Page 4 of Forty, Flirty & Framed

Now here I am, stuck stateside, dealing with his digital aftershocks.

"Ah yes," I say dryly."Richard.Convenient time to bring him up."

Her brown eyes spark as she leans forward."Excuse me, but your brother nearlytankedmy career.I spent fifteen years in digital communications.Got my master’s at thirty-five.And three years with him almost erased all of it.This isn’t convenient—it’s infuriating."

I slide a tablet across the table.Footage from last night shows her alone at her desk.

“This you?”

“Yes.I stayed late to finalize the quarterly report.Not to write anonymous thirst posts about my boss.”

“Then twelve hours later, from your computer, we get this.”I read: “‘Thighs that could crush a whisky barrel—and your will to date inferior men.’”

She blinks.“That’s...colorful.”

“It’s career suicide.”I lean in.“Unless, of course, the goal is to take down Abernathy Corp from the inside?”I add, letting the words hang.

Her head jerks back.“Are you serious?Richard embezzles company funds, nearly steals my identity, ghosts me—and now you think I orchestrated all that just to post about your thighs?"

There’s something so baffled and sincere in her voice, it stops me.

I don’t really know her.I’ve been in Scotland.She was Richard’s problem.I had grad school friends to catch up with—Grayson, Connor, Alex, Luke—people who weren’t attached to my brother’s bad decisions.

But the woman in front of me?

She's got deep shadows under her eyes.Tension in her shoulders.A grip on the tablet like she’s ready to throw it at the next person who calls her a liar.

Either she's a phenomenal actress—or she’s telling the truth.

“Our IT confirms the post came from your computer,” I say, softening only slightly.

“Then someone used my credentials.I don’t know how.But I swear to you, I didn’t write that post.”She runs a hand through her hair, unraveling the careful bun.“I need this job.The board letting me stay after Richard… that was already a miracle.I’m not blowing it on a social media stunt.”

A knock at the door.

Alana, my new assistant—courtesy of Richard’s hasty departure—pokes her head in.“Sorry to interrupt, Mr.Abernathy, but Good Morning America wants you on tomorrow’s show for a segment called”—she checks her notes—“‘Braveheart Edition: Tech’s Sexiest Scot.’”

I blink.“Decline.”

“Yes, sir.”

She vanishes.Karina and I lock eyes.

“This is spiraling,” I mutter, scanning my phone.Seventeen notifications.Three texts from my grandmother.I’m not opening those.

“I’ve already changed passwords, flagged IT, contacted my PR contacts,” Karina says rapidly.“I’m drafting a statement.If we move fast, we can get ahead of it.”

I lift a brow.“We’re trending number three globally.You think we can ‘get ahead’ of this?”

Her lips wiggle.“That’s...incredibly strong reach for corporate content.”

I almost laugh.Almost.

“Our engagement metrics are off the charts,” she adds.“Not that this is good, obviously, but visibility-wise?—”

“Ms.Peters, I did not build this company to go viral for my thighs.”

“Understood.Though...for the record, the post also wasn’t wrong about the shoulders.”