Page 97 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
His sigh is deep. “That didn’t start until me and your mom were separated, Gavin.”
I lean back, reeling. “I thought—” I stop. Breathe. “I spent years thinking you left because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”
“I left because we were already over. We had been for a long time. She just made sure it looked worse.”
I stare at the orange tree, not seeing it anymore. Something inside of me cracks. The orange tree’s leaves sway in the breeze, quiet and indifferent to the storm rolling through my head.
I don’t say anything for a while. Just sit back in the patio chair and stare at the bright sky, trying to stitch a thousand broken threads together into something that makes sense.
Jamison doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush. He pours more tea. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with apology.
Eventually, I find my voice. “She always said you tanked your career by chasing women.”
He raises an eyebrow. A small smirk pinches the corner of his mouth.
“That you were unreliable. Self-destructive. That you blew every shot you had and blamed her when it fell apart.”
He smiles faintly. “And you believed her.”
I hesitate. “I did.”
“I figured you would,” he says, tone not unkind. “She was always better at PR than I ever was.”
“She was your publicist.”
“And my wife. That got messy.”
“Was it true?”
“That I blew it?” He shrugs. “Somewhat. I was tired. Disillusioned. I didn’t want to act anymore. She hated that. Said I was wasting the name she helped build.”
I stare at him. “So, she spun a scandal out of your exit.”
“She didn’t just spin it. She scripted it.” He leans forward now, elbows on the table, voice softer. “She leaked the photos. Made sure they’d run on a Tuesday before the fall premieres. Gave thepapers exclusive statements about my ‘affair’ and her ‘dignified silence.’ You were in school that day, remember? She told me to stay away, let the fire burn, and keep my mouth shut.”
I do remember.
I remember walking into school and everyone—even my teachers—went silent as soon as I walked in. I remember a girl I liked asking if my mom was going to divorce “the cheating actor.”
“You knew it would hurt me,” I say, voice tight.
“I didn’t expect it to reach you like that. I told her to leave you out of it.”
“She didn’t.”
“I know.” He looks genuinely regretful.
But regret doesn’t put years back on the clock.
I cross my arms. “You could’ve reached out. Told me the truth.”
“You told me not to. Said you never wanted to see me again.”
“I was a teenager.”
More regret heaps onto the lines on his face. “I thought staying away was doing you a favor. I thought, if she could win the public over, maybe she could convince you to hate me and you’d still have your mom.”
“A mom who lied to me? That’s what you were preserving?”
