"Enough," she replies, turning back to her monitor."I've been running keyword analyses on the viral posts.Something's not adding up."
"What do you mean?"
"The early posts—the ones that just used #KiltedCEO—they have a different linguistic pattern than the later #KiltedCasanova content."
I wheel my chair closer."Different how?"
"The tone, for starters.The early stuff was professional admiration with a hint of thirst—something like 'CEO Callum Abernathy demonstrates strategic thinking at tech summit #KiltedCEO.'But the newer posts read like bad romance novels—'His forest-green eyes promise secrets only the brave dare discover.'"
"Jesus."
"Not to mention the timing patterns," she continues."The first wave came during business hours.The explicit content?All posted between midnight and 4 AM."
I lean closer to her screen, our shoulders almost touching."Two different people?"
"That's my guess.But there's something else."She pulls up a window of code."Look at the metadata embedding."
I study the lines of HTML and JavaScript, the digital fingerprints that track how content spreads across platforms.
Something clicks.
"The secondary posts have encrypted trackers," I say slowly."They're designed to manipulate algorithm prioritization."
She turns to me."Exactly.This isn't amateur hour…These are professional-grade engagement hacks."
"May I?"I gesture to her keyboard.
She surrenders her seat, and I slide into the still-warm chair, fingers flying across keys.
The familiar rhythm of writing and debugging code centers me, drowning out everything except the puzzle before us.
I navigate through security logs, authentication patterns, and system timestamps, losing myself in the hunt.
"There," I murmur eventually."Look at this signature."
Karina leans over my shoulder, close enough that I catch the faint scent of something citrusy—her shampoo or perfume."What am I looking at?"
"This encoding pattern.It's sophisticated—military-grade almost.I've only seen it a handful of times."
"Where?"
"Corporate espionage cases."I turn to face her, suddenly aware of how close we are."This isn't just someone trying to embarrass me.This is targeted."
Her eyes widen slightly."You think someone's trying to sabotage the MacTavish acquisition?"
"It fits.The timing is suspicious.Who benefits most if this deal falls through?"
She straightens, eyes narrowing."MacTavish's competitors?Your competitors?Or..."
"Duncan himself," we say simultaneously.
"He could be driving down the acquisition price," I explain."Make me look like a punchline, question the company's stability, then swoop in to 'rescue' the deal at a discount."
"That's..."She pauses, considering."Actually plausible.And extremely calculating."
"That's Duncan.He once convinced a rival CEO to sell by arranging for his prize racehorse to lose six races in a row.Man nearly had a breakdown."
"Remind me never to own racehorses."
