Page 139 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“With a protection,” Sterling clarifies. “I’m willing to let you keep your company, but I need a legal guarantee that you won’t tank the stock price with your… proclivities. We’ve added a strict Morality Clause to the term sheet.”
Owen lets out a short, sharp laugh. “A Morality Clause? What is this, the 1990s?”
“It’s a financial trigger,” Sterling says smoothly. “It stipulates that the founders must mitigate all operational risk. That means no public scandals, no media circuses, and certainly no PR nightmares stemming from… deviant lifestyles.”
Sterling looks at the three of them pointedly, and the silence that follows is deafening.
My lungs seize up, making the air in the room feel dangerously thin.
“Care to define deviant?” Ethan asks slowly, his voice dropping to a dangerous timber.
“Polyamory, communal living arrangements, or whatever brand of sexual deviancy the press decides to label it,” Sterling lists off effortlessly. “Anything that alienates our core, traditional demographics and tanks the stock price.” He taps the heavy stack of paper. “If any of you are found to be in violation of public decency, it triggers an immediate default event. The debtconverts to equity, I take the board seats, you’re removed for cause, and you lose absolutely everything.”
Sterling shifts his gaze back to me. “And just to be thorough, it also applies to key executives. Including you, Miss Hartley.”
I feel genuinely sick. The potent combination of blind panic and the suffocating smell of his cologne is completely overwhelming. I press my hand hard against my stomach, silently praying I don’t gag right over the table.
This isn’t just about losing funding; it’s a hostile takeover neatly packaged with a moral bow tie.
Ethan picks up the document and scans the first page. His face remains a mask of stone, but I watch his jaw muscle tick—a telltale sign that he’s a fraction of a second away from choosing violence.
“We value our privacy, Robert,” Ethan says finally. “But we aren’t monks.”
“I don’t expect monks,” Sterling says, pushing his chair back. “I expect professionals. Keep your private lives completely private, and keep them traditional.”
He pauses with his hand resting on the back of his chair.
“Actually, speaking of tradition,” Sterling adds casually. “I had breakfast at a café on Sixth Street on Sunday. It was a lovely morning.”
The entire room goes perfectly still.
“I saw a very interesting group hug on the sidewalk,” Sterling continues, his eyes locking onto Ethan. “Tell me, Ethan. Do you usually kiss your employees on the mouth before noon?”
Ethan doesn’t even flinch, but the temperature in the room drops below freezing.
“It was a celebration, Robert,” Ethan replies smoothly. “A goodbye to my sister. If you saw anything else, you seriously need to check your prescription.”
“Perhaps,” Sterling smiles with a shark’s quiet menace. “But perception is reality, and my perception is that you are reckless.”
He buttons his suit jacket slowly and deliberately.
“I heavily suggest you prioritize stability, gentlemen. Because if I’m forced to look closer at your management style, I guarantee I won’t like what I find.”
Without extending a hand, he turns toward the door. “You have forty-eight hours to sign. Good day.”
Two hours later, we’re locked inside the server room.
“He has us,” Owen growls, pacing the narrow aisle between the humming server racks like a caged animal. “The old bastard has us in an absolute chokehold.”
“He timed it perfectly,” Ethan says, leaning heavily against the main rack while staring at the floor. “He waited until the exact debt maturity date because he knew we couldn’t possibly raise fifty million in cash in three days.”
“If we don’t sign,” Asher says from his spot on the floor, surrounded by glowing monitors, “he immediately executes the conversion clause. He takes fifty-one percent, turning us into mere employees in our own company right before he fires us.”
“So we sign,” Ethan decides.
He finally looks up at me, his gray eyes looking entirely tortured. “We sign the term sheet, restructure the debt, and go completely dark. We make sure he never sees a single slip-up ever again.”
“It’s a loaded gun,” I say quietly. “And it’s pointed directly at our heads.”
