I stare.
“I mean—objectively speaking.From a marketing perspective.Architecturally significant.”She winces.“I’m making it worse.”
Alana reappears.“Sorry again, butKilts of Our Livesis on line two.They want you to judge their charity calendar contest.For men in kilts.”
“That’s not even a real show.”
“They’re launching a one-off segment just for you.”
“Decline,” I snap.“And hold all my calls.”
She nods and bolts.
I glance back at Karina, who’s now typing furiously.“What are you doing?”
“Drafting a response.We need to control the narrative before someone photoshops your face onto a Braveheart poster.”
My phone buzzes.I look down.
Too late.
There I am.Mel Gibson body, my face, kilt and all, with the caption: FREEDOM FROM BORING TECH CEOS.
I hold up the screen.
“Oh no,” she breathes.“But—okay, that’s shockingly good Photoshop.”
“This is a nightmare.”
“It could be worse,” she offers.
“How?”
“No one’s selling merch yet.”
My phone dings again.
Grayson: DUDE.CHECK ETSY.‘KILT SQUAD’ T-SHIRTS WITH YOUR FACE.I BOUGHT THREE.
I turn the screen toward her.
She winces.“I stand corrected.Though, full disclosure?That kind of engagement usually costs millions in ad spend.”
I study her.
The defensive humor.The edge of panic.The bitterness when she mentioned Richard.
“You really didn’t know what my brother was doing?”
Her jaw tenses.“No.Our relationship was...fine.Steady.Then, post-43rd birthday, he says he’s found the love of his life.They met on a knitting app.”She rubs her temples.“I still don’t know if that’s a euphemism.”
Before I can respond, Alana bursts in again.
“Highland Hammocks is offering a six-figure deal.They want you for their ‘What’s Under Your Kilt?’campaign.”
Karina chokes.
I press my hands to my temples.“Alana.One more interruption that doesn’t involve flames or active robbery, and you’re fired.”
