Page 55 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
I hit the first pharmacy I see. There’s a woman restocking shelves and a teenage cashier who barely glances at me as I grab a two-pack of pregnancy tests and a bottle of orange juice. I pay in cash. I don’t know why. It’s not like anyone’s watching me. Still, my hands shake as I shove the receipt in my coat pocket.
I take the test in the bathroom at the VT building. Not the lobby restroom—too risky. I take the elevator to the fifth floor, where no one has moved into the renovated suite yet. The stalls are pristine. Unused.
The line shows up faster this time. Clear. Solid. Pink.
I stare at it until my throat closes up. No ambiguity. No faint maybe. Just truth. I’m pregnant.
I slide down onto the floor, back against the cold tile wall, the test still clenched in my hand like it might change if I just squeeze hard enough.
Pregnant.
This isn’t supposed to happen. I did everything right. I took the pills, set alarms. I wascareful.
But here I am. Pregnant. Again. It’s a good thing I didn’t date much between the twins’ birth and now, because how fucking fertile am I?
My first thought is of Lyra and Levi. How much I love them. How much they needed from me back then—still do. And now? I don’t even know how to tell them. Or who to tell first. Or what the hell I’m going to do.
I’m still reeling when I finally stand. Wash my hands. Bury the test in the trash. I check my reflection and don’t recognize the pale woman staring back at me.
Then I head upstairs.
I walk into the executive floor ten minutes before nine, planning to fake it through the morning. Smile. Sip coffee. Pretend I’m not spiraling.
But then I open my email, and there’s one from the CHRO, Heather Cloud. She’s put a meeting on my calendar that starts in fifteen minutes. The email header reads “Conduct Review.”
And I thought my day couldn’t get worse…
14
JACK
The coffee’shotter than usual this morning. I don’t ask why. Harrison always makes it strong, but when it’s bordering on nuclear, it usually means he didn’t sleep—or he’s thinking too hard and needed something to burn the thoughts off.
For me, the first burn of the morning is the only kind I trust anymore. Wakes me up better than alarms or news alerts. Better than guilt, even.
He hands me a mug without a word and sinks into the chair across from my desk, stretching out like he owns the place. One ankle propped on his knee, mug in one hand, the other resting on the armrest like a man waiting for the next fire.
I take a sip and almost cough. “You trying to kill me?”
“You’re awake now, aren’t you?”
“Barely.”
“Then it’s working.”
It’s early. The kind of early where the hallways outside are still quiet, where the sky over the city’s still gray and gold instead offull sun, and where everything feels a little more honest before the day dresses itself in PR and politics.
We don’t usually talk much in the mornings. That’s never been our thing. Gavin needs structure. Harrison needs movement. I need silence—and black coffee. But today’s different. There’s too much sitting under our skin. Has been since Parker walked in yesterday morning and didn’t look any of us in the eye.
“She’s pulling back,” Harrison says after a few minutes.
He doesn’t have to say who.
“She thinks we’re letting her fall,” I say.
“She thinks we’re letting them push her out.”
He saysthemlike it’s obvious. And it is. Vivian and Heather.
