2. The Scottish Inquisition
THE SCOTTISH INQUISITION
CALLUM
Ten minutes after discovering my physical attributes have become internet fodder, I'm pacing the length of our glass-walled boardroom feeling my blood pressure tick to new levels.
Seattle's summer rain lashes against the windows, matching my stormy mood as afternoon darkens toward evening. It's poetic, really—if poetry were written in caps lock and mild fury.
Karina Peters—Marketing Director of our Seattle office and my brother’s ex—is sitting prim and proper in one of the leather chairs like she’s waiting for a job interview, not a corporate inquisition.
I rifle through her HR file in my head.
Karina Peters. Originally Petrosian instead of Peters. Americanized a generation ago.
Forty-one. Six months with Abernathy Corp.
Loves Nora Ephron, 90s power ballads, and—based on her dating history—has truly abysmal taste in men.
Her curly dark hair is pinned back in some kind of professional updo. Her eyes—same color—are locked on me like I’m a threat she’s already planning to neutralize.
Smart woman.
Because right now, I am the biggest threat in this room.
"Let me get this straight," I say, the words sluggish on my tongue. "You want me to believe someone else used your login to post a graphic breakdown of my... assets... on our corporate social media?"
"Yes." Her voice doesn’t waver. "Exactly."
"And this post just happened to include very specific knowledge of what I wear under my clothing?"
A pink flush creeps up her neck. "I didn’t write it.
I swear. I’ve never speculated on your—undergarments.
” She clears her throat. “Mr. Abernathy, I’m still finding my footing here at Abernathy Corp…
not to mention, I’m still recovering from the Richard disaster.
Trust me: I don’t have the time or the inclination to analyze your anatomy. ”
The mention of my younger brother makes my jaw tighten.
Richard Abernathy. King of terrible decisions.
Two months ago, he thought it’d be cute to embezzle funds and run off with a twenty-four-year-old Icelandic knitter named Anka.
Midlife crisis, Abernathy-style.
I was yanked out of our Scotland office in the middle of a major acquisition to clean up his mess.
Now here I am, stuck stateside, dealing with his digital aftershocks.
"Ah yes," I say dryly. "Richard. Convenient time to bring him up."
Her brown eyes spark as she leans forward. "Excuse me, but your brother nearly tanked my career. I spent fifteen years in digital communications. Got my master’s at thirty-five. And three years with him almost erased all of it. This isn’t convenient—it’s infuriating."
I slide a tablet across the table. Footage from last night shows her alone at her desk.
“This you?”
“Yes. I stayed late to finalize the quarterly report. Not to write anonymous thirst posts about my boss.”
“Then twelve hours later, from your computer, we get this.” I read: “‘Thighs that could crush a whisky barrel—and your will to date inferior men.’”
She blinks. “That’s... colorful.”
“It’s career suicide.” I lean in. “Unless, of course, the goal is to take down Abernathy Corp from the inside?” I add, letting the words hang.
Her head jerks back. “Are you serious? Richard embezzles company funds, nearly steals my identity, ghosts me—and now you think I orchestrated all that just to post about your thighs?"
There’s something so baffled and sincere in her voice, it stops me.
I don’t really know her. I’ve been in Scotland. She was Richard’s problem. I had grad school friends to catch up with—Grayson, Connor, Alex, Luke—people who weren’t attached to my brother’s bad decisions.
But the woman in front of me?
She's got deep shadows under her eyes. Tension in her shoulders. A grip on the tablet like she’s ready to throw it at the next person who calls her a liar.
Either she's a phenomenal actress—or she’s telling the truth.
“Our IT confirms the post came from your computer,” I say, softening only slightly.
“Then someone used my credentials. I don’t know how. But I swear to you, I didn’t write that post.” She runs a hand through her hair, unraveling the careful bun. “I need this job. The board letting me stay after Richard… that was already a miracle. I’m not blowing it on a social media stunt.”
A knock at the door.
Alana, my new assistant—courtesy of Richard’s hasty departure—pokes her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Abernathy, but Good Morning America wants you on tomorrow’s show for a segment called”—she checks her notes—“‘Braveheart Edition: Tech’s Sexiest Scot.’”
I blink. “Decline.”
“Yes, sir.”
She vanishes. Karina and I lock eyes.
“This is spiraling,” I mutter, scanning my phone. Seventeen notifications. Three texts from my grandmother. I’m not opening those.
“I’ve already changed passwords, flagged IT, contacted my PR contacts,” Karina says rapidly. “I’m drafting a statement. If we move fast, we can get ahead of it.”
I lift a brow. “We’re trending number three globally. You think we can ‘get ahead’ of this?”
Her lips wiggle. “That’s... incredibly strong reach for corporate content.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
“Our engagement metrics are off the charts,” she adds. “Not that this is good, obviously, but visibility-wise?—”
“Ms. Peters, I did not build this company to go viral for my thighs.”
“Understood. Though... for the record, the post also wasn’t wrong about the shoulders.”
I stare.
“I mean—objectively speaking. From a marketing perspective. Architecturally significant.” She winces. “I’m making it worse.”
Alana reappears. “Sorry again, but Kilts of Our Lives is on line two. They want you to judge their charity calendar contest. For men in kilts.”
“That’s not even a real show.”
“They’re launching a one-off segment just for you.”
“Decline,” I snap. “And hold all my calls.”
She nods and bolts.
I glance back at Karina, who’s now typing furiously. “What are you doing?”
“Drafting a response. We need to control the narrative before someone photoshops your face onto a Braveheart poster.”
My phone buzzes. I look down.
Too late.
There I am. Mel Gibson body, my face, kilt and all, with the caption: FREEDOM FROM BORING TECH CEOS.
I hold up the screen.
“Oh no,” she breathes. “But—okay, that’s shockingly good Photoshop.”
“This is a nightmare.”
“It could be worse,” she offers.
“How?”
“No one’s selling merch yet.”
My phone dings again.
Grayson: DUDE. CHECK ETSY. ‘KILT SQUAD’ T-SHIRTS WITH YOUR FACE. I BOUGHT THREE.
I turn the screen toward her.
She winces. “I stand corrected. Though, full disclosure? That kind of engagement usually costs millions in ad spend.”
I study her.
The defensive humor. The edge of panic. The bitterness when she mentioned Richard.
“You really didn’t know what my brother was doing?”
Her jaw tenses. “No. Our relationship was... fine. Steady. Then, post-43rd birthday, he says he’s found the love of his life.They met on a knitting app.” She rubs her temples. “I still don’t know if that’s a euphemism.”
Before I can respond, Alana bursts in again.
“Highland Hammocks is offering a six-figure deal. They want you for their ‘What’s Under Your Kilt?’ campaign.”
Karina chokes.
I press my hands to my temples. “Alana. One more interruption that doesn’t involve flames or active robbery, and you’re fired.”
“Got it.” She hesitates. “Although, technically, this could boost your Q4 numbers before Connor’s engagement?—”
“Out.”
She exits. Karina sighs. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry. And I will figure out who did this. I’ve come too far to let another Abernathy blow up my life.”
Something in her voice—steel laced with exhaustion—gives me pause.
Maybe she’s not the enemy here.
“Ms. Peters.” I sit down across from her. “I’m not firing you.”
Her shoulders drop in visible relief.
“Yet,” I add.
Her mouth opens. Closes.
“We’re in the middle of an acquisition that wraps in sixty days,” I remind her. “MacTavish Global. Ms. Peters, I don’t know if you’re aware of what we do here at Abernathy Corp?—“
“Well, I am the Marketing Director, so I’m like four-hundred percent aware.”
“—But I didn’t spend the last twenty years, building this world's largest digital identity protection service only to have my flighty brother and a few digital perverts?—“
“Seventy-three thousand reposts is far from just a ‘few’ but I understand your?—“
“Ms. Peters.” My voice takes on a razor-thin edge, my fingertips digging into armrests of my chair.
“Abernathy Corp is a global tech security firm. Our clients trust us with their digital assets—their entire lives. And somehow we can’t stop our own digital content from running amok.
Despite that,” I blink slowly, “I didn’t bring the company this far just to only come this far.
Nothing is going to stop this deal from happening. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Good.” I lean forward. “Because for the foreseeable future, you’ll be working directly under me. Effective immediately.”
“I—wait. You mean?—?”
“You’re moving into my office.”
Her brows spring upwards. “That’s… unconventional.”
“So is a post about my ‘superior posterior’ on the company SkySnap.”
“I didn’t write it!” she snaps, then softens. “But fine. I understand. When do I move?”
“Now.” I stand. “And Ms. Peters?”
“Yes?”
“If I find out you were behind this…”
“You won’t.” She meets my gaze, steady and unflinching. “Because I wasn’t. I’ve worked too hard to lose everything over a meme.”
My phone buzzes again.
Connor: Bro. Your kilt pics are trending higher than my company stock. My engagement party theme = Scottish Formal? Asking for the group chat.
Of course. My friends are spreading this like wildfire.
“This is going to get worse before it gets better, isn’t it?” I mutter.
Karina rises, grabbing her things. “Probably. But don’t worry, Mr. Abernathy.” She smiles tightly. “Handling Abernathy disasters? Kinda my specialty.”
As she follows me out, I have one uneasy thought…
Karina Peters may or may not be the cause of this mess—but she just might be the next disaster waiting to happen.