Page 174 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
Pregnant.
I close my eyes, and instantly, the expensive suits and the startup empire dissolve, dragging me back to that cramped, terrifying trailer in Oklahoma, twenty years ago.
I’m twelve. Owen is seven. Asher is ten.
We’re hiding in the closet, buried under a pile of dirty laundry, listening to the sound of breaking glass in the living room.
Kids ruin everything! The voice is slurred, heavy with whiskey and a lifetime of failures. My father, Richard, is yelling. I could have been something. I could have had a life. But I’m stuck here, feeding three mouths that just take and take and take.
I remember Owen’s fear. He’d wet himself, soaking his pajama bottoms, shaking so hard his teeth chattered. Beside him, Asher rocked back and forth, whispering numbers under his breath to create order out of the chaos. Two, three, five, eight…
My hand clamped over Owen’s mouth so he wouldn’t scream.
I remember the sharp, pulsing ache in my own ribs where Richard had kicked me an hour earlier for leaving a toy truck in the hallway.
You’re a burden, the voice whispers through the years. Children are anchors. They drag you down until you drown. You resent them. You hate them. And eventually, you leave them.
I open my eyes, gasping for air. The memory fades, but the scar tissue remains. It throbs.
“I can’t do it,” I whisper to the empty garage.
Markus Vance is out there right now, plotting to burn us to the ground. He just hacked our servers. He hired Greg to break into our home. He’s hunting for a weakness.
And I just gave him the ultimate weapon.
A baby isn’t just a scandal. It isn’t just a PR nightmare or a violation of the Morality Clause. It’s a target.
I failed.
I failed to protect the company. I failed to protect my brothers from the fallout. And now, I’ve failed Tessa.
I left her.
I see her face—terrified, clutching her stomach. She looked at me for reassurance. She looked at me to be the Protector. And I looked at her like she was a risk.
Like Richard looked at us.
I gag, my stomach heaving. I lean over a rusted dumpster, breathing hard, fighting the nausea. I’m just like him. It’s in my blood. The selfishness. The fear. The instinct to run when the walls close in.
I hear the heavy metal fire door of the stairwell creak open behind me.
I don’t turn around.
“You’re lucky I didn’t punch you in the face,” Owen’s voice echoes off the concrete. It isn’t the easy-going, charming voice the world hears. It’s cold, hard, and undeniably dangerous. “I might still do it.”
“Go ahead,” I say, my voice raspy. I keep my eyes fixed on the dirty pavement. “I deserve it.”
“Yeah, you do,” Owen snaps.
He steps to my left while Asher moves to my right, flanking me seamlessly. Even when I break formation, they fall back into place around me out of pure, drilled habit.
“She’s crying,” Owen says, his tone merciless. “She thinks you left because you see the baby as a mistake. She thinks you see her as a risk to the bottom line.”
I flinch. The accusation hits me hard. “I don’t. God, Owen, I don’t.”
“Then why the fuck did you walk out?” Owen demands, grabbing my shoulder and jerking me back to face him. His grip is bruising. “Why did you leave her alone up there?”
“Because I’m terrified!” I roar.
