"She's not a matchmaker, Mom.She's—" I'm interrupted by the doorbell."Apparently very prompt."
Mom practically races to the door, clearly delighted by this development.
I remain frozen at the dining table, uncertain whether to flee or face whatever reckoning Fiona has brought to my doorstep.
"Mrs.Abernathy!"Mom exclaims."What a pleasure to meet you!Come in, please!"
"Thank you, Mrs.Peters," comes the crisp Scottish brogue."And please, call me Fiona.'Mrs.Abernathy' makes me sound like I'm attending a funeral."
"Then you must call me Nadine.”My mom motions."Come, come.Coffee is fresh."
I hear them entering, exchanging pleasantries as if this were a normal social call rather than whatever intervention or confrontation Fiona has planned.
When they enter the dining room, I shift on my feet, unsure of the proper etiquette for greeting the grandmother of the man whose career and heart I've potentially damaged.
Fiona Abernathy looks exactly as she did at our dinner weeks ago.
Elegant, sharp-eyed, and utterly formidable despite her diminutive stature.
She's dressed in a stylish pantsuit with a subtle tartan scarf, like she's ready for either tea or corporate takeover.
"Karina," she says, assessing me with those piercing eyes so like Callum's."You look terrible."
“Um, thank you?I’ve—I’ve been working on that."
"Humor as deflection.”She frowns, nodding.“Effective, but not with me, dear."
Mom bustles in with coffee and an assortment of pastries she's apparently manifested from thin air."Please, sit.Would you like Armenian coffee?Or I have Scottish breakfast tea.Dr.Finnegan left some."
"Coffee, please," Fiona says, settling regally into a chair."Strong enough to stand a spoon in.I find that's best for difficult conversations."
My stomach clenches."Is this going to be a difficult conversation?"
"That depends entirely on your capacity for truth.”Fiona accepts the tiny cup Mom offers."Both hearing it and speaking it."
Mom glances between us, then announces, "I will go to garden.Herbs need cutting."She squeezes my shoulder as she passes."Be brave, kheegees."
Once we're alone, Fiona takes a deliberate sip of coffee, then fixes me with that penetrating gaze."I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."
"I assumed to tell me to stay away from your grandson," I say, the words nearly sticking in my throat."Or to threaten legal action.Or both."
"How dramatic.And incorrect."She sets down her cup."I'm here because I owe you an explanation."
I can feel my eyebrows lift."An explanation for what?"
"For my role in this entire situation."She sits straighter, if that's even possible."You see, I'm partly responsible for the #KiltedCEO campaign that started all this."
I stare at her blankly."What?"
"Well, not personally, of course.I don't know a hashtag from a hash brown."She swipes at the air."But I did orchestrate certain...situations."
“I—Are you…are you saying you planned the viral campaign?"
"Not exactly.I simply recognized that my grandson was becoming a corporate automaton—all work and no emotion.When he was called back from Scotland to handle Richard's mess, I saw an opportunity."
"An opportunity for what?"
"To humanize him.”She blinks.“To remind everyone—including Callum himself—that he's more than a CEO.That he's a man with a heritage, with passions, with a capacity for connection that he's systematically suppressed since his disastrous first marriage."
