Page 32 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
“I haven’t said anything official yet. Not to Vanessa. Not to anyone. But I’m sure I’m not the only client she’s spoken to.”
That hits harder than I want to admit. “Knowing Vanessa, you’re right about that.”
Bryce stands. “Clean it up, Gunn.”
“Working on it.”
She leaves without another word.
I wait until the door clicks shut before I lean forward, plant both elbows on the desk, and swear under my breath. Vanessa. Fucking Vanessa. Of course she’s behind this.
It’s not just the leak. It’s everything—she’s been running a campaign of subtle sabotage that’s been escalating since Gavin dumped her. Undermining us at events, causing havoc whenever she can. One time, she even had one of our client’s cars towed “by mistake.” She’s always been icy, but now she’s evenmore vindictive. Classless, really. This kind of corporate-level manipulation is beneath her. Or used to be.
If she’s the one behind the leak? She’s gone full scorched-earth.
I pull open a clean doc on my screen and start typing. Damage control plan. Internal PR strategy. Counter-message structure. Talking points for Bryce and anyone else who’s been approached.
But the words blur. Because this isn’t just business anymore. This is personal.
Vanessa knows exactly how much reputation means at VT. She knows that Vivian’s voice still echoes in our boardrooms, even if she’s not technically in charge. She knows that any whisper about our leadership is a stain we can’t afford. And she’s betting that we’ll fold under pressure.
I slam my laptop shut, shove my chair back, and stand. I’m so fucking sick of this.
I grab my phone and fire off a group text to a few names I haven’t contacted in months—people who owe me favors. People who live in the gray areas between data privacy and digital surveillance. White hat, black hat, I don’t care as long as they get the job done.
Our cybersecurity team is solid, but they play by the book. I need people who aren’t afraid to bend the rules. Break them, even.
If Vanessa left a trail, I’ll find it. And when I do, I’ll burn her to the ground with it.
Two hours later, I’ve got three burner emails from contacts who are already combing through Icon’s metadata and corporateback end. If the audio leak came from their system—and I’m positive it did—they’ll find the signature.
They always do.
But I’m still wound tight. Too tight. My whole body is locked like I’ve been clenching everything from the moment Bryce walked in. I’ve had enough of this week. “Fuck it.”
I step out of my office and head toward Jack’s. He’s standing, blazer off, sleeves rolled to the elbow like he’s about to choke a spreadsheet.
He looks up. “You okay?”
“No.”
He waits.
“Bryce came in this morning. She had a recording. Vanessa tried to poach her. Took a jab at Gavin. Said VT can’t protect its clients.”
Jack exhales, jaw flexing. “Jesus.”
“Yeah. I’ve got people looking into it. Off-books.”
He nods.
I scrub a hand down my face. “We need a break.”
Jack doesn’t ask what I mean. He just stares at me for a beat, then says, “The cabin?”
“Yeah.”
He turns toward the wall behind his desk, where a minimalist black-and-white map of the Angeles National Forest hangs like an art piece. That cabin—ours—sits up there, tucked into thetrees, three hours from the city, invisible on GPS unless you already know where to look.
