Page 48 of Forty, Flirty & Framed

"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.