KARINA
“The what of the who now?”I say into my phone, parked three blocks from Abernathy Corp’s headquarters on a Seattle evening so gray and soggy it feels like I’m living inside a wet paper towel.
“The matriarch,” Alana repeats, her voice balancing perfectly on the edge of panic and resignation.“His grandmother.From Scotland.She’s landing in thirty minutes and Mr.Abernathy has requested—no, required—your presence at dinner.Tonight.”
I glance at my dashboard clock.7:42 PM.The raindrops inching down my windshield look suspiciously like tears.
“Alana,” I say, rubbing my temple.I planned on grocery shopping tonight.For a cheesecake pie and enough wine to make me forget the last week ever happened.“I’ve been up since five AM drafting a response to TarTan Energy’s ‘Scotch and Sexy’ ad campaign.I’m wearing yesterday’s blouse because someone mailed a bagpipe to the office that sprayed actual whisky when Security tried to X-ray it.I smell like a Molotov cocktail, and my hair is having what my therapist would call an abandonment episode.”
“Perfect,” Alana says brightly.“You’ll fit right in with the Abernathys.”
“That’s not?—”
"Ms.Peters," she cuts in, suddenly dropping her voice."Fiona Abernathy once made the CFO of Deutsche Bank cry during afternoon tea.She called the Queen 'disappointingly predictable' to her face.She's ordered me to cook haggis despite me telling her I'm violently allergic to organ meats."
I blink.“What time is dinner?”
“Nine sharp.Bring wine.Something expensive.And not from California—she hates California.”
“Why am I being sacrificed to this Highland Games nightmare?”
“Because Mr.Abernathy said, and I quote, ‘we’re in this together.’He looked terrified.”
I close my eyes.“Text me the address.”
“You’re a saint.Oh—and wear something nice but not too nice.She judges both underdressing and overdressing.”
“Helpful as always.”
“Welcome to Clan Abernathy.Nothing prepares you.”
She hangs up, leaving me alone with the kind of dread that usually precedes major dental work.
“We’re in this together,” I mutter.
Famous last words.
I’ve heard that one before—right before being left to sweep up the emotional debris solo.
But fine.This isn’t personal.
It’s a work dinner.A professional obligation.
A crisis containment mission in heels.And definitely not a personal investment in another Abernathy man and his family drama.
Ninety minutes later, I’m standing in front of Callum’s gleaming glass tower, holding a bottle of Washington State pinot noir that a smug wine clerk swore would “impress someone with adventurous taste.”
I’ve wrangled my hair into something vaguely controlled, slapped on my war paint—red lipstick that whispers “intimidatingly competent”—and squeezed myself into an emerald wrap dress that walks the tightrope between “business chic” and “not trying too hard.”
The doorman greets me with a polite grin.“Penthouse floor, Ms.Peters.Mrs.Abernathy said you’d be arriving.”
“She hasn’t even met me.”
“Said to look for a woman with excellent bone structure, questionable posture, and the energy of someone planning three escape routes.”
I straighten my spine reflexively.“Disturbingly accurate.”
The private elevator whooshes open.I step in, exhale, and text the group chat.
