"It's work.”
"Right," Viktoria says dryly."Just like that kiss you mentioned was 'professional research.'"
My cheeks burn."It was a mistake."
"A mistake you've been overthinking for three days," Susanna recalls."While sighing dramatically and checking your phone every five minutes."
“Are you two sure I wasn’t adopted?”
“We’re sure,” they chorus.
I surrender to their ministrations, allowing Viktoria to wrestle my curls into submission while Susanna applies makeup with the intensity of a Renaissance painter approaching a blank canvas.
By seven-fifteen, the transformation is complete.
The woman in the mirror hardly resembles the harried marketing director who spent the morning panic-eating stale donuts while drafting crisis management scenarios.
The sapphire blue dress fits like it was made for me, skimming curves I usually hide under blazers and practical wrap dresses.
My hair cascades over one shoulder in glossy waves, and my almond-brown eyes—enhanced by Susanna's artistry—appear larger, more luminous behind the crystal-studded mask.
"Holy shit," Viktoria murmurs, an uncharacteristic note of awe in her voice."You look?—"
"Like a goddess," Susanna finishes, beaming with pride."CEO won't know what hit him."
My phone chimes with a text alert.
CALLUM:Car downstairs.No rush.
"That's my cue," I say, gathering my courage along with a small silver clutch.
"Remember," Viktoria advises as I head for the door, "you're there to investigate corporate espionage, not to swoon."
"And remember," Susanna adds with a grin, "if you do swoon, get pictures."
I flip them both off affectionately before stepping into the hallway, grateful they can't see how my hands tremble slightly.
The elevator descends, and I use the time to compose myself.
This is professional.Strategic.
A calculated move to extract information from Duncan MacTavish and change the public narrative.
Nothing more.
The mantra continues until I step outside, where a sleek black limousine idles at the curb.
The driver opens the door, and there sits Callum Abernathy in impeccable black tie—the tuxedo custom-tailored to showcase broad shoulders and a trim waist.
His emerald cufflinks catch the light, matching the pocket square that echoes the colors of the McRae tartan.
His hair gleams copper in the car's interior lighting, and a simple black mask accentuates rather than conceals the sharp angles of his ruggedly handsome face.
He looks up from his phone, and his expression shifts from distracted to stunned.
I slide into the seat opposite him, hyperaware of the silence stretching between us.
"Hi," I say finally, when it becomes clear he isn't going to speak.
