Page 101 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
Then come the photos—Vivian with Tom Pillsbury. Some public. Some private. Some you’d expect to be framed in her office ifshe weren’t ashamed of them. The last few are less flattering. Blurry intimacy, half-lit moments from hotel lobbies and charity functions with his hand a little too low, her mouth too close to his ear.
“I don’t have the full timeline. Not yet,” Gavin says. “But this has been going on for years. Vivian has worked in tandem with Tom Pillsbury and Icon PR to quietly shape this board, manipulate opposition, and protect herself at the expense of everyone else. Including this company.”
Including her own son.
“Some of you may have suspected. Others may be surprised. I’m not here to speculate on what anyone knew or when. What matters is that this ends now.”
He flips his own copy open and taps the page with his finger.
“I was one of the casualties. She sabotaged my career—my childhood—by using Icon’s pull and her own name to blacklist me. I didn’t know it. I trusted her. And when that wasn’t enough to keep me in my place, she came after Parker Simon. She orchestrated the leak. She wanted the fallout. Not to punish me. To control me.”
His voice hardens. “That ended the moment I found out about this.”
I look down at the folder again. My stomach turns—not because I’m surprised, but because I’m not. Deep down, I knew. You don’t spend your entire adult life working in the same building as someone like Vivian and miss what she’s capable of. I just never thought she’d take the knife to her own son.
But maybe that’s what she’s always done. A slow knife kills just as well as a fast one, and she killed their relationship over decades.
“I know this is a lot,” Gavin says. “But we’re moving forward. We’re done with secrets. With whispers. With the old way.”
Jack nods slightly beside me. I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until he does.
Gavin stands tall. “And in case it’s not clear, I’m sleeping with Parker Simon.”
You could hear a pen drop.
Jack clears his throat. “Me too.”
All eyes swing to me.
“Fuck it,” I say under my breath, but loud enough for the room. “Let’s do this in the sunlight. I’m with her too.”
Gavin folds his hands in front of him. “If anyone has an issue with that—there’s the door.”
For a moment, no one speaks.
It’s not silence exactly. It’s the sound of a room recalibrating—dozens of micro-reactions pressing up against professionalism. Eyebrows inch upward. Mouths part just enough to inhale, but not enough to speak. The entire board holds its breath as Gavin stands at the head of the table, daring anyone to be the first to call it scandal.
Jack leans back in his chair, arms crossed, wearing a grin like it’s the best damn show he’s seen in years. And I can’t help it—I start smiling too. There’s something freeing about it.
Edison sputters. Actually sputters. He blinks twice, glancing around like he expects someone—anyone—to jump in and restore order. When no one does, he pushes his chair back with a loud scrape and rises, his tie slightly askew and face blotching red. “This—this is absolutely unacceptable,” he says, jabbing a finger toward Gavin. “You don’t get to burn down the ethics of this firm because you’re mad at your mommy!”
The heat in my chest flashes from amusement to something closer to rage, but I don’t move. Gavin doesn’t either. He just watches Edison unravel, cool and quiet.
Edison rounds on the room. “We are a PR firm! Ourentire jobis managing perception, not flaunting personal indulgences like this is some tech start-up frat house!”
“We’re a people-first business,” Gavin says, tone even. “That means starting with honesty. I’d like to point out that you know how to use a door, Edison.”
Edison throws his arms wide like he’s waiting for backup, but the room doesn’t move. One of the junior board members near the far end shifts in her seat but stays quiet. A partner from our London office stares at his folder, jaw set.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Edison mutters. “Traditional values matter. They’re the reason this firm has survived?—”
“They’re the reason it’s rotting,” Jack interrupts.
Edison glares at him. “You don’t even work here anymore.”
Jack shrugs. “And yet I’m still more respected than you.”
That’s what finally snaps the last thread holding Edison’s composure together. He grabs his copy of the dossier off the table and flings it—actually flings it—at Gavin. It misses by amile, mostly because Gavin doesn’t move an inch and Edison’s aim is shit. The folder thuds against the edge of the table and slides to the floor, pages spilling across the hardwood in an unceremonious fan.
