“It’s worse than we thought,” I said, my anger solidifying into a cold, hard stone in my gut. “And much, much more specific.”
I turned the laptop so she could see. The two million pounds hadn’t just vanished into a vague black hole of “castle renovations.” Gianni had traced every single penny with a terrifying, forensic precision.
The first major finding was a wire transfer of £500,000 from Alexander MacLeod’s account to a holding corporation in the Cayman Islands. A corporation that, just three days later, made a direct payment of £448,000 to an Aston Martin dealership in London. There was a photo attached: Stewart Beauchamp,grinning like an idiot, standing next to a brand-new, racing green Aston Martin DB11.
“That bastard,” Beth whispered, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “My father was frugal with his money. And that parasite bought himself a supercar with our money.”
But it got worse. Another half a million pounds had been funneled through a different shell company, this one based in Panama. From there, Gianni had traced smaller, weekly payments—thousands at a time—directly into the accounts of three different high-stakes online casinos based in Malta and Gibraltar. There were screenshots of his betting history. He wasn’t investing; he was gambling. And losing. Badly.
I looked at Beth. Her face was pale, but her eyes were burning with a cold fire I had never seen before. She wasn’t the panicked girl on the streets of Glasgow. This was a queen surveying the ruins of her stolen kingdom, and she was ready to go to war to reclaim it.
“This isn’t just a sleazy lord trying to marry into money,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “This is a career criminal. This is fraud on a massive scale. We have him, Beth. We have him dead to rights.”
She just nodded, her gaze fixed on the screen, on the undeniable proof of the two-million-pound betrayal. We had the weapon. Now, we had to decide how to use it.
I closed the laptop, the silence in the suite heavy with the weight of what we now knew. I turned my chair to face Beth, taking her hands in mine. They were steady now, no longer trembling.
“Okay,” I said, keeping my voice calm and strategic. “We have options. The first, and safest, is to take this entire dossier directly to your father. The loan was earmarked for castle renovations, not to support his luxury and gambling addiction. Wehand it over to his legal team. They press charges for fraud, and we let the lawyers handle it. It would be clean, clinical, and you wouldn’t have to see his face again. Your father would recover at least some of the money.”
I was hoping she would take that option. It felt like the smartest play, the one that would keep her furthest from the line of fire. But I knew her. I knew the fighter I had seen emerge over the last few weeks.
She shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement. Her eyes, when they met mine, were filled with a steely resolve. “No,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “That’s their way of doing things. Through lawyers, through intermediaries. Hiding behind money and power. I’ve spent my entire life having men like him, and men like my father, write my story for me, making decisions about my life without even consulting me. I already told you before. This time, I will be the one to deliver the ending.”
She squeezed my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “I need to see the look in his eyes, Sean. I need to see him realize that the game is over, that the foolish little party girl he thought he could swindle, has outplayed him. I need to be the one to tell him that he has no power over me. I can’t do that from behind a lawyer’s desk.”
I looked at her, at the fierce, beautiful strength radiating from her, and I felt a surge of pride so intense it almost hurt. This wasn’t about revenge. This was about reclaiming her own narrative, her own power. And how could I stand in the way of that? My protective instincts were screaming at me to lock her in this room and handle it myself, but my heart, my soul, knew that would be the bigger betrayal. She had to do this. And I had to be the man who trusted her to do it.
“Okay,” I said, my voice filled with a conviction thatmatched her own. “We do it your way.” I took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “But we do it together. I’m not letting you walk into that den alone. I’ll be your backup, your bodyguard, your getaway driver. Whatever you need. We’re a team.”
A dazzling smile spread across her face, the first genuine smile I’d seen since we’d landed. “My hero,” she teased, her voice a low, husky purr that sent a jolt of pure want straight through me.
“Always,” I murmured, pulling her from her chair and onto my lap.
The kiss was different this time. It wasn’t the desperate passion from the night before, or the tender exploration from this morning. It was a seal. A pact. A slow, deep confirmation of our partnership. Her hands tangled in my hair, her body melting against mine. The strategic tension of the last hour dissolved into a pure, simmering heat.
“You know,” she whispered against my lips, her breath hot and intoxicating, “plotting the complete and utter financial ruin of one’s enemies is surprisingly effective foreplay.”
I chuckled, my hands sliding from her waist down to the curve of her hips, pulling her tighter against me. “Is that so, MacLeod? You plotting a corporate takedown right now?”
“I’m plotting several things,” she murmured, her teeth gently nipping at my bottom lip, sending a fresh wave of fire through my veins.
“And what’s first on the agenda?” I asked, my voice a low growl.
“First,” she said, her blue eyes dark with promise as she stood up, taking my hand and leading me toward the bedroom, “we refuel for the battle ahead. Then, we go make a lord grovel.”
Hours later,we were in a rented Jaguar, the car a sleek black shadow against the gray, moody landscape of the Scottish countryside. The drive out of Glasgow had been quiet, a comfortable silence filled with a shared, grim determination. Now, as we turned onto a narrow, winding road, the imposing, decrepit form of Stewart Beauchamp’s ancestral home came into view.
It wasn’t a castle in the fairytale sense. It was a fortress. A crumbling, gothic monstrosity of gray stone, black slate, and angry-looking turrets that clawed at the overcast sky. The grounds were overgrown, the once-manicured lawns now a riot of weeds and wildflowers. It was a perfect reflection of the man himself: an imposing, impressive facade that couldn’t quite hide the decay and rot underneath.
The car crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway in front of the heavy oak door. For a moment, we just sat there, the engine ticking in the quiet air. I felt a deep sense of foreboding, a primal instinct screaming at me to put the car in reverse and get Beth as far away from this place as possible. But then I looked at her.
Her face was pale, but her expression was set, her jaw firm with a resolve that was awe-inspiring. This wasn’t the scared, broken woman I had found on the streets of Glasgow. This was a warrior. My warrior.
“Ready?” I asked, my voice low.
She turned to me, a small, wry smile on her lips. “Born ready, McCrae.” She leaned across the console and gave me a quick, hard kiss. “Just try not to punch him in the face until after I’ve had my say, alright? It would ruin the dramatic tension.”
I laughed, a short, sharp burst of sound in the quiet car. “I’ll do my best.”
