Page 86 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
“I know.” But he’s still going to try. Because he’s Gavin. And that’s what he does. He makes people give him their version of the truth, then filters it through ten years of experience and instinct. But this?
This is different. Vivian isn’t just a legacy problem. She’s his mother. And I know how that kind of betrayal hits. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you about my mom.”
Their expressions match—a frown line down the middle of the brow. Gavin says, “You always shut up when we asked. So, we stopped asking.”
“That’s because it’s not a good story.” I smile, but it’s wan. “My father took off before I was born. I never met him. She never talked about him.” I shrug. It’s not that it doesn’t bother me. I would have liked to know my father. But that dream died a long time ago. “My mom was barely around. Until, one day, she wasn’t.”
Jack asks, “She died?”
“Possibly. She just stopped coming home. Wherever she went, she didn’t tell anyone. Her johns still showed up, expecting a session?—”
“She was a sex worker?” Gavin asks.
I nod. “You know that scar on my left shoulder, the one you said looks like a bullet wound?”
“Yeah.”
“One of their cigarettes.”
“Fuck me,” Jack murmurs.
“Without Mom around, I had to fend for myself. I used my scholarships to pay rent for a while, but when it came time to renew the lease, I was only fifteen. I couldn’t legally do it, so I ended up couch surfing for a long time and dodging Child Protective Services like the fucking plague. I knew a kid who went through the system, and I wasn’t doing that. I’d rather live in a cardboard box than deal with that shit.” I take a breath, trying to ignore the wave of memories that comes with admitting all of this.
Gavin blinks. “And that’s when my mom told me to invite you to stay with us.”
“Yeah. She saved my life, Gavin. That’s also why I couldn’t tell you right off the bat. I had to know for absolute certain that I was right about this. Because I couldn’t live with myself if I talked shit about the woman who saved me.”
Jack looks at me like he wants to say something else, then doesn’t.
Gavin finally walks over to one of the half-cleared tables and pours himself a glass of water. He takes a long drink, eyes closed, like it might cool down whatever’s still burning in his chest.
No one else moves. No one else speaks. There’s nothing left to say right now. Just the sound of vacuum cords dragging acrossthe floor somewhere, and a few soft laughs from catering staff in the far kitchen. The ballroom is half-dark now.
One spotlight still glows near the archway where the contortionist performed earlier. A janitor hums quietly in the far corner while he folds up chairs and lines them against the wall. Glass clinks softly in a bin. Outside, I can hear a truck engine start.
The circus is over. And it feels like it’s just getting started.
Jack’s leaning against a column now, head tilted back, watching the ceiling like it might offer wisdom.
Gavin hasn’t moved from the table. He’s staring at his water glass like he can see something in it the rest of us can’t. His knuckles are white where they press into the table’s edge.
No one’s talking. We’re past talking. The fire burned out hours ago. What’s left is the scorched ground.
I should say something. About what we do next. About Vivian. About Icon PR and the board and Parker and all the ways this thing is slipping out from under us.
But I don’t. Because right now, I’m not sure what to do. I take one slow walk around the ballroom, because I can’t stand still anymore. I need motion. Direction. Even if it’s only to retrace my steps.
I pass the riser. The lounge entryway. The curtain where Vanessa ate marble and regret. And then I glance toward the cluster of tall cocktail tables near the exit.
The last place I saw Parker.
The stool is empty.
No heels under it. No bag looped over the back. No Parker, flipping through her phone or watching us with those wide, dark eyes that see everything and say nothing.
I check the next table. Nothing.
Then the corner where she was standing before the blowup started. Gone.
