4. The Summit of Suffering
THE SUMMIT OF SUFFERING
CALLUM
Five days after the #KiltedCasanova catastrophe, Seattle’s evening fog rolls in like a hangover—thick, disorienting, and apparently out for blood.
Inside The Summit—a members-only sanctuary where billionaires bench press trauma and broker dreams over overpriced scotch—I’m flat on my back on a weight bench, questioning every decision that’s led to this moment.
“Another rep, Kilty McGee,” Connor Reeves calls, spotting with the smug energy of a man not currently lifting his bodyweight. “Let’s see those whisky-barrel-crushing thighs in action.”
Luke Sterling, spotting beside him, doesn’t even bother hiding his laughter.
“I hate you both,” I grunt, forcing the barbell up while sweat stings my eyes. “Remind me again why I agreed to this?”
“Because canceling your RSVP to my engagement party would tank your acquisition,” Connor says with infuriating cheer.
I rack the bar with a final push and sit up, toweling off. “Right. Friendship by hostage negotiation.”
“Bonded by the trauma of the Stanford grad programs,” Grayson Dixon adds from a neighboring bench, eyes glued to his phone. “And the mutually-assured destruction of CEO life.”
“I’m just here for the free protein shakes,” Luke says, pushing up his designer glasses.
We’re alone in the club’s private gym—top floor of a high-rise, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Seattle skyline through curling fog.
It's quiet, luxe, and exactly the kind of place that makes you hate yourself a little.
“How bad is it, really?” Connor asks, cracking a water bottle. “The Scottish God of Thunder thing.”
I scrub my face, probably harder than necessary. “A woman asked me to sign her kilt yesterday.”
“Her own kilt?” Luke asks.
“Not her kilt-wearing boyfriend’s. Hers.”
“Iconic,” Grayson mutters, still scrolling.
“Duncan MacTavish stopped by to ‘casually’ mention that our valuation might be inflated now that I’m a novelty meme,” I say, moving to the lat pulldown. “Then Gran called to ask why I’m being petitioned for Scotland’s Sexiest Bachelor calendar.”
Luke whistles. “Forty thousand signatures and climbing. I set an alert.”
I blink at him. “Why?”
“Research,” he says flatly. “Also, I bought four shirts.”
“Gray?” I turn to the allegedly responsible one.
“Five shirts,” he confirms. “Monday through Friday.”
I close my eyes. “So this is rock bottom.”
“Please,” Connor says. “You remember Alex’s wedding? When TMZ tried to buy a candid of him mid-pee? That was rock bottom.”
The mention of one of my best friends Alex Drake, newlywed golden boy of our group, briefly distracts me. “How’s married life treating the overachiever?”
“Disgustingly well. He and Mackenzie are in Japan on her book tour. He texts hourly about soulmates and cherry blossoms.”
“He’s worse than this one,” Luke adds, nodding at Grayson.
Grayson just shrugs. “The word ‘fiancée has a ring to it than ‘girlfriend.’ What can I say?”
Then Luke narrows his eyes at me. Analyst mode engaged. “Okay. But why is your ex-brother’s ex suddenly working out of your office?”
I tug down on the lat bar harder than necessary. “IT’s looking into how her credentials were used to post that list.”
“And you’re supervising personally because…?”
“Because I’m only here in Seattle until the MacTavis acquisition. And as far as this little sabotage campaign goes, she’s either behind it or being framed. Either way, I want eyes on it.”
“Interesting,” Grayson muses. “Especially since we never heard you once mention her when Richard was dating her.”
An ache kicks up behind my ribs. Nothing to do with exercise.
“I was in Scotland,” I say, too quickly. “Didn’t exactly have front-row seats to his romantic disasters.”
“Three years is a long time to dodge a single introduction,” Luke observes.
“I met her,” I mutter. “Once.”
Connor perks up. “When?”
“Richard’s Halloween party. Two years ago.”
The memory sucker-punches me—visceral and sharp-edged.
I’d flown in from Edinburgh, jet-lagged and cranky, only to be guilted into attending my brother’s annual costume circus. Expected cheap beer and a herd of twenty-somethings mistaking polyester for personality.
Did not expect her .
She was across the room, backlit by chandelier light, dark hair falling over bare shoulders, dressed in flowing silk and a laurel crown.
Persephone.
And I—because irony's a bastard—was Hades.
Custom-tailored black suit. Obsidian lapels. Charcoal body paint crawling up my hands like smoke.
I even wore eyeliner. Not the lazy Halloween kind—actual, smudge-proof kohl.
We talked for twenty minutes. Banter sharp enough to make even my ornery ass smile. She teased me for the eyeliner; I told her I wore it better than Bowie.
And then Richard showed up.
Wrapped an arm around her waist like a claim. Kissed her temple. Introduced me.
The look on her face when she heard my name—like her soul briefly hit the brakes.
She felt it too.
I left half an hour later under the pretense of a business call.
Hadn’t spoken to her since.
From the radio silence since I took over Richard’s division, I assumed she’d forgotten.
Or chose to.
It was dark. We were drunk.
And my brother’s now officially Satan-adjacent.
Not exactly a warm reference for people he’s screwed over.
“Yo. Kilty!” Connor waves a hand in my face. “You blacked out there for a sec.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, standing up.
Grayson watches me. “You sure? Because for a guy allegedly annoyed by the viral mess, you’re very invested in the prime suspect.”
“It’s complicated.”
Luke cocks his head. “Complicated how?”
I shift to adjust the weights on the machine, unnecessarily precise with their alignment.
"The MacTavish acquisition has been in the works for seventeen months.
I've run every risk assessment. Mapped every contingency.
Set every safeguard in place." I recalibrate the pin with meticulous attention. "I don't leave things to chance."
The irony that I sound exactly like my father before everything collapsed does occur to me.
Before anyone can respond, my phone buzzes.
FIONA: Landing in 4 hours. Have Alana prep the guest room. Buy decent tea. The dishwater you call Earl Grey is a disgrace to your heritage.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter.
“What now?” Connor asks. “Another trending hashtag?”
“Worse. My grandmother’s flying in from Scotland.”
Connor chokes on his water. Luke drops a dumbbell. Grayson finally puts his phone away.
“The Fiona Abernathy?” Luke looks alarmed, which says a lot for a guy who neutralizes international security threats before breakfast.
“The one who tried to marry me off at Alex’s wedding?” Grayson adds.
“The one who told me my future kids would have ‘tragic bone structure’ unless I married your cousin?” Connor says.
“That’s the one.”
Fiona Abernathy—eighty-eight years of Scottish steel in five feet of tartan—is the family matriarch and chaos incarnate.
Ever since Granddad died, she’s ruled our ancestral estate and every Abernathy with a lace-gloved fist.
She also believes I should’ve been married and producing heirs a decade ago.
“When did this start?” Luke asks.
“She saw the viral posts. Apparently she’s flying in to ‘repair the family reputation.’”
“May God have mercy on your soul,” Connor murmurs.
I toss my phone into my bag. “She’s going to make this so much worse.”
“How long’s she staying?” Grayson asks.
“She didn’t say.”
Luke grimaces. “Oof.”
“Can’t you bribe border patrol?” Connor offers. “Use your CEO powers?”
“This is Fiona. She once talked her way past palace guards to lecture the Queen about an interior decor redesign. For the palace.”
We all go silent for a beat, out of pure respect.
“Where’s she staying?” Luke asks.
“Same as always, I’m sure. My place.”
“And you?”
“Haven’t thought that far. Hotel?”
“You’re fleeing your own home?” Connor gapes. “She’s your gran.”
“Last time she visited, she reorganized my kitchen because the ‘feng shui was blocking my matrimonial energy.’”
“Bold move from a Scotswoman,” Luke murmurs.
I grab my bag and head for the door. “I need to warn Alana. And Karina.”
“Karina?” Grayson raises a brow. “Why does she need warning?”
Because Gran will see one marketing director and immediately start picking china patterns.
“Professional courtesy,” I say. “Fiona will have opinions about our media strategy.”
Connor arches a brow. “Just strategy? Nothing to do with how you went full ghost at the mention of Halloween?”
“Yer bum’s oot the windae,” I snap, the Scottish steam now oozing out of my pores as I walk off.
Behind me, I hear Luke whisper, “Ten bucks says Gran tries to marry him off by the end of the month.”
“Twenty says she’s already designing the tartan for their firstborn,” Grayson replies.
I slam the locker room door hard enough to make the attendant flinch. Then lean against it.
My brother’s ex-almost fiancée in my office. Fiona incoming. My acquisition hanging by a thread.
This isn’t rock bottom.
This is the scenic overlook above rock bottom.
My phone buzzes again:
ALANA: SkySnap just named you “Kilted CEO of the Month.” Also, Seattle Style wants a quote on “bringing sexy back to corporate leadership.” Should I decline or book a kilt fitting?
I slide to the floor, a 45-year-old CEO in sweaty gym clothes, staring into the void of my life.
I’ve hit The Summit, indeed.