Page 73 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
Because I’m pregnant. And I don’t know who the father is.
And I’m standing in the middle of a glittering circus with a diamond earring poking into my ear and a fresh layer of setting spray on my face, and all I can think isWhat the hell am I doing?
I make it through the first half hour with a glass of ginger ale in my hand and a lot of tight-lipped smiles. I’m nauseous, but not obviously so. I’ve learned how to fake that I’m listening. I nod at donors, thank them for their generosity, and avoid Gavin’s gaze every time he looks my way from across the room.
He’s in a perfectly tailored tux, all shadow and jawline and control. Jack’s not far, talking to a tech CEO near the bar. Harrison is surveying the room like he’s keeping it safe with sheer presence alone.
My bosses. My lovers. My maybe-baby-daddies.
I’m in hell. Beautiful, five-star catered, paparazzi-studded hell.
I make it all the way to the swing-quartet introduction before I seriously consider throwing up behind the velvet curtain. Notbecause anything’s gone wrong. No, everything is—frustratingly—perfect.
The transitions between stage moments are tight. The catering is timed to the second. The themed cocktails are being photographed by every influencer in the room. People are genuinely wowed.
Bryce Aoki said, “This is insane, Parker. Like…this is art.”
Which is a nice thing to hear when you’re wondering if you’re about to lose everything. But it only makes the pressure worse.
I’m dizzy. Not just from the lighting, or the noise, or the fact that someone decided stilt walkers were appropriate for cocktail hour. It’s the secret. Sitting in my gut. Just behind my navel. Like something coiled and heavy and gathering force.
And it’s all I can think about.
The contortionist is now performing near the staircase, bent into a shape that defies physics and modesty. Everyone claps. I smile politely, sip my ginger ale, and mentally calculate how many weeks I am.
Five. Maybe six.
Too early to show, but too late to pretend it isn’t happening. Too late to blame hormones or stress or exhaustion. I took three tests. Three. Two more than necessary.
I haven’t told anyone. Not even my mom.
I keep thinking maybe if I wait long enough, the universe will just…figure it out for me. Send me a sign. Put a little blinking arrow over the head of the right man like a Sims game. But all I’ve gotten so far is tight dresses and tighter nerves.
“Parker!” someone calls, waving me over.
It’s a donor. Mid-fifties. Wealthy. Smells like leather and truffle oil. He’s already had three glasses of something golden. “I wanted to say—just beautiful. Really. Top-tier. And the rescue partnership? Brilliant move.”
“Thank you,” I say, forcing my best gala-appropriate smile. “We’re thrilled to support the expansion.”
“I have a buddy in Marin with a Doberman that eats six hundred dollars in vet bills a month. I told him—‘next year, you’re writing a check!’” He laughs. I nod. Someone claps again nearby.
A girl in a sequined trapeze outfit does a slow somersault in midair from one red silk ribbon to another. The crowd gasps.
I excuse myself with a polite, “So glad you’re enjoying yourself,” and slip away before I say something truly unhinged likeI’m going to vomit on your shoes.I find a quiet corner, ducking behind a floral display near the mirrored hallway that leads to the lounge.
The hallway is the only part of this place that’s normal. The rest is all illusion.
Golden lions on pedestals—actually, it’s people dressed and contorted to look like lions, but the effect is incredible. A mirrored bar that spins like a carousel. One guest told me they got lost trying to find the restroom and walked through a hallway of fog and lights that felt like a dream sequence. I didn’t correct them—itwasa dream sequence. That’s what I called it in the planning notes.
It’s elegant and spectacular, but what it really feels like ismy life.A circus. Unpredictable. Dangerous.
I pull out my phone and check the time. The speeches start in thirty minutes. Just before dessert. I have to go up there. Smile. Thank everyone. Look proud and competent and totally not like someone who’s been lying by omission to three of the most powerful men she’s ever known.
I open my messages. There’s a new one from my mom:Kids are asleep. Hope the gala is incredible. You look amazing. Don’t forget to eat something.
I stare at the screen, and I want to cry. Or scream. Or go home, throw on sweatpants, curl up with Lyra and Levi, and pretend none of this is happening.
But instead, I put the phone away, fix my lipstick, and re-enter the room. Because that’s what always I do. Smile. Balance. Juggle fire. Like the good little acrobat I am.
