Page 102 of Forty, Flirty & Framed

The sun hangs lazily in a cloudless sky, warming the city to a pleasant eighty degrees—the kind of summer day locals wait all year for.

It's exactly three hours before Connor's engagement party, and I'm experiencing what can only be described as full-body anxiety.

Everything I own has been thrown across my bed in an archaeological dig for the perfect outfit, while three different makeup tutorials play simultaneously on my laptop.

"Too basic...too desperate...too 'I'm trying to seduce your CFO,'" I mutter, discarding dresses in rapid succession.

My phone buzzes with a text from Viktoria:

Have you told him yet?

I stare at the message, guilt churning in my stomach.Since Luke Sterling's background check revelations last week, the clock has been ticking on my professional facade.

According to Viktoria's surveillance (I don't ask how she knows), Luke has uncovered "concerning discrepancies" in my work history but hasn't yet shared them with Callum.

ME: Working on it, I reply.

VIK: Translation: No.

VIK: Do it before tonight's party.

ME: Why tonight specifically?

VIK: Because better he hears it from you than from MacTavish or Sterling in the middle of a crowded event.

She's right.Of course she's right.

If I'm going to confess my fabricated credentials to Callum—the man I'm falling in love with who also happens to value honesty above all things—it needs to happen before we're surrounded by Seattle's elite tech community.

I finally select a midnight blue cocktail dress that makes me look competent but not like I'm trying too hard.

As I slip it on, my phone buzzes again.

Callum:Stopping by earlier than planned.Something to discuss.30 minutes.

My heart crashes against my ribcage.This is it.

Luke told him.He knows.

He's coming to fire me before the party to avoid a scene.

I race through my makeup routine with shaking hands, rehearsing my confession aloud to my reflection.

"Callum, before you say anything, I need to tell you something important.My resume isn't entirely accurate.Not the skills—those are real.Just the timeline and...some of the employers.And possibly my education.But I can explain..."

The doorbell rings just as I'm attempting to tame my hair into something resembling a professional updo.

I glance at my phone.

Twenty minutes early.

The man's pathological punctuality is apparently flexible when it comes to delivering bad news.

I throw open the door to find Callum standing there in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, looking like he stepped out of a Scottish GQ cover.His deep reddish-brown hair gleams in the afternoon sun, and his expression is serious but not angry—more contemplative.

"We need to talk," he says without preamble.

"I need to tell you something," I blurt simultaneously.