8. Midnight Strategy
MIDNIGHT STRATEGY
CALLUM
Midnight in Seattle has its own rhythm.
It’s in the hushed whisper of late summer rain on windows, the distant hum of cargo ships in the Puget Sound, and the sound of Karina Peters muttering creative profanities at her computer screen.
"Did you just curse in Armenian?" I ask, blinking away the screen fatigue that comes from six straight hours of code analysis.
"Family tradition," she replies without looking up. "The truly creative curses are only passed down through generations of frustrated women."
It's Monday night—technically Tuesday morning now—three days since our meeting with her sister Viktoria.
The July heat has finally broken, leaving behind a gentler warmth that makes the office almost comfortable at this ungodly hour.
We've commandeered the conference room, spreading our work across the massive table like generals planning a campaign.
Which, in a way, we are.
Viktoria's analysis had confirmed our suspicions: two distinct digital fingerprints in the viral posts.
The first—innocuous, playful content with the #KiltedCEO hashtag—appears to be the work of an amateur with basic marketing skills.
The second…The explicitly suggestive #KiltedCasanova material contains sophisticated code buried in the metadata.
Code that bears striking similarities to previous MacTavish Global security operations.
"There's our smoking gun," Viktoria had declared. "But it's circumstantial. You need more to prove Duncan's involvement."
So here we are, bleary-eyed and caffeine-fueled, hunting for that crucial piece of evidence.
I stretch, feeling my spine protest after hours of hunched focus.
Across the table, Karina looks equally exhausted, her dark curls escaping their professional updo to frame her face in a way that's distractingly appealing.
Not that I'm noticing.
"We should eat," I say, reaching for my phone. "Humans require food, apparently."
"Alleged nutritional necessity," she agrees, rubbing her eyes. "I'll eat anything that isn't actively trying to escape the plate."
I hesitate, finger hovering over my usual Italian delivery app.
La Famiglia—Mac Gallo's family restaurant—has been my default takeout choice since returning to Seattle. Their linguini with clam sauce has sustained me through countless late nights.
But something makes me pause.
A memory surfaces of Karina mentioning a favorite restaurant during one of our strategy sessions.
Something about her mother's cooking and finding a place that came close to matching it.
"How do you feel about Ararat Nights?" I ask casually.
Her head snaps up, almond-brown eyes narrowing. "The Armenian place on Summit Avenue?"
"That's the one."
"I love their food," she says slowly. "How did you know?"
I blink, suddenly feeling exposed. "You mentioned it. Last week, during the hashtag analysis marathon."
She studies me, an curious look crossing her face. "Good memory."
"Comes with the digital security territory.” I scroll through the menu. "What do you recommend?"
"Their schnitzels are amazing. And the manti—little dumplings with garlic yogurt sauce."
I place the order, adding extra portions of both items plus an assortment of starters that the app describes as "perfect for sharing."
Not that I'm thinking about sharing food with Karina specifically.
It's just…efficient.
"Twenty minutes," I announce, setting my phone down. "Shall we take a break or continue torturing ourselves with code analysis?"
"Break.” She leans back in her chair. "My brain is starting to see hashtags everywhere."
I stand, stretching again, and move to the windows.
Seattle gleams below us, a city of light and shadow under a clear night sky.
The past week's rain has left everything looking washed clean, expectant.
"You know," Karina says behind me, "I'm still not entirely convinced this is all Duncan's doing."
I turn. "The code signature is compelling."
"But two distinct patterns suggests two different actors. What if the second signature is a MacTavish employee freelancing? Or someone with a grudge against both companies?"
"It's possible," I concede. "But Duncan has the most to gain. If he can destabilize my position before the board meeting?—"
My phone chimes with an incoming text, interrupting my theory.
CONNOR: Dude. DUDE. Please tell me you've approved this marketing genius.
Attached is a photo of a beer can.
Dark label, minimalist design, featuring the silhouette of a man in a kilt.
The text reads: "Kilted Casanova IPA: Bold, Scottish, and Surprisingly Complex."
"What now?" Karina asks, noticing my expression.
Wordlessly, I pass her the phone.
She stares at the screen, then makes a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh. "Is that?—?"
"Apparently, I'm now a craft beer."
She zooms in on the image. "Brewed by Highland Hop House. Limited edition. 'A robust Scottish-style IPA with notes of heather, thistle, and just a hint of...swagger?'"
"I'm suing everyone," I mutter. Interestingly enough, there’s less rage behind my voice than there would have been a week ago.
"Actually," Karina says thoughtfully, "this might be perfect for our strategy pivot."
"Explain."
"We need to redirect the narrative from the suggestive content to something more aligned with the company's values, right? What if we embrace some of these third-party interpretations—selectively, of course—and channel them toward the Guardian angle?"
I consider this. "Partner with the brewery?"
"Not directly," she clarifies. "But we acknowledge the phenomenon, maybe make a subtle joke about it in your next public appearance, while simultaneously steering toward the protective, trustworthy aspects of the Abernathy brand."
"Dignify it with acknowledgment, you mean."
"Control it through acknowledgment, rather. Right now, it's wild and unpredictable. But if you acknowledge it with the right tone—self-aware but professional—you take back the narrative."
There's something compelling about her logic.
And about the animated way she explains it, hands gesturing expressively, cognac eyes bright despite the late hour.
My phone chimes again.
LUKE: Have you considered legal action against this flagrant brand exploitation? Also, can you send me a six-pack? For evidence purposes only.
I show Karina the message, and she laughs—a warm, raspy sound that seems to wash across my skin.
"Your friends are enjoying this way too much," she snorts.
"Schadenfreude is the foundation of male friendship," I agree, just as the intercom buzzes to announce our food delivery.
I retrieve the bags from security downstairs, returning to find Karina has cleared space on the conference table and set out plates and napkins from the kitchenette.
"It smells amazing," she says as I unpack the containers.
The aroma of spices and grilled meat fills the room, oddly homey in the sterile corporate environment.
I watch as Karina opens each container with the reverence of someone reconnecting with a cherished memory.
"My mom makes a version of this.” She spoons manti onto her plate. “Hers has more garlic. Actually, everything she makes has more garlic."
"A sound culinary philosophy," I say, sampling a dumpling. The flavors are rich and complex, unlike anything in my usual rotation. "This is excellent."
"Wait till you try the schnitzels. They're not traditional—more of an Armenian-European fusion—but they're incredible."
She's right.
The tender meat with its crisp herbed coating is possibly the best thing I've eaten since returning to Seattle.
"So," I say between bites, "tell me how an Armenian family's daughter ends up in digital marketing."
An odd expression crosses her face—caution, perhaps—but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"The usual ‘good girl’ path," she says lightly. "Chaotic career trajectory followed by accidentally finding something I'm good at."
"I doubt anything about your career was accidental…”
She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. "What makes you say that?"
"You're too strategic. Too..." I search for the right word. "Intentional."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Neither. It's familiar."
Our eyes meet briefly, and something unspoken passes between us—recognition, perhaps. The awareness that despite our different backgrounds, some core frequencies align.
The moment breaks when my phone lights up with another text.
GRAYSON: Your beer just sold out its first run in two hours. My fiancée bought six cases. I'm both impressed and terrified.
I show Karina, who snorts again. "Your grandmother was right about the currency of publicity."
"Don't tell her that," I groan. "She's already planning to monetize the hashtag. Last night she suggested 'vent-cut sport kilts for the modern executive.'"
Karina nearly chokes on her food. "Please tell me you're not considering it."
"I'd rather be dropped naked into a shareholders meeting."
"Now there's an image," she murmurs. "I mean—that would be inappropriate?—"
"Professionally catastrophic," I agree solemnly, fighting a smile.
She buries her face in her hands. "Sleep deprivation is destroying my filter."
"If it helps, I once told the CEO of Microsoft his strategy reminded me of a constipated sloth."
She peeks through her fingers. "You did not."
"I absolutely did. Same circumstances—4 AM, no sleep for thirty hours, preparing for a massive security rollout."
"What did he do?"
"Hired me on the spot. Said anyone brave enough to call him a constipated sloth had the kind of honesty his security team needed."
She laughs again, shoulders relaxing, and reaches for another dumpling.
For the next hour, as we eat and strategize, something shifts subtly between us.
The rigid professional boundaries soften.
Not completely but…enough.
Enough to let in something warmer, more human.
We share war stories about difficult clients, compare notes on Seattle's best coffee shops, and discover a mutual appreciation for obscure British detective shows.
By 2 AM, we've made significant progress on both the investigation and the food.
My phone has accumulated a dozen more texts from friends and colleagues about various Kilted Casanova merchandise sightings, each more ridiculous than the last.
"I think we need to—" Karina begins, but her words dissolve into a massive yawn she fails to suppress.
"—sleep," I finish for her. "We both do."
"Just five more minutes," she insists, blinking hard. "I want to finish tracing this IP address."
"The IP address will still exist tomorrow."
"But we're so close." Her eyelids are visibly heavy now, but she stubbornly returns to her laptop.
I should insist we both leave. I should call her a car.
I should keep in place the professional boundaries that have defined my career.
Instead, I find myself saying, "One more hour, then we call it."
She nods and refocuses on her screen.
I do the same, but my concentration is fractured now, awareness of her presence competing with the code before me.
Fifteen minutes later, I glance up to ask a question—and freeze.
Karina's slumped forward, cheek pillowed on her folded arms, fast asleep.
For a moment, I can't do anything but stare.
The soft rise and fall of her breathing, the way a stray curl has fallen across her cheek—it undoes something in me.
A thread pulling loose. A wall quietly caving.
Her mouth is parted slightly, lush and unguarded, and an ache sparks low in my chest, visceral and unwelcome.
She looks so different like this. Not the sharp, brilliant strategist who can dismantle a crisis with a tilt of her chin and a cutting remark—but softer, almost... touchable.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly, fighting the reckless urge to brush that curl from her face. To trace the curve of her jaw, memorize the quiet vulnerability she would never willingly show me.
Or anyone else.
It’s dangerous, the way she affects me. Unbalancing.
I should wake her. I should definitely, absolutely wake her.
Instead, my gaze lingers. Cataloging details I have no business noticing…
The delicate line of her throat. The faint shadow of lashes against her skin.
The way exhaustion has left her defenses scattered across the conference table like forgotten armor.
A different life flashes, unbidden, through my mind.
One where it wouldn’t be reckless to reach for her. To gather her close and promise—quietly, fiercely—that she could rest and someone else would shoulder the weight for a while.
But that’s not this life.
Not this night.
The tightness in my chest sharpens, an ache I can't justify and don't fully understand.
I shove my chair back with more force than necessary, the scrape of it loud enough to jolt her awake.
Her head lifts with a soft, disoriented noise. "Did I?—?"
"Fall asleep?" I manage, my voice rougher than I'd like. "Yeah. Can't blame you."
She straightens, rubbing a hand over her face, and something about the simple, unguarded motion punches the air clean out of my lungs.
"God, I'm sorry," she mumbles. "That's not exactly... marketing exec behavior."
I manage a crooked smile. “At 2:30 in the morning? I'd say we’re well past any professional standards."
She laughs quietly, a husky sound that does nothing to ease the heat sliding under my skin.
And then—worse—she runs her fingers through her hair, loosening the dark waves even further, until I have to grit my teeth against the reckless need to reach out.
To touch.
Instead, I force my voice light. Professional.
"Come on. I'll call a car. We both need sleep."
As she gathers her laptop and shuffles her papers into a pile, I tell myself I'm not watching the sway of her hips, the curve of her bare calves under the hem of her pencil skirt.
I tell myself a lot of things.
None of them true.