28. Bagpipes and Bad Decisions
BAGPIPES AND BAD DECISIONS
CALLUM
The first week of September arrives with Seattle's typical meteorological identity crisis.
Bright sunshine one moment, threatening clouds the next, all wrapped in a peculiar end-of-summer melancholy that matches my mood perfectly.
It's been exactly seven days since the engagement party disaster, and I've cycled through every emotion in the Scottish repertoire.
Fury. Betrayal. Followed by righteous indignation, and finally…a reluctant creeping doubt about my own inflexibility.
I'm nursing these conflicted feelings over a perfectly seared sea bass at Altura, one of Seattle's most exclusive restaurants, where I've agreed to meet with a reporter from the Financial Times.
The ostensible purpose?
Damage control for the MacTavish acquisition.
The reality?
A desperate attempt to redirect public attention from my personal life to Abernathy Corp's business fundamentals.
"So you're saying the viral campaign has actually increased brand awareness?" asks Sheila Donovan, the silver-haired journalist who's been covering tech acquisitions since before I had my first computer.
"Our metrics indicate a 47% increase in brand recognition," I confirm, keeping my tone neutral in the face of the absurdity of discussing how my thighs going viral has benefited shareholders. "More importantly, our customer retention has improved by 12% quarter-over-quarter."
"Fascinating." Sheila makes a note. "And what about the recent revelations regarding your Marketing Director? Has that affected the MacTavish negotiations?"
I take a careful sip of water, buying time. "The situation with Ms. Peters is a personnel matter that we're handling internally. It has no bearing on the acquisition."
"Yet Duncan MacTavish seemed to think it significant enough to mention publicly," she persists. "And I understand your board called an emergency meeting?—"
"The board routinely meets to discuss corporate governance. As for Duncan's comments…I find it interesting that he chose to focus on a credential verification issue rather than the substantial value Abernathy Corp brings to the table."
Before Sheila can follow up, a familiar voice calls my name from across the restaurant.
"Callum! What a coincidence!"
My stomach drops as I turn to see Richard approaching our table, wearing the self-satisfied smile that has preceded trouble since he was five years old stealing my toy cars.
He's dressed in a casual elegance that suggests both money and leisure—neither of which he's earned honestly.
"Richard," I acknowledge stiffly. "I wasn't aware you were still in Seattle."
"Just tying up loose ends before Anka and I settle permanently in Copenhagen." His eyes gleam as he spots Sheila's recorder. "Oh, an interview! How delightful. The Financial Times, if I'm not mistaken?"
Sheila straightens, journalist instincts clearly sensing a story. "Indeed. Sheila Donovan. And you are...?"
"Richard Abernathy. Callum's brother and former COO of Abernathy's West Coast operations." He extends his hand with practiced charm. "Mind if I join you? I'd be happy to provide some family context on the current... situation."
Before I can object, he's pulled up a chair, signaling a waiter for champagne.
I notice several diners surreptitiously lifting their phones to capture the Abernathy brothers' reunion.
"Actually," I begin, "we were discussing?—"
"The viral catastrophe, I assume," Richard interrupts cheerfully. "Quite the spectacle you've created, brother. Though I suppose any publicity is good publicity these days."
Sheila's eyes dart between us, clearly recalibrating her article in real-time. "Mr. Abernathy—Richard—your departure from the company was rather abrupt, wasn't it?"
"Creative differences," he replies with a smarmy grin. "I've always believed in a more... flexible approach to business. Callum prefers rigid structures. Speaking of rigid structures, I hear Karina's digital house of cards finally collapsed."
My jaw tightens. "Richard?—"
"Such a shame.” She always did have ambition beyond her qualifications.
Though I suppose we were both deceived, weren't we, Callum?
Her with her fabricated resume, me with her apparent loyalty.
Though perhaps you shouldn't feel too bad—she had years of practice presenting herself as something she's not. "
The calculated cruelty in his casual dismissal of Karina stirs something primal in me.
I've spent a lifetime managing Richard's messes, protecting him from consequences, making excuses for his behavior.
When your father fucks up and your mother leaves, and the two abandon you, you feel a responsibility to keep what family you have left together.
You tell yourself that control—over your image, over other people—equals safety.
That if you maintain perfect control over your emotions, your company, public perception, that you can prevent betrayal. And failure.
That holding everyone else to impossible standards of integrity means never having to be betrayed again.
But life doesn’t work like that.
Especially when love is involved.
I blink. “Actually," I say, my voice carrying quite far in the hushed restaurant, "I think there's an important distinction to be made here."
Richard's smirk falters slightly. "What's that?"
"The difference between someone who lies to survive and someone who lies to exploit.
" I place my napkin deliberately on the table.
"Karina Peters falsified credentials to overcome systemic barriers after spending her youth supporting her family.
You embezzled funds from a company that employed hundreds of people because you wanted a more luxurious lifestyle. "
Sheila's pen freezes mid-note, her eyes widening. Richard's smug expression dissolves into shock.
"Careful, brother," he warns quietly. "You're on record."
"Good." I meet his gaze steadily. "Then let me be perfectly clear.
My brother has always found it easier to lie about others than tell the truth about himself.
The fact is, Richard deliberately manipulated Karina's credential verification after she discovered evidence of his embezzlement.
He created this situation as insurance against her exposing him. "
"That's absurd," Richard sputters, though the color draining from his face suggests otherwise.
"Is it? We have the emails, Richard. We know about your communications with Duncan MacTavish. The entire scheme is unraveling."
Sheila is scribbling frantically now, clearly aware she's gotten far more than the controlled narrative she expected.
Richard leans forward, voice dropping to a hiss. "You're defending her? After she lied to your face for months? What happened to the great Callum Abernathy moral code?"
"It evolved.” My fists clench at my sides. “Something you might consider trying."
"Since when do you make excuses for liars?" he demands, loud enough to draw attention from nearby tables.
The question hangs in the air, forcing me to confront the underlying truth I've been avoiding.
My voice, when it comes, surprises even me with its clarity:
"Since I realized there's a difference between someone who lies to protect themselves and someone who lies to hurt others."
The confession shifts something fundamental inside me.
Richard's expression cycles through shock, anger, and finally, a bitter resignation.
"You're in love with her," he says, not a question but an accusation.
I don't reply, but my silence is answer enough.
Richard stands abruptly. "Well, this has been illuminating. I suppose I should congratulate you on finally showing some human emotion, even if it's for my ex."
"Richard," I say as he turns to leave, "stay away from Karina and Abernathy Corp. Your days of manipulating us both are over."
He pauses, then offers a mock salute before striding out, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
Sheila clears her throat. "That was... unexpected."
"For both of us," I admit, suddenly aware of the dozens of phones that have undoubtedly captured the entire exchange.
My own phone buzzes with an incoming text from Alana.
Sir, we have a situation. CNN just called asking for comment on your "public defense of Karina Peters." Video already on Twitter. #AbernathyShowdown trending.
Before I can process this, another notification appears—an email from HR confirming that Karina has received and acknowledged her termination paperwork.
The stark bureaucratic language hits me with surprising force, crystallizing something I've been fighting against for days.
I made a mistake.
"Mr. Abernathy?" Sheila prompts. "Would you like to continue the interview?"
"Actually," I say, standing, "I need to handle something urgently. But I'd be happy to reschedule."
"Of course." She smiles. “I, uh…think I have enough for quite a compelling story already."
I leave enough cash to cover both our meals and a generous tip, then stride out of the restaurant just as my phone rings with Connor's name on the display.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" he demands immediately. "There are already GIFs of your brother's face when you called him out. Luke says it's the fastest spreading video since the original kilt post."
"Not now, Connor," I say, sliding into my waiting car.
"Yes now. Especially since you should know that Ariana just offered Karina a job at her crisis management firm."
This stops me cold. "What?"
"Happened this morning. Full partnership track, creative control over their new corporate authenticity division. Inspired by the #BeyondYourLabel movement, apparently."
"She accepted?"
"Not yet. Seems she's still processing everything." Connor's voice softens. "Including why a certain CEO declined to press charges despite significant board pressure."
I did decline.
The decision had come almost automatically, surprising even me with its clarity.
Even with everything that went on, the thought of Karina facing legal consequences had been unbearable.
"Connor, I need to?—"
"I know, I know. Go fix it. But first, you should probably read the daily media update from Alana. It's... special."
As if on cue, my phone buzzes with Alana's email. The subject line alone makes me groan.
“URGENT: Unauthorized Musical & Other Updates."
I scan the message quickly:
Mr. Abernathy,
The Seattle Repertory Theater has announced open auditions for an unauthorized musical entitled "Kilt Flipped: A CEO Love Story.
" They're specifically seeking a "brooding Scottish executive with vocal range to express corporate and emotional vulnerability.
" First performances scheduled for November.
Additionally, three publishing houses have requested meetings regarding potential book deals for both you and Ms. Peters (separately or as co-authors).
Finally, your grandmother has achieved "verified" status on Instagram. Her follower count now exceeds 100,000. Her latest video explaining "haud yer wheesht" (be quiet) has 2.3 million views.
Please advise on how to proceed.
Best regards,
Alana
P.S. The Highland Hammocks underwear line reports first-week sales exceeding projections by 340%. They've sent samples to the office as a thank you.
I lean back against the leather seat, torn between laughter and existential despair.
The absurdity of it all…
A musical. Book deals. My grandmother becoming an Instagram influencer.
For fuck’s sake, an underwear named after me—only clarifies the one thing that actually matters.
My phone rings again. This time it's Grayson.
"Whatever media madness you're dealing with, pause it," he says before I can speak. "I've got news."
"Please tell me it doesn't involve kilts, underwear, or unauthorized theatrical productions."
"No kilts. Roz and I eloped last night."
"You what?"
"Eloped. Vegas. Just the two of us and a witness.”
“Christ, lad. Didn’t want us bawbags screwing up your nuptials, I see.”
He laughs, the sound warm and full. “Nah, it’s not like that. It’s just…”
I frown. “Just what?”
“We decided all the planning and expectations were getting in the way of what mattered."
"Which is?"
"Being authentic.” He breathes out, the words landing softly…and yet solid. “Realizing that life's too short to let other people's judgments dictate your happiness."
The confession is a reminder—a part of the epiphany I’ve spent too much fucking time avoiding myself.
I swallow, emotion rising in my throat for my good friend.
"Congratulations," I say sincerely. "You always were the smartest of us."
"About time you noticed," he laughs again. “And speaking of being smart.. have you decided what you are going to do about Karina?"
"I'm not entirely sure yet," I admit. "But I'm beginning to have some ideas."
"Good. Because Connor's probably already planning something for you you. Likely involving bagpipes and a flash mob."
"Tell him if he so much as hires a single bagpiper, I'll ensure his honeymoon suite mysteriously overlooks a construction site."
As we hang up, I find myself smiling for what feels like the first time in days.
The path forward isn't entirely clear, but the truth I've been avoiding certainly is…
I’ve been hiding behind principles to avoid vulnerability.
"Where to, sir?" my driver asks.
I hesitate only briefly. "Abernathy Corp headquarters. I have some paperwork to reverse. And then..." I take a deep breath. "Then I need to plan a proper Scottish apology."
The driver nods, pulling smoothly into traffic as Seattle's sunshine finally breaks through the clouds.