Page 56 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
That email yesterday was the kind of thing Parker will pretend didn’t hurt. She’ll smile. She’ll do her job. She’ll stay late, file every note, and still look like she’s bracing for a tap on the shoulder from security.
She’s here, but she’s not here. Too scared to be present.
“She’s not talking to us,” Harrison adds. “Not avoiding, exactly. Just…quieter.”
“She thinks if she makes less noise, they won’t notice her.”
“They’ve already noticed her.”
I nod once, sip again. The coffee’s not any better.
“She’s still showing up,” Harrison says.
“She always will.”
“She shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
“She won’t.”
It’s not a promise. It’s a decision.
The kind we’ve always made quietly. Not with big speeches. Just with presence. With action. We don’t grandstand—we show up.
But that conduct review? That was a knife in the back. Filed without Gavin’s signature, without so much as a warning, dropped into her inbox like she’s a risk to contain. Heather knew exactly what she was doing. So did Vivian.
I’m still chewing on that when the door to my office slams open so hard it rattles the hinges.
Gavin’s already mid-stride, pacing, his suit jacket unbuttoned, tie in his pocket, hair pushed back like he hasn’t stopped moving since sunrise. “She’s going to boycott the gala.”
I blink. “Who?”
He stops. Turns. Eyes blazing. “Vivian.”
Harrison leans forward, still calm, but his shoulders straighten. “Pulling her seat?”
“Pullingeverything.Her table. Her donation. Her name from the program.”
“She sent that to you?”
“She sent it to theboard.”
Gavin slaps a folder onto my desk. The top page is a formal letter, signed Vivian Thatcher, cc’d to three donor liaisons and two board members. Neatly worded, full of snide phrasingdressed in elegance. No direct accusations—Vivian’s too smart for that—but it’s all there in subtext.
She questions the “strategic placement” of unqualified personnel. She regrets “seeing the legacy of the firm diluted by interpersonal entanglements.” She urges the board to “reassess leadership’s recent decisions in the interest of reputation preservation.”
No names. But we all know who she’s talking about.
“She said she’s embarrassed,” Gavin mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “That we’re embarrassing her.”
“She said that to you?” I ask.
“She said, and I quote, ‘You can either run a scandal management firm or be the scandal yourself. Choose wisely.’”
Harrison lets out a slow breath. “She’s not pulling punches.”
“She never does.”
I glance back at the letter. “She’s setting you up. If the gala tanks, it’s your fault. If it succeeds without her, she can still claim moral superiority.”
