10. One for the Money
ONE FOR THE MONEY
CALLUM
Saturday night, Seattle's skyline glitters against an inky July sky as I pace the perimeter of my hotel suite—all twenty-seven hundred square feet of it.
The Four Seasons' Presidential Suite would normally feel spacious enough for a small army. Tonight, it feels confining.
I check my watch: 8:37 PM.
She's late.
Or I asked her to come at nine, and I'm pathologically early for everything. One of those.
My grandmother's impromptu visit has driven me from my own penthouse, and now I'm reduced to living in five-star luxury like some kind of corporate refugee.
The indignity of it all.
I tug at my collar, wondering why I bothered changing from my gym clothes into a fresh button-down.
This is a work meeting, not a ? —
A knock at the door stops my thoughts.
Karina stands in the hallway, looking slightly windblown and flushed. She looks soft and semi-casual in a pair of hip-hugging, dark jeans and blush-colored wrap top that does interesting things to her collarbone.
"Sorry I'm early," she says, stepping inside. "Your driver was very... efficient."
"Scottish efficiency. A national trait."
"Along with brooding and whisky consumption?"
"Stereotypes," I tsk softly. "True ones, but still."
She glances around the massive suite, taking in the panoramic views, the private dining room, and the ridiculous grand piano I have zero intention of playing.
"So," she says slowly, "when you texted 'my place,' I wasn't expecting..."
"The presidential suite at the Four Season?”
“This is less presidential, and more 'the entire top floor of a luxury hotel.'" She wanders toward the windows. "Did you seriously book the whole floor?"
"Privacy. It's easier than sweeping for bugs."
"Right. Because that's a normal concern for most people."
"I'm not most people."
"Trust me," she says, turning back to me with a half-smile. "I'm painfully aware."
I gesture toward the dining room, where I've set up laptops and printouts. "Shall we?"
She follows, dropping her bag on a chair and moving directly to the mountain of parcels in the corner. "What in the name of?—"
"The latest wave of Kilted merchandise," I explain. "Security has been quarantining it, but I thought we should inventory what's out there."
She lifts a plaid hoodie emblazoned with TEAM ABERNATHY across the back. "Interesting quality, actually."
"Please don't tell me you're considering wearing that."
"Of course not." She folds it primly. "Though the color would bring out your eyes."
I fix her with a glare that makes Fortune 500 CEOs squirm. She responds with a cheeky smile.
"Is that—" She moves toward the corner, where an actual bagpipe sits perched against the wall. "Oh my god, it is."
"Don't touch it," I warn. "It plays 'My Heart Will Go On' when you squeeze the bag. Ask me how I know."
"How—"
"Because it started playing when I opened the box, and I couldn't make it stop for thirty-five minutes. Thirty. Five. Minutes."
She presses her lips together. "That's..."
"Hellish."
"I was going to say 'unexpectedly hilarious,' but sure."
She picks up another package and unwraps it.
A T-shirt unfolds with my face—yet another one of me superimposed onto the hero’s body from the movie Braveheart, the words #brAVEHEARTOFSEATTLE emblazoned below.
"The Photoshop is getting better," she shrugs, holding it up.
"Put that down before I throw it in the fireplace.” I point toward the dining table. "We have work to do."
She reluctantly abandons the merch pile and joins me at the table, where my laptop displays a complicated digital map.
"So what's the big development?" she asks, pulling up a chair.
I tap the screen. "Look at the server locations for the second wave of posts. All routed through the same relay system."
"And that's significant because...?"
"Because it's a proprietary relay system. One used almost exclusively by?—"
"MacTavish Global," she finishes, leaning closer.
"Precisely."
"That's not proof, though," she says, frowning. "Anyone could route through those servers if they had access."
"True. But look at the signature." I switch screens to show her the code signature Viktoria had highlighted. "It has fingerprints from both companies."
She studies the screen. "Meaning someone who has access to both MacTavish and Abernathy systems."
"A short list."
"Who's on it?"
I lean back, watching her face. "Your background check came back clean."
Her hand freezes on the mouse. "You ran a background check on me?"
"On everyone with administrative access. Standard procedure during acquisitions."
She blinks, a frown forming swiftly. But it's gone before I can comment on it.
"And what did you find?" she asks.
"Nothing concerning. Exemplary career trajectory. Strong client references. Your master's thesis on digital engagement was particularly insightful."
"So I'm not a suspect?" she snorts, the question dripping with sarcasm.
“Alright, I get your point. I’m not saying you were ever a suspect," I admit. “But I like to cover all the bases. Plus, the timing wouldn’t even make sense for you. Why would you sabotage your own reputation so soon after Richard's mess?"
"Because women are irrational creatures of emotion?" she suggests dryly.
"Because logical people don't commit career suicide over a failed relationship."
"You'd be surprised what people do when they're hurt." She turns her attention back to the screen. "So who had access to both systems?"
"Five people. Two board members, Duncan himself, Richard, and..."
"And?"
"Me."
She blinks. “The board thinks you did this?"
"No. But the system logs would suggest either me, Richard, or Duncan."
"Richard's in Iceland."
"But still has remote login capabilities."
She drums her fingers on the table. "Did you ever spend any real time with Duncan in person before all this?"
"Many times. We've been circling each other for years. He was actually at my cousin's wedding last summer." I pause, a memory surfacing. "He cornered me after the ceremony to grill me about acquisition plans. Said he'd sooner die than sell to me."
"Yet now he's negotiating?"
"His board forced his hand. The company's valuation peaked last quarter. It's sell now or watch it decline."
"So he has motive to sabotage the deal," she muses. "Or at least drive down the price."
"Precisely."
"What about personal history? Any bad blood beyond business?"
I hesitate, then decide there's nothing to lose. "He dated my grandmother. Briefly. Before she married my grandfather."
Karina's eyebrows shoot up. "Your grandmother and Duncan MacTavish?"
"A minor Scottish scandal in the 1950s, apparently. My grandfather won her heart, much to Duncan's chagrin."
"So this is what—a seventy-year grudge?"
"Scots have long memories."
"Clearly." She taps her chin. "Does Fiona know about our investigation?"
"God, no. She'd be calling in favors from Edinburgh to London. The last thing we need is her meddling."
"Speaking of meddling..." She looks up at me. "Why is your grandmother suddenly so invested in this deal? From what little you've shared, she's never been involved in company operations before."
I busy myself with the laptop, avoiding her gaze. "She feels responsible. For the company's foundation."
"How so?"
I sigh, carefully selecting which parts of the story to share. "When I was sixteen, my father lost nearly everything. Bad investments. The family shipping business, our ancestral estate, all of it—gone. While he... struggled with the aftermath, Fiona and I salvaged what we could."
"She helped you start over," Karina says softly.
"She mortgaged her dower house to fund my first security software prototype. Said the Abernathy name would mean something again, even if it wasn't in shipping." I can hear the edge in my voice. "She was right."
Karina watches me with an expression I can't read. "And your mother?"
My throat tightens at the question.
I look away, focusing on the Seattle skyline as memories threaten to surface. "Left. Couldn't bear the reduced circumstances, apparently." The half-truth comes out more bitterly than intended. "Returned to her American family. She sends Christmas cards."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." I feel the familiar weight of the secrets I carry—the ones that not even Richard knows.
The real reason my heavy-fisted grandmother watches me with that combo of fierce protection and worry.
"Still." Her hand hovers near mine for a moment, then retreats. "Sometimes the oldest wounds hurt the most."
The unexpected perceptiveness catches me off guard.
For a moment, I wonder what she would think if she knew the whole truth—about my mother, about my father, my family.
About why failure and abandonment are inextricably linked in my mind.
I clear my throat. "Anyway. Duncan remembers what happened to my family. He was one of my father's creditors."
"So this is personal for both of you."
"For him, maybe. For me, it's business."
She gives me a look. "And Richard? Where does he fit in all this? I always wondered why you kept him in such a senior position when he was clearly..."
"Out of his depth?" Tension creeps into my shoulders. "He's family. And after everything that happened with our parents, I felt..."
I stop.
"Felt what?" she presses gently.
“To be honest? I felt…responsible. For preserving what was left."
Including the brother who has no idea what our mother actually did, I don't add.
Karina nods, those warm brown eyes lowering. “That's a heavy burden to carry alone…”
"Some burdens can't be shared." I turn back to the laptop. “Anyway…it’s probably a good time to talk about Connor's engagement party.”
“Connor's engagement party??” She pauses. “Ah, that’s right. I keep forgetting that you Richies Rich types use your personal events as networking opportunities, too.”