“Many men your age have been married for years and already have families.”
“Are you giving me marital advice now?”
“I wouldn’t presume to. I’m simply stating the facts. You have exactly three hundred sixty-five days to marry. After that, control of McGregor & Sons passes to Lachlan McGregor, as per your late father’s wishes.”
I stand, done with this conversation.
“Anything else I should know?”
He adjusts his glasses one last time.
“One detail: it must be a genuine marriage. Your father included a specific clause against marriages of convenience.”
I frown.
“And how exactly do you prove whether a marriage is real?”
“Oh, there are ways. Private investigators, testimonies from acquaintances, proof of cohabitation… Your father was not easily fooled, Mr. McGregor. And I personally added several legal safeguards against fraud.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Thank you for that delightful piece of information, Mr. Mitchell. Have a wonderful day.”
In the backof the Bentley heading toward the estate, I stare out at the Highlands without really seeing them. I pull out my phone and call the one person I can talk to about this mess.
“Yeah.”
“Hey, Ewan. You’re not going to believe what I just found out.”
He sighs on the other end.
“Let me guess. Your father put some ridiculous clause in his will forcing you to get married to inherit the company.”
I go silent.
“How the hell did you?—”
“I know your family like I’m part of it.”
I close my eyes.
I’m screwed. Completely, thoroughly screwed.
“That man was diabolical.”
“He was worried about you, Callum. And about the company.”
“If he was so worried, he wouldn’t be threatening to hand it over to Lachlan from beyond the grave.”
“He knew that’s the only thing that would make you move,” Ewan says bluntly. “Look, I get it. It’s complicated. But you’re going to have to deal with it. I’m at the office. Come by—we’ll figure something out.”
I glance at my watch. Almost noon.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
Ewan’s officeis the complete opposite of mine. Where I like order and clean lines, he thrives in chaos—stacks of papers, half-empty coffee cups, neon Post-its everywhere. Somehow, it works. Just like his brain.
“So Mitchell gave you a year,” he says after I finish explaining. “That’s better than I expected. Your grandmother was pushing for six months.”
