19. The Conference Call
THE CONFERENCE CALL
KARINA
Seattle's summer has hit its mid-July stride—that brief, glorious window where the city shrugs off its rainy reputation and basks in sunny, seventy-five-degree perfection.
The kind of weather that makes office workers stare longingly out windows, dreaming of afternoon escapes to Lake Washington.
I am not one of those dreamers today.
It's been exactly forty-eight hours since Viktoria dropped the Luke Sterling bombshell over avocado toast, and I've spent every minute since then in a state of controlled panic.
I've barely slept, triple-checking my LinkedIn profile, scrubbing questionable social media posts, and practicing my "I'm a completely legitimate marketing professional" face in the mirror.
At 9:47 AM on this picture-perfect Thursday, I'm pacing Callum's office, rehearsing my presentation for the board's video conference while simultaneously contemplating the feasibility of faking my own death and starting over in Tasmania.
"You're going to wear a path in my carpet," Callum comments, not looking up from his desk.
I pause mid-stride. "I'm visualizing success."
"Is success located specifically between my bookcase and the window? Because that's the only section you've been visualizing for the past fifteen minutes."
He looks infuriatingly calm and put-together in a charcoal suit that outlines every muscle on his immaculate frame.
Meanwhile, I'm on my third outfit change of the morning, having discarded the first two for looking "too desperate" and "not serious enough" respectively.
"I'm fine," I insist, smoothing my blazer. "Just reviewing talking points."
"Karina." Callum's voice softens. "You've prepared for this. The numbers are excellent. And you know this material better than anyone."
The unexpected vote of confidence catches me off guard, especially given the careful distance we've maintained since The Yacht Incident (as I've mentally labeled it).
We've been models of professionalism ever since.
No lingering glances. No accidental touches.
And certainly no mentions of what his talented fingers did to my clit.
"Thanks," I clear my throat, also trying to clear the memory. "I just need this to go well."
What I don't say?
I need this to go well because every success buys me credibility, and credibility might be my only defense when the credential house of cards inevitably collapses.
"It will," he assures me, just as Alana appears in the doorway.
"Conference room is ready," she announces. "The board is connecting in five minutes, and Mr. MacTavish's team will join at 10:30 for the second half."
My gut tightens. "MacTavish's team? That wasn't on the agenda."
"Last-minute addition," Alana explains. "Duncan wanted his marketing division to 'observe our damage control strategy.' His words, not mine."
"Fantastic," I mutter. "Nothing like presenting to your future corporate overlords while they evaluate whether to keep you post-acquisition."
"They're not our overlords," Callum tells me, his accent thickening slightly as it does when he's irritated. "And the decision to retain talent will be mine, not theirs."
There's a possessive edge to his voice that sends an inappropriate thrill through me.
I squash it immediately.
"Right. Let's do this." I gather my notes and head for the conference room, back straight, chin up, internal screaming carefully contained.
The board members appear one by one on the massive screen—eight squares of power suits and neutral expressions.
I recognize most from the company website, though I've only met three in person.
Callum makes brief introductions before turning to me. "And this is Karina Peters, our Marketing Director. As you know from her impressive background at Drake Communications and Stellar Digital, she brings extensive experience in crisis management and brand rehabilitation."
My blood runs cold at the mention of companies where I've never actually worked.
The fabricated credentials sound so natural coming from him, so believable.
For a moment, I almost believe them myself.
"Ms. Peters," the board chair acknowledges. "We're eager to see how you've managed the... unusual publicity."
I force a smile and launch into my presentation, clicking through slides that show engagement metrics, brand awareness tracking, and sentiment analysis.
The numbers don't lie.
Despite the absurdity of #KiltedCasanova, overall brand recognition has increased 47% among key demographics.
"While the initial viral content was... unorthodox," I explain, careful to avoid any suggestion of blame, "we've successfully redirected the narrative toward Abernathy Corp's core values of protection and security.
The 'Guardian' messaging has resulted in a 32% increase in positive brand association among potential clients. "
The board members nod along, clearly impressed. Even Callum looks surprised at some of the positive metrics.
"Impressive turnaround," one board member admits. "Though I still can't explain this to my wife without her giggling."
"At least she remembers the company name now," another points out dryly.
I'm just starting to relax when Alana signals that the MacTavish team is joining.
The screen reconfigures to add four new boxes, and I nearly choke on my water.
The lead MacTavish executive—a dour man named Ferguson I've met at industry events—is wearing a novelty kilt tie.
Not subtly, either.
It's a garish red tartan with a tiny sporran detail at the bottom.
Behind him, his colleague has changed his virtual background to what appears to be a Scottish castle interior, complete with a historical portrait where Callum's face has been poorly Photoshopped onto a kilted Highland warrior.
"Gentlemen," Callum says, his voice arctic. "So glad you could join us."
Ferguson straightens his kilt tie with obvious relish. "Abernathy. Ms. Peters. Lovely to see you both. Hope you don't mind a wee bit of Scottish spirit this morning."
The board members shift uncomfortably.
I can feel the presentation derailing, momentum evaporating as MacTavish's team smirks at their juvenile prank.
And then, something clicks.
"Actually, Mr. Ferguson," I say with flourish, "your timing is perfect. I was just about to discuss our merchandising strategy."
"Merchandising?" Callum repeats, clearly thrown.
"Yes," I continue, improvising wildly. "As I was explaining to Mr. Abernathy yesterday, the unexpected viral attention presents unique opportunities for controlled brand extension."
I click to a new slide I'd prepared as a contingency but hadn't planned to use. "Our research indicates that strategic limited-edition merchandise—curated and controlled by Abernathy Corp—would not only satisfy market demand but redirect it through official channels."
Ferguson's smirk falters. "You're... leaning into this?"
"We're controlling the narrative.” I nod. “By offering select, tasteful items that reinforce our Guardian positioning, we eliminate the incentive for unauthorized products while generating additional revenue streams."
I gesture to his tie. "For instance, rather than allowing novelty items of... questionable taste... we might offer limited-edition Abernathy tartan accessories with proceeds benefiting digital security education programs."
The MacTavish team cast each other lingering looks. This clearly wasn't the reaction they expected.
"Brilliant," one board member murmurs. "Turn their mockery into a revenue stream."
"And a PR win," adds another.
Callum is watching me, green eyes alight.
"Ms. Peters has consistently demonstrated this level of strategic thinking throughout the campaign," he tells the board. "Her background in reputation management has proven invaluable."
There it is again. That casual reference to experience I don't have.
The victory I should be savoring turns ashen in my mouth.
The rest of the call proceeds smoothly.
The MacTavish team, thrown off-balance, participates with stiff professionalism. The board enthusiastically approves both the partnership strategy and a modest merchandise budget.
By the time we disconnect, I should be elated.
Instead, I feel completely empty inside.
"That was masterful," Callum says when we're alone. "The way you flipped their juvenile attempt at mockery into a strategic advantage."
"Just doing my job," I reply, gathering my notes.
"You did more than that." He steps closer. "You took a potential disaster and transformed it into an opportunity. That's not just good marketing—that's brilliant leadership."
His praise should feel good.
It doesn't.
It feels like another brick in the wall of lies I've built.
My phone buzzes, a welcome distraction from my spiraling guilt.
My mother. I answer it.
"Kheegees," she begins in Armenian the second I pick up. "You have disappeared. No calls, no visits. Are you alive or should I call police?"
"I'm alive, Mom," I sigh. "Just busy with work."
"Too busy for family? For mother who gave birth to you? Who sacrificed sleep for eighteen years?"
The standard Armenian mother guilt trip—I'd roll my eyes if it weren't so effective.
"I'll come by soon," I promise. "Maybe next week when things calm down."
"Not next week. Tonight. Family dinner. Seven o'clock. Dr. Finnegan is making his special roast. Susanna is bringing wine. Viktoria and Charlie are coming."
"Mom, I can't tonight. I have to prepare for?—"
"For what? For dying alone without family? Because this is what happens when you abandon your mother."
Callum, overhearing this theatrical declaration, raises an eyebrow.
"Mom," I try again, "I've got a deadline and?—"
"We'd be delighted to join you," Callum says suddenly, leaning close enough to speak into the phone. "Seven o'clock works perfectly."
There's a beat of stunned silence, then my mother's voice, dangerously pleased: "And who is this?"
"Callum Abernathy, ma'am. Your daughter's colleague."
"The kilt man from internet!" My mother sounds positively gleeful. "Yes, perfect. You come too. I make extra dolma."
"That's very kind, but I didn't mean to impose?—"
"No impose! Family dinner is better with handsome Scottish man. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
She hangs up before either of us can protest.
I stare at Callum, my jaw starting to unhinge itself. "What have you done?"
"Accepted a dinner invitation?" He offers, one dark copper brow arched towards the sky.
"Do you understand what just happened? My mother—my Armenian mother—just invited my boss—the viral 'kilt man'—to family dinner. Where my sisters will be. And my niece. And my mother's maybe-boyfriend who collects antique medical instruments as a hobby."
Comprehension dawns on his face. "Ah."
"'Ah' doesn't begin to cover it. This is a catastrophe."
"Surely it can't be that bad."
I laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "My family makes the Scottish clan feuds look like a preschool playground disagreement.
Vikto—" I cut myself off, suddenly remembering she might have mentioned hacking his email.
"They're going to interrogate you. Possibly with actual torture devices, given Dr. Finnegan's collection. "
"I've faced worse," he says, maddeningly calm. "Besides, I've been curious about the women who shaped you."
The casual admission makes me blink. Once. Twice. Three times. "Why?"
He looks at me for a long moment. "Because you're a puzzle, Karina Peters. And I've always enjoyed solving puzzles."
I should find this alarming—the last thing I need is Callum digging deeper into my background.
Instead, I feel a treacherous warmth spreading through me. I only wish the warmth weren’t collecting between my thighs.
I take a long breath, exhaling. “Okay, fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."
As we walk back to his office, I try to focus on practical concerns.
What to wear. Whether to bring wine. How to prevent Susanna from sharing embarrassing childhood stories.
Anything to distract from the nagging voice reminding me that tonight, the man I'm sorta kinda sleeping with will be breaking bread with the family who knows all my secrets…
Including the one that could destroy everything.