Let them talk. It only proved what I already knew—that I was the most interesting thing in this room, full of stuffy old money and even older attitudes. 

The room tilted pleasantly, the crystal chandeliers above creating halos around the lights, as I made my way toward the bar. It was usually my salvation at these things, and would have been again if Lord Stewart Beauchamp hadn’t been planted there like a balding garden gnome in a black suit. Mother’s attempt at marrying me off to some stupid old-fashioned title stood next to exactly the kind of man I actually wanted—tall, dark, and decidedly dangerous looking in his perfectly tailored tux. The contrast was almost comical with Stewart’s pinched face and spreading the waistline, standing next to this Adonis.

My mother’s voice repeated in my head from our numerous fights. “Stewart has ties to both Scottish and French royalty, Elisabeth. Do you realize what that means for our family?” As if that mattered a whit to me. It was probably a lie, anyway. Mum didn’t understand that you have to Google these things to see if it’s true. 

I’m sure she’s promised Stewart all sorts of things, maybe even told him I’d specifically asked for him to be here tonight. Poor sod. He’s about to learn why they call me, Beth “The Menace” MacLeod.

I caught Tall-Dark-and-Handsome’s eye first, deliberately ignoring Stewart’s eager wave. The stranger’s gaze traveled slowly down my body and back up, one brow raising slightly. Oh yes, he would do nicely.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” I purred, sliding between them and placing my hand on the stranger’s chest. His heartbeat was firm and rhythmic beneath my hand. “Buy a girl a drink?” Stewart’s spluttering beside us was music to my ears.

The stranger’s cologne was expensive, something woodsy that made me want to bury my face in his neck. A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips. “Mademoiselle, a woman with your beauty, needs more than a drink. I would buy you the entire bar,” he said, his voice carrying a sexy French accent that totally stirred something deep inside me. “I’m Jacques de Valois.”

“Oh, trust me, a drink is just the beginning of what I plan on getting from you tonight, Jacques de Valois,” I said, as my fingers trailed down his lapel. “I’m Beth MacLeod.”

“B-Beth,” Stewart interrupted, his face flushed red as a tomato. “Your mother said you were expecting me tonight—”

“Did she now?” I turned enough to give him a withering look. “Let me guess, she told you I was desperate to see you? That I’ve been pining away?” I laughed, the sound sharp enough to draw stares. “Oh, Lord Beauchamp. Mummy dearest is playing you like a fiddle.”

Jacques shifted uncomfortably, but I tightened my grip on his jacket. “Don’t go anywhere, darling. I’m not finished with you yet.”

Stewart’s face crumpled, then hardened. “You’re drunk, Elisabeth. Let me call you a car to take you home—”

“Drunk?” I released the stranger to step into Stewart’s space, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I’m not drunk enough to find you attractive, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

A flash caught my eye; someone’s phone camera. Then another. The vultures were circling, sensing blood in the water. Fine. Let them watch. Let them see exactly what I thought about being auctioned off like prize cattle.

“You want to know why Mummy’s so keen on you for me?” My voice carried across the suddenly quiet ballroom. “Because you’re some kind of Lord, allegedly. And very, very safe. Not to mention one hundred percent passionless. The perfect bore to keep wild little Beth MacLeod in line, aren’t you?”

Another camera flash, closer this time. I spun toward it, nearly losing my balance. The photographer, some woman in a cheap blazer, kept her phone aimed at me.

“Stop the fuck filming me.” The words came out sharp. The room was spinning faster now, faces merging into a disapproving mosaic of pearls and bow ties.

“I’m just doing my job,” the woman said, backing away. “For the Foundations social media.”

The woman’s face swam in and out of focus. “So, your job is to make me look like an arse on the internet?” I said, my voice slurred. “Not today, bitch!” I lunged for her phone, my panty hose making my feet slide on the marble. My dress rode up as I grabbed for her, probably giving half the room a show. “Delete it! Delete the video right fucking now!”

The woman’s hair was soft in my fingers as I yanked, trying to reach her phone. Someone screamed—maybe me or her. The room dissolved into chaos around us, but all I was focused on was destroying that damned phone before—

Strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back. My father’s presence cut through the fog of booze and rage.

“That’s enough, Elisabeth,” he growled in my ear, his voice carrying decades of disappointment. “You’ve done quite enough.”

The last thing I saw before I puked in the middle of the ballroom was Stewart’s disgusted face, Jacques’s pitiful worried look, and my mother’s perfectly masked devastation. Then I passed out stone cold.

* * *

Consciousness came back like a tide of broken glass, each wave bringing fresh pain and sharper regrets. The gala. The champagne. The dark-haired Frenchman, Jacques something. And then... oh fuck.

My mouth tasted like something had crawled in and died, probably my dignity. I cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it. Even the filtered sunlight was like ice picks straight to my brain.

“Good morning, daughter.”

The dry voice sent fresh spikes of pain through my skull. I recognized that tone. It was my mother’s “I’m-so-disappointed-I-can’t-even-be-bothered-to-yell” voice. Somewhere beyond the hangover, my stomach clenched.

I forced my eyes open again, fighting waves of nausea as the room slowly came into focus. Not my flat. The Dorchester Suite, Mummy’s favorite place to handle family scandals.

Mother sat in a wingback chair like it was a throne, her Chanel suit pristine despite the early hour. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed a sleepless night, carefully concealed but visible to anyone who knew her well.

“What…” I tried to sit up, but the room tilted alarmingly. “What time is it?”

“Time to face the consequences of your actions,” she said, each word precise as a surgeon’s cut. She picked up a tablet from the side table. “Would you like to see what four hundred of Glasgow’s most influential people witnessed last night? The video’s already ‘trending,’ I think is the word.”

“How bad is it?” I asked, not sure I wanted the answer.

“Well, the doctor says you’ll pull through, but I’m not so sure your standing in our circles will survive this one. See for yourself.”

I squinted at the screen, my stomach dropping as I read the headline: “THE MACLEOD MENANCE STRIKES AGAIN: BETH MACLEOD’S DRUNKEN RAMPAGE AT CHILDREN’S CHARITY GALA.”

There I was, in all my shit-faced glory, screaming at some poor woman and yanking her hair like a demented banshee. Christ, I looked like a proper nutter. The video continued, showing my father at the edge of the frame, his face a mask of controlled fury as I kicked and screamed. I cringed as I watched myself being half-carried, half-dragged out of the ballroom, my dress hiked up indecently high. The last frame caught my face in perfect clarity, drunk, mad, and utterly lost.

“Oh god,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Mummy, I—”

“Save it, Elisabeth Fiona MacLeod,” she cut me off using my full name. That was never a good sign. “You’re lucky she’s not pressing charges. But your father and I have had enough. This ends now.”

Mother set the tablet aside. “The board of directors has already called an emergency meeting. The charity’s biggest donors are threatening to withdraw their support. And Stewart Beauchamp’s mother… a dear friend, I might add… is absolutely mortified.”

“Fuck Stewart,” I muttered, then immediately regretted it as Mother’s face went carefully blank.

“Yes, well, that’s rather the problem, isn’t it? You seem bound to... what’s the phrase? ‘Fuck up’ every opportunity we provide.” She stood, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. “Your father and I have come to a decision.”

The room suddenly seemed colder. I pulled the duvet higher, as if it would shield me from what was coming.

“This will be your last chance. ‘Fuck up’ one more time, and we cut you off. Completely.” Her voice softened slightly, which somehow made it worse. “We can’t keep watching you destroy yourself, Beth. And we won’t let you drag the MacLeod name down with you.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“Oh, I’m deadly serious.” She moved to the window, adjusting the curtains. “I’ve made arrangements with the Bright Futures Foundation.”

“The what foundation? Made arrangements? What are you talking about?” I croaked.

She turned back to me. “It’s about time you contribute to our family’s reputation in a positive way. Or… you could simply get married. I talked with Stewart after…,” Mum said, her tone deceptively casual. “Marriage will settle you down, make you stop your wild ways. You’re twenty-nine, Elisabeth. It’s time.”

The idea made me sick, and she knew it. “Christ, Mummy, he’s revolting. Even you wouldn’t marry him for his fancy titles. You told him to be there, didn’t you? You were trying to set me up with him, weren’t you? This is not the first time, Mother. You have been trying to push Stewart on me for years.”

“I would stop talking right now, if I were you. Stewart is stable. Respectable. Everything you seem intent on not being.” 

My stomach churned like a washing machine full of last night’s bad decisions and cheap booze. “He’s repulsive is what he is. What makes you think I’d ever want him? He’s dull and has no passion. Plus, he only wants to marry me for Father’s money, Mum. You realize, don’t you, his family has squandered theirs, and just because he has ties to French and Scottish royalty doesn’t mean he’s a good person for me. Stop trying to control my love life! I’m not some pedigree dog for you to breed!”

Mum sniffed and stuck her chin out, trying to maintain her composure. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“No, we won’t. Stewart and all that marriage sh… stuff is out of the question.” My voice was firmer than I let on, but in the back of my mind, dread was creeping in. She would never stop pushing him on me.

Mother let out a sigh of pure, theatrical exasperation, waving a dismissive hand as if batting away my childish protests. “Believe me, Elisabeth, if it were solely my decision, Stewart or poverty would be your only choices. A suitable marriage is the only cure for this… melodrama. But your father…” She rolled her eyes. “…he insisted. He has some sentimental notion that you should be given one more chance to ‘prove your worth’ before we take more drastic measures. He seems to think a bit of charity work will suddenly turn you into a responsible adult.” Her eyes narrowed, resembling chips of ice. “Make no mistake, Beth. From now on, every choice you make will either be an investment in this family's reputation... or the beginning of a life lived entirely without its support. The choice is yours. Make it wisely.”

I stared at my mother, my mind reeling. The hangover and this bombshell were too much to process at once. “Investment? How?” I asked frantically.

Mum’s eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed by my pitiful state. “Like I said, there’s a foundation called Bright Futures. For homeless and abused children.” Her tone dripped with irony. “Considering the charity you’ve just... well, let’s say ‘disappointed,’ it seems rather fitting, don’t you agree?”

I winced, remembering flashes of my behavior last night. “Mum, I—”

She held up a hand, silencing me. “I’ve already reached out to the organizers. You’ll be at their office, nine AM Monday as their new volunteer.”

“Volunteer?” I sputtered. “But I don’t know the first thing about fundraising—”

“Then I suggest you learn quickly,” Mum cut in, her voice steady. “Because if you don’t show up, Elisabeth, the free ride ends. Do I make myself clear?”

I nodded weakly, my stomach queasy from more than just the hangover.

Mum smoothed down her skirt. “Good. I’ll leave you to your... recovery.” She paused at the door, her hand on the knob. “Don’t let us down again, Beth. Please.”

The door clicked shut with the finality of a coffin lid. I lay back, staring at the ceiling. The MacLeod name had always been my ticket to whatever I wanted. Now it was like a noose.

“Fuck,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice cracking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”