The Billionaire’s Scottish Bride

Arabella Sinclair opened her eyes before the alarm sounded.

That was already a bad sign.

The rain pounded against the windows of her small Edinburgh apartment with an almost personal insistence, as if the entire city wanted to remind her that this was no ordinary day. In a week, her final exams would be over. Then would come graduation. Then… the real world, with its bills, its overdue rent, and that awkward question everyone seemed to ask with a smile: So, what are you going to do with your life now?

Arabella knew it.

I wanted to work with books. To edit them, to champion them, to discover stories that deserved to be read. I wanted to prove that literature could change a life, even that of a child who swore he hated reading.

That's why her thesis had been consuming hours of sleep, cheap coffee, and a patience he never had in abundance for two years.

The old phone vibrated on the small table. The screen blinked three times before displaying Seraphina's message.

Don't be late. Today Beaumont is handing out the big names.

Arabella moaned and covered her face with the pillow.

“Great. Nothing like starting the day with an academic threat.”

She jumped up abruptly before she could change her mind. The mirror by the door reflected a decent image, though not exactly a flattering one: unruly curls, dark circles under her eyes like a student in their final years, and a blouse that had survived too many washes. She gathered her hair as best she could, put her thesis in a folder, and checked her bag.

Few coins.

Enough for the bus fare. Not enough for a decent lunch.

“Perfect, Arabella. Elegant, hungry, and almost a graduate.”

In the hallway, Mrs. Abernathy waited for her as if she had sensed her fear from the other side of the door. The building's owner wore her usual gray coat and a smile that never reached her eyes.

“Miss Sinclair. The rent.”

Arabella clutched the folder to her chest.

“I'll pay you the rest tonight. I have a job interview after class.”

“That's what he said last week.”

“And this time it will be true.”

The woman looked her up and down, with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction.

“She'd better. Edinburgh is beautiful, my dear, but it doesn't forgive those who can't afford it.”

Arabella didn't answer. She went downstairs, her throat tight, and stepped out into the light rain.

The University of Edinburgh looked older and more solemn than ever. Its stone walls, damp from the weather, stood as if they had been judging weary students for centuries. Seraphina Wycliffe awaited her by the entrance, immaculate as if the dampness dared not touch her.

“You look like you're about to declare war,” Seraphina said.

“I'm about to present a thesis to important strangers. It's similar.”

“Dramatic.”

“Poor. The correct word is poor.”

Seraphina grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the classroom.

Professor Beaumont arrived ten minutes later, with his leather folder and that air of a man who enjoyed sowing anxiety. He left several envelopes on the table.

“Each of you will present your research to a selected professional. It won't be an exercise. It will be a real evaluation. Your guests can open doors for you… or close them.”

Arabella felt her stomach sink.

The names started coming up. Professors, editors, critics, lawyers. Seraphina received a cultural director from Glasgow and almost applauded with excitement.

Then Beaumont looked at Arabella.

“Miss Sinclair.”

She got up.

“Yes, professor.”

He handed her a black envelope, thicker than the others.

“You will see Mr. Alistair Montrose.”

The classroom fell silent for half a second. Then, the murmurs shattered like glass.

Seraphina opened her eyes.

Arabella looked down at the envelope.

The name written in silver ink seemed too important to be in his hands.

Alistair Montrose.

And suddenly, Arabella knew that her life had just taken a turn towards a place from which she might not be able to return.

Because some names don't open doors: they close them behind you.

“Alistair Montrose isn't a person, Bella. He's an institution in an expensive suit.”

Seraphina walked beside her across campus, unable to lower her voice. Arabella had been trying to feign calm for ten minutes and failing with admirable dignity.

“Thank you. That helps a lot.”

“His family owns half of Scotland.”

“That is not legally possible.”

“With the Montroses, definitely.”

Arabella opened the envelope under the stone archway overlooking the courtyard. Inside was a card with the date, time, and address.

Montrose House. Friday. 10:00 am

Not a university office. Not a neutral meeting room. Montrose House. The business residence of a family whose surname evoked images of antique portraits, expensive whiskey, and secrets hidden beneath Persian rugs.

“I'm going to make a fool of myself,” he muttered.

“You are going to present your thesis.”

“Exactly. Academic nonsense.”

Seraphina gently bumped her with her shoulder.

“You're brilliant. You just have to speak without sounding like you're apologizing for existing.”

That did hurt, because it was true.

After class, Arabella went straight to The Thistle Room, the café where she had just started working. The place was lovely: golden lamps, dark wooden tables, the scent of cinnamon, and customers wearing coats that cost more than their rent. The problem was Magnus, the manager, a man with the patience of a closed door.

“You're three minutes late—he said without saying hello.”

“I come from the university.”

“Customers don't pay for your biography.”

Arabella took a deep breath.

I needed that job. I needed the money. I needed to not lose my temper on the first day.

For four hours she served coffee, cleaned tables, and smiled at people who wouldn't look her in the eye. When her shift ended, Magnus threw her a notebook.

“You'll have more tables tomorrow. And don't get distracted by notes again.”

“I wasn't distracted.”

He pointed to the thesis folder sticking out of his bag.

“You come here to serve. Not to dream.”

Arabella felt the blow, but didn't let it show. She gathered her things and stepped out into the cold night.

At home, another battle awaited her: bills on the table, a note from Mrs. Abernathy, and a message from her mother in Glasgow asking if she was eating well. Arabella replied that she was.

Lying with affection was still lying.

She made herself a piece of toast, opened her thesis, and tried to concentrate. But the name Alistair Montrose kept coming back, elegant and dark, like a shadow across the page.

He searched for information on the internet from Seraphina's old computer, which only worked when it felt like it.

The photos appeared slowly.

Alistair Montrose at a charity gala. Alistair Montrose getting out of a black car. Alistair Montrose with ministers, businesspeople, and heirs to impossibly prestigious surnames. Tall, serious, impeccably dressed. Light eyes. A strong jaw. A cold, almost offensive beauty.

Arabella slammed the screen shut.

“No. No, no, no. I'm not going to stutter in front of that man.”

But his reflection in the window didn't seem convinced.

That night she slept little. She dreamed of stone corridors, closed doors, and a male voice pronouncing her name as if it already belonged to him.

When he woke up, Friday had arrived.

And that was only the beginning.