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KILT-Y UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT
KARINA
There's a particular sound a career makes when it implodes.
It's not a crash or a bang.
Nope.It's more like the soft whoosh of air leaving your lungs when you realize you've royally screwed up.
That sound is currently filling my ears as I stare at Abernathy Corp's official SkySnap account, which, until approximately seven minutes ago, had been a model of corporate blandness.
Now it features a detailed ranking of our CEO's "best physical attributes" with the hashtag #KiltedCasanova.
Attribute #3 includes a disturbingly specific description of what Callum Abernathy supposedly wears under his kilt.
"No, no, no, no," I whisper, frantically trying to delete the post that has already been shared over two thousand times.My fingers scramble across the keyboard like panicked spiders."This is not happening."
But it is happening.
And according to the system logs, it has happened under my login credentials.
My phone buzzes with a text from the Peters Sisters Survival Squad group chat:
VIKTORIA:Did you see the new clinical trial for Mom's RA treatment?Sending you the link.
SUSANNA:More importantly, are we still on for Friday dinner?I'm bringing that hot guy from my pottery class!
I stare at their messages, my normal life continuing in blissful ignorance while my professional one burns spectacularly to the ground.My pulse pounds in my ears as I type a quick response.
ME:Can't talk.Career death spiral in progress.Will update from unemployment line.
SUSANNA:Drama queen much?
VIKTORIA:What happened now?
ME:Someone hacked our social media and posted a ranking of my boss's body parts.With my login.Kill me.
Three dots appear, disappear, then come back with a vengeance.
SUSANNA:WHAT?Screenshots or it didn't happen!!
"Karina?"Tracy from Accounting pokes her head around my cubicle."There's something...um...interesting on the company SkySnap.”
"I know," I hiss, minimizing the screen as though that will make the catastrophe disappear."I'm handling it."
"Good, because..."Tracy lowers her voice to a whisper."Is it true about the thighs?Because I've always wondered?—"
"Tracy!Not now!"
She scurries away, but I can already hear the whispers spreading across the office like wildfire.
My email dings with a new message.Then another.Then twenty more in rapid succession.
The subject lines are variations of:
- EXCLUSIVE COMMENT REQUEST: Seattle's Kilted Casanova
