Page 92 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
“I’m not running a democracy,” Gavin says coldly. “I didn’t ask for permission.”
He says it like it’s final. And maybe it is. But all I can hear is Vivian’s voice behind his. Not literally, but in tone. In posture. In the way he tightens when challenged. She’s in his head. In the way he runs this place.
In the way he’s letting Parker slip through his fingers without lifting a hand.
“Parker’s not coming back, you know,” I say.
Gavin’s expression hardens. “She made her choice.”
“She left because she’s trying to stop us from imploding.”
He doesn’t respond. And that tells me everything I need to know.
We rebuilt this place because we wanted to do things differently. But now? Now it feels like all we did was give Vivian a bigger stage.
During the town hall, I sit on the far right side of the dais.
Edison sits on the left, smug in a way only men like him can manage. Unbothered. Confident in all the wrong ways. He’s got that slick charm built for handshakes and poison—years of keeping his nose just clean enough to rise without ever being too noticed.
The HQ staff crowd into the main floor of the atrium. The second floor has folding chairs and video screens. Some of the interns stand in the back with coffees and wide eyes. They’ve never seen this many executives in one place unless it’s a holiday.
Phil sits in the front row with the other VPs. Still none the wiser. Still believing his little sister just burned out. Still proud of a company that’s bleeding from the inside.
The town hall livestream begins with Gavin’s brief, polished welcome. I sit with my hands folded, staring down at the wood-trimmed armrest of the stool they gave me, ignoring the stage lighting, the applause, the questions fielded to Gavin about strategic partnerships and retention initiatives.
I don’t hear any of it. Because I’m watching Edison. Waiting for it. And then—he takes the mic. His smile is polished. His suit immaculate. He leans in just enough to fake humility.
“I know there’s been a lot of uncertainty over the last few months,” he says, voice amplified across the floor. “Staff changes. Leaks. A lot of rumors. But I’m here to tell you—those interpersonal issues? Handled.”
There it is. A careful jab. Tidy. Sanitized. Parker. He doesn’t name her, but he doesn’t have to. Everyone knows what he’s talking about.
He goes on, “And now that we’ve refocused our internal priorities, VT Global can do what it’s always done best—build influence and protect image.”
The irony nearly chokes me.
He’s talking about influence. Image. After the woman who saved our gala and our reputation was chased out of the company by his mentor’s vendetta.
I shift in my seat.
Edison isn’t done. “And as for leadership?” he says with a chuckle. “Well, Gavin’s got some big shoes to fill.”
Gavin doesn’t flinch. But I do. Because I know what that is. I know what it means when a man like Edison says that with a smile.
We don’t think you’re ready. We don’t believe in you yet. We’ll tolerate you until we figure out how to replace you.
And Gavin? Gavin just lets it happen. He takes the mic back. Calm. Cool. And says, “Thank you, Edison. Let’s all congratulate him on stepping into the CHRO role.”
Polite applause. Polished smiles.
And I’m so fucking done. I’m done pretending this is okay. That we’re building something meaningful. That Parker didn’t matter. That Vivian doesn’t still run this company from behind a curtain of enablers.
I look at Gavin. Then Edison. Then down at the mic in front of me. And I make a choice.
I don’t wait for the applause to die down. I’d sooner choke than wait for this. I just lean forward and tap the mic in front of me until it stops buzzing.
People start turning. The audience quiets. Even Edison looks up, smugness paused for a flicker of curiosity. Gavin side-eyes me—confused, maybe worried I’ll say something I shouldn’t, according to him.
Good. He should be worried.
