#9 Last Straw

Eilidh POV

I barely stepped through the front doors before I felt it, that thick, heavy tension that means trouble’s waiting.

My Da, Duncan, stood in the great hall like a wall of stone, arms crossed, jaw set. My Ma, Isla, was beside him, her posture sharp, chin lifted in that way that meant she’d already decided I was guilty.

“Where have ye been?” my father asked, his voice low but dangerous.

“Out,” I said simply, shrugging out of my coat. “Why?”

Isla’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve just been told ye had lunch wi' the MacAllisters.”

I blinked. “And…?”

“And,” Duncan growled, “ye knew damn well we’d forbid it and ye went anyway. Ye’ve been keepin’ it quiet so we wouldn’t hear about it, and now the whole bloody town is talkin’.”

My coat slid from my fingers onto the floor. “First of all, I didn’t ‘keep it quiet.’ I didn’t think it was worth mentionin’. Second, I don’t need tae justify who I have lunch with, tae ye, or tae anyone.”

Duncan took a step forward, eyes flaring. “Ye’re playin’ wi’ fire, lass, and makin’ this family look like fools while ye’re at it.”

That was it. The line snapped. “I jest divorced an adult man child who cheated on me and talked down tae me every chance he got,” I said, my voice steady but edged with steel. “I’ll be damned if I take it from my own fuckin’ parents.”

Isla’s lips parted, but I didn’t stop. “I am not yer wee bairn anymore. I’m a grown woman with my own name, my own career, and my own life. If I want tae have lunch with a MacAllister, a Sinclair, or the bloody Loch Ness Monster, I will, and I’ll do it without askin’ yer permission.”

Duncan’s jaw worked like he was trying to find a comeback, but nothing came. “Ye can warn me about their family,” I said, softer but still firm, “but ye don’t get tae control me. Not anymore.” The silence was sharp and heavy. I bent, picked up my coat, and slung it over my arm.

“Where are ye goin’?” Duncan called after me.

“Somewhere I can breathe without bein’ judged fer it,” I shot back, and walked straight out. By the time I got to the hotel we were moving into, I was vibrating with anger. The door barely clicked shut before I dropped my coat on the chair and started pacing.

“They’ve lost their minds, Cat,” I snapped. “I’m twenty-six, fer fuck’s sake, nae sixteen. They don’t get tae decide who I have lunch with like I’m grounded fer stayin’ out past curfew.”

Cat set down her tablet and leaned back on the bed, watching me with that mix of sympathy and curiosity she always had when I was on a tear. “They actually said you can’t see them? Like… ever?”

“Aye,” I huffed, throwing my hands up. “Like the MacAllisters are some kind of ancient curse I’ll catch if I stand too close. And when I told them I wasn’t takin’ orders? Ye’d think I’d spat in the family Bible.”

Cat snorted. “Ellie, you divorced a man child who tried to run your life. You are not about to let your parents fill that spot.”

“Exactly.” I stopped pacing and planted my hands on my hips. “They don’t get tae talk to me like that. Not after everything I’ve been through. I’ll be damned if I’m takin’ shite from anyone, blood or nae.”

Her smirk was pure mischief. “You know what this calls for, right?” I arched a brow. “Enlighten me.”

“A night out. Music, drinks, dancing, somewhere we can let off steam and remember you’re a hot, single, dangerous woman who answers to no one.” I couldn’t help the slow grin that spread across my face. “Oh, love… that might be the best idea ye’ve had all week.”

Thirty minutes later, our new suite looked like a dressing room explosion. Glittering dresses tossed over chairs, a battlefield of makeup across the vanity, perfume hanging in the air like expensive smoke. I slid into a deep sapphire silk dress that clung in all the right places, the thigh slit showing just enough leg to be distracting. My hair was loose, tumbling over my shoulders, lips painted the kind of red that promised trouble.

Cat went for gold sequins, all legs and sass, her hair in loose curls and eyes lined sharp enough to kill. We grabbed our clutches, and I called the driver. “We want a club,” I told him. “Somewhere in town. Not the kind where people whisper over martinis, the kind where they’re too busy dancin’ tae care who ye are.”

His grin in the rearview said he understood perfectly. The Bentley purred through the narrow streets of Inverness until the music hit us even before the doors opened, low, thumping bass, warm lights spilling out into the cool night air. “This’ll do nicely,” Cat said, already halfway out of the car. I followed, feeling the weight of my parents’ words still simmering… but ready to burn them off on the dance floor.

The club was exactly what I needed, bass thumping in my chest, lights shifting from gold to red to deep violet, the air warm with bodies and perfume and the faint burn of whisky. Nobody here cared about last names or family feuds. Cat and I pushed through the crowd toward the bar, and within minutes we had drinks in hand. She clinked her glass against mine. “To being the boss of your own damn life.”

“Aye,” I said, the corner of my mouth curving, “and tae doin’ it in heels.”

We didn’t bother with seats. The music was too good, the beat too addictive. We slid onto the dance floor, letting it swallow us whole. My hair stuck to the back of my neck, my dress hugged every curve, and the low lights made everything look a little more dangerous.