22. Skirting Around the Truth
SKIRTING AROUND THE TRUTH
KARINA
Ten days after my confession on Callum's yacht, a perfect Seattle August afternoon spreads outside my bedroom window.
The sun hangs lazily in a cloudless sky, warming the city to a pleasant eighty degrees—the kind of summer day locals wait all year for.
It's exactly three hours before Connor's engagement party, and I'm experiencing what can only be described as full-body anxiety.
Everything I own has been thrown across my bed in an archaeological dig for the perfect outfit, while three different makeup tutorials play simultaneously on my laptop.
"Too basic... too desperate... too 'I'm trying to seduce your CFO,'" I mutter, discarding dresses in rapid succession.
My phone buzzes with a text from Viktoria:
Have you told him yet?
I stare at the message, guilt churning in my stomach. Since Luke Sterling's background check revelations last week, the clock has been ticking on my professional facade.
According to Viktoria's surveillance (I don't ask how she knows), Luke has uncovered "concerning discrepancies" in my work history but hasn't yet shared them with Callum.
ME: Working on it, I reply.
VIK: Translation: No.
VIK: Do it before tonight's party.
ME: Why tonight specifically?
VIK: Because better he hears it from you than from MacTavish or Sterling in the middle of a crowded event.
She's right. Of course she's right.
If I'm going to confess my fabricated credentials to Callum—the man I'm falling in love with who also happens to value honesty above all things—it needs to happen before we're surrounded by Seattle's elite tech community.
I finally select a midnight blue cocktail dress that makes me look competent but not like I'm trying too hard.
As I slip it on, my phone buzzes again.
Callum: Stopping by earlier than planned. Something to discuss. 30 minutes.
My heart crashes against my ribcage. This is it.
Luke told him. He knows.
He's coming to fire me before the party to avoid a scene.
I race through my makeup routine with shaking hands, rehearsing my confession aloud to my reflection.
"Callum, before you say anything, I need to tell you something important. My resume isn't entirely accurate. Not the skills—those are real. Just the timeline and... some of the employers. And possibly my education. But I can explain..."
The doorbell rings just as I'm attempting to tame my hair into something resembling a professional updo.
I glance at my phone.
Twenty minutes early.
The man's pathological punctuality is apparently flexible when it comes to delivering bad news.
I throw open the door to find Callum standing there in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, looking like he stepped out of a Scottish GQ cover. His deep reddish-brown hair gleams in the afternoon sun, and his expression is serious but not angry—more contemplative.
"We need to talk," he says without preamble.
"I need to tell you something," I blurt simultaneously.
We stare at each other, momentarily thrown off rhythm.
"Ladies first," he offers, stepping inside.
I lead him to my living room, which I'd frantically cleaned this morning in anticipation of his arrival to pick me up for the party.
Now, the neat space feels like an interrogation room.
"Would you like something to drink?" I ask, buying myself precious seconds.
"No, thank you." He remains standing, hands clasped behind his back. "What did you want to tell me?"
I take a deep breath. "Callum, I haven't been entirely honest with you."
His eyebrows lift slightly. "About?"
"About who I am. What I am…” I exhale, the breath that leaves my lungs literally making my shoulders slump.
“You see, I’ve been through a lot in the past few years.
Mom's treatments, Susanna's business loan—they all depended on me having a steady income.” I fight the urge to fidget.
“You see, when my father left us, I kinda had to become the provider.
I was twelve, translating for my mother, working jobs I was too young for, all while watching my sisters suffer.
I promised myself I'd never let anyone make us feel powerless again. So, when doors kept closing in my face for jobs I knew I earned, I was desperate, and I…”
He's watching me with an intensity that makes me want to crawl under my coffee table. "And?"
"And I..."
The shrill sound of a phone ringing cuts me off.
Swearing, Callum grabs his cell phone from his pocket. He glances at the screen, frowning.
"I need to take this." His tone suggests it's not up for debate. "Duncan MacTavish."
As Callum steps away to answer, I sink onto my couch, heart pounding.
I was so close.
Just a few more sentences and it would have been out there.
"What do you mean public statement?" Callum's voice sharpens. "When?"
I watch his expression darken as he listens, his free hand clenching into a fist.
"Send me the link. Immediately." He ends the call and turns to me. "Duncan just released a press statement questioning Abernathy Corp's leadership stability in light of recent 'social media irregularities.' He's hinting that I'm unsuitable to lead the acquisition."
I blink, barely able to form words. “That's ridiculous."
"It's calculated. He's trying to force the board to reconsider the acquisition price." Callum paces my living room, all thoughts of our previous conversation apparently forgotten. "He specifically mentioned Richard's embezzlement as evidence of a 'pattern of leadership failures.'"
"He can't do that!"
"He just did." Callum's phone pings with a new message. He reads it and his expression somehow grows even darker. "And now he's attending Connor's engagement party tonight."
"What? How?"
"Late addition to the guest list. Connor's fiancée Ariana represents one of MacTavish's subsidiaries—Duncan leveraged the connection.
" Callum runs a hand through his hair, momentarily disheveling its perfect order.
"This changes everything. He's turning tonight into a public referendum on my leadership. "
My own confession suddenly feels insignificant against this corporate chess move.
I shift into crisis management mode.
"Then we counter it. We stick to the Guardian narrative we've been building. We present a united, professional front."
"Exactly what I was thinking." He finally meets my eyes again. "Karina, whatever you were about to tell me?—"
"It can wait," I say, relief and guilt washing through me in equal measure.
His phone rings again. "It's Connor." He answers, putting it on speaker. "You've heard?"
"Heard? I'm living it!" Connor's voice comes through frantic. "The venue decorators just called. Someone 'upgraded' our event theme to include tartan accents and signature cocktails called 'Kilt Teasers' and 'Highland Flings.' There are actual bagpipes, Callum. BAGPIPES."
Callum closes his eyes, visibly calculating how many people he can reasonably fire in one evening. "Who authorized this?"
"The events company claims they were 'leveraging viral momentum' to enhance guest experience. Ariana is homicidal."
"We'll handle it," I jump in. "Tell the venue manager to remove anything with tartan or kilt references. I'll call in a favor at Highland Spirits—they can provide replacement specialty cocktails with proper Scottish names, no innuendo."
"You're a lifesaver," Connor breathes. "But there's more. The gift bags... they contain kilted teddy bears."
Callum and I trade alarmed looks.
"How many?" Callum asks, his voice lowering by ten decibels.
"Two hundred."
"Burn them," Callum and I say in unison.
"Already on it," Connor confirms. "See you both in an hour? And Callum? Wear your game face. Half of tech journalism RSVP'd after Duncan's statement dropped."
The call ends, leaving us in momentary silence.
"We need to go. Now." Callum peers down at his watch. “I’ll call my PR team to craft a response to Duncan's statement while we drive."
"I'll handle the venue crisis management," I add, already texting my Highland Spirits contact. "We can strategize on the way."
As I grab my purse and wrap, Callum pauses at my door. "Karina, what you were saying earlier?—"
"Later," I promise, not meeting his eyes. "After we survive tonight."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. "After."
We rush down to his waiting car, my confession still hanging unspoken between us.
As the driver pulls away from my apartment, I can't help wondering if I've just missed my only chance to tell the truth on my own terms.
Callum's already on the phone, his CEO voice firmly in place, handling the MacTavish crisis with impressive efficiency.
I focus on my own calls, coordinating last-minute venue adjustments and drink replacements.
This isn't how I planned to spend the hours before Connor's engagement party—racing to prevent a corporate takeover while sitting beside the man whose heart I'm about to break.
But then again, when have my plans ever worked out the way I expected?
I steal a glance at Callum's profile, strong and determined as he strategizes our counter-offensive.
The irony isn't lost on me…
I’m about to attend a celebration of love and commitment while hiding the very thing that could destroy whatever is growing between us.
"Ready for this?" Callum asks as we pull up to the venue, his hand finding mine in a brief, reassuring squeeze.
The smile I give feels frozen on my face. “As I'll ever be.”
The truth will have to wait.
Again.
First, we have a party to save and a corporate reputation to defend.