Page 19 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
I nod once. “Understood.”
Jack leaves without saying anything else.
I sit there alone, knowing full well the consequences have already started. And I walked straight into them anyway.
5
PARKER
By the timeI leave the office, I feel like I’m walking through molasses. Everything’s heavy. My limbs, my thoughts, the weight of what I did today.
Harrison. The goddamn closet.
I don’t regret it. That’s the worst part. If I had any sense, I’d be drowning in regret right now. Shame. Maybe a hint of horror that I let myself get swept into something so reckless. But I’m not horrified.
I’m just spinning.
Jack, Gavin, Harrison—they’re all in my head like a noise I can’t quiet. And it’s not just the physical stuff, though that’s loud and consuming enough on its own. It’s the way they look at me. Like I’m not just the assistant. Like I’m…someone.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m not someone. I’m Parker Simon. Executive assistant. Sister of one of their oldest friends. Single mom to two six-year-olds who are going to wake up tomorrow needing cereal and clean socks and someone to helpthem build an arctic fox diorama for science week. I can’t afford this kind of risk.
And then there’s the leak.
I hadn’t even seen it until I checked my phone on the subway—some gossipy little blog with a grainy thumbnail, the headline teasing a “scandalous moment” caught on audio between VT’s upper brass and an unnamed woman.
That woman is me.
I know it. They know it. I don’t know if anyone else knows it yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Maybe someone recognizes my voice. Maybe someone starts asking questions. Maybe Phil finds out.
God, Phil.
I’m not sure what scares me more—my brother hearing about it, or the look on his face if he does. He vouched for me. He told me this job would be good for me. That they’d take care of me.
And now I’ve gone and let them take more than that.
I shouldn’t care what the internet says. Blogs blow everything out of proportion. But VT isn’t a regular company. And Gavin isn’t a regular CEO.
People forget, or maybe they don’t, that Gavin Thatcher is the son oftheJamison Thatcher. Oscar winner. Tabloid catnip. The kind of man whose name trends at least twice a month for either a steamy throwback film clip or another ex-girlfriend coming out with a memoir.
Gavin might pretend he’s nothing like him, but that name carries weight. And when you factor in that Gavin had his own flash-in-the-pan moment in the spotlight—some indie films that made it to Sundance, a couple of modeling spreads in GQ before he pivoted to the boardroom—he was never anonymous. He was born famous. Even before he took over VT, people knew who he was. And when he became CEO?
He became a story. A brand. An image. A fantasy. Every bit as polished and unattainable as his father, just in tailored suits and lower lighting. When I remember who he is—and who VT’s clients are—it makes my stomach twist. How the hell does a company like VT maintain the illusion of pristine celebrity image management when their C-suite is leaking their own scandals?
It’s messy. Hypocritical. And suddenly I’m the girl at the center of it, even if no one’s named me yet.
I reach my apartment door with my keys already in hand and try to force the thoughts from my mind. Home is where real life happens. The mess and the crayons and the chicken nuggets. I don’t get to be the scandal here. I’m just Mom.
I open the door, and immediately, I’m hit with the smell of baked pasta and Febreze.
“Mommy!” Lyra barrels into me first, loose hair flying, wearing one of her three rotating unicorn pajamas.
“Hey, baby.” I drop to my knees, kiss her forehead, and then feel the tug on my arm.
Levi’s behind her, quieter as always, but smiling. They both have my brown curls, and his dangle on his forehead. His dimples show when he’s proud of himself, and they’re showing now. “I did all my spelling words without help.”
“Of course you did,” I say, kissing his cheek. “You’re a genius.”
He grins and bolts back toward the living room, where I see flashcards and what looks like a half-built blanket fort spread across the carpet. My mother steps out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel, wine glass already half-empty. She’s in her usual uniform of an oversized T-shirt and leggings, and I’m so jealous of how comfortable she must be. I get my hair from her, and now she has two pretty gray streaks that frame her face. I hope I go gray like her.
