Page 171 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“Sit down,” Owen repeats, his voice calmer. It’s the tone he rarely uses—the one reminding you that beneath the easy charm, he’s just as dangerous as his brothers.
Ethan clenches his jaw, his teeth grinding audibly. He stares at me, really sees me, and his expression softens just a fraction—clocking the fear in my eyes and the way I’m clutching Owen’s hand.
He sits in the armchair opposite the sofa, sitting on the edge of the cushion as if ready to spring back up.
Asher sits on the arm of the chair, opening his laptop but not looking at the screen. He’s watching me.
“Okay,” Ethan says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He clasps his hands together. “We’re here. Talk to us, Tess.”
I look at them, the three men who are my bosses, lovers, and my only family in this city.
We built Mosaic on the promise of truth. Confess your secrets. That’s the tagline. And here I am, choking on mine.
“I…” My voice breaks. I clear my throat and try again. “I didn’t want to tell you like this. Not with the hack. I wanted to wait until things were safe.”
“Safe?” Ethan frowns. “Tessa, you’re safe. We neutralized the threat.”
“Not this threat,” I whisper.
“Tessa,” Asher says softly.
I turn to him. He knows. I can see it in his eyes. He saw the symptoms in the server room. He tracks variables. He just needs me to confirm it.
I take a deep breath. I grab Owen’s hand, squeezing it.
“I’m pregnant,” I whisper.
No one speaks. The ticking of the clock on the wall sounds like a bomb countdown against the heavy stillness of the room.
I watch Ethan.
He goes completely still—doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. It’s like someone reached inside his chest and pulled the power cord. His face goes completely blank, stripped of all expression. His CEO mask slips, and underneath is pure shock.
Then I look at Asher.
Asher blinks once. He taps a single key on his laptop.
“Hypothesis confirmed,” Asher says quietly.
“You knew?” Ethan’s head snaps toward his brother, his movement jerky and fast.
“I suspected,” Asher says, his voice calm. “Nausea. Dizziness. Emotional volatility. The near collapse in the kitchen. The data points suggested a ninety-eight percent probability of conception. I just didn’t want to run the final test without her consent.”
Asher looks at me, and his expression isn’t angry. It isn’t scared. It’s focused.
“We’ll need to adjust your dietary intake,” Asher says, already problem-solving. “And your stress levels. The server room environment is suboptimal for fetal development. We’ll need to move your workstation to a noise-controlled environment. I can set up a filtered air system in your office by tomorrow.”
I let out a small, wet sob. “You’re okay with this?”
“It’s a biological probability,” Asher says, though his voice is quieter than usual. “We’ve engaged in unprotected sex. The probability of hitting your fertile window was high. The outcome is logical.”
He pauses, his eyes softening. “We simply need to integrate the new variable.”
He isn’t freaking out, he’s planning, and that’s Asher’s love language. I feel a wave of relief so strong it makes me dizzy.
But then there’s Ethan.
Ethan hasn’t moved. He hasn’t offered to set up an air filter. He hasn’t said it’s logical. He’s staring at the floor, his hands clasped so tightly together that the tips of his fingers are purple. He looks like he’s doing mental math that doesn’t add up.
