Page 190 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
I glance at my brothers. We survived the initial leak and the downloads are spiking, but Sterling is still convening the Board. The Morality Clause is still in play. The corporate war is far from over.
But staring at the empty elevator, the fifty million dollars in Series B funding is the last thing on my mind.
“We give her space,” I decide, though it goes against every instinct I have to fix things immediately. “We let her cool down. And then… we grovel. We show her that the circle isn’t broken. It just got bigger.”
Tessa nods, her hand clammy inside mine.
On the coffee table, my phone lights up again. Sterling. The emergency Board session is starting.
I ignore it, keeping my eyes locked on the closed metal doors of the elevator.
34
TESSA
My phone suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
It’s been twenty-four hours since the notification flashed on my screen and made my heart stop. My eyes squeeze shut, but the image is burned into my retinas.
A grainy telephoto shot taken from the clinic parking lot. It captured everything: Ethan’s hand resting intimately on my lower back, Owen leaning in to kiss my temple, and Asher holding my hand.
It was intimate. It was private. And yesterday at 4:00 PM, The Austin Insider plastered it on their homepage under the headline:
STARTUP SECRETS: THE BILLION-DOLLAR HAREM.
It’s been twenty-four hours since the world decided we were freaks. Twenty-four hours since Ethan threw a whiskey glass at the wall, screaming that he never should have broken protocol in an open lot. Twenty-four hours since Asher stood in the debris, calculating exactly how ten seconds of reckless joy had compromised our entire perimeter. Twenty-four hours sinceHarper walked out of the elevator and took a piece of our hearts with her.
The dust is settling, but the air is still thick with it.
We’re back in the penthouse. It’s become a bunker. The brothers have formed a perimeter around me that’s practically visible. Asher is monitoring the real-time sentiment dashboard on the big screen. Owen is in the kitchen, aggressively juicing kale because Asher decided I need more iron. Ethan is pacing the study on a call with the legal team, securing a forty-eight-hour injunction against the Board.
Sterling wanted to trigger the Morality Clause today and strip the fifty-million-dollar funding, but Ethan’s lawyers bought us two days. Two days to figure out how to save the company.
But there’s one front we haven’t secured yet.
Mom and Dad.
“You don’t have to do it today,” Owen says, walking over with a glass of green sludge. He sits on the coffee table in front of me, his knees bumping mine. “We can wait. Let the news cycle die down.”
“We can’t wait,” I say, staring at my phone. “If I wait, the neighbors back home will have already convinced them I’ve joined a cult.”
Before I can dial, the intercom buzzes.
It’s a harsh, jarring sound cutting through the quiet of the penthouse. We all stop moving.
Ethan strides out of the study, hanging up his phone. He walks to the wall panel and presses the button. “Yes?”
“Security, Mr. Branson,” the concierge’s voice crackles through the speaker. He sounds nervous. “I have a Mr. and Mrs. Hartley here. They say they’re Tessa’s parents. They’re demanding to come up, sir. Mr. Hartley is threatening to call the police for a wellness check if you don’t send the elevator down right now.”
A wave of nausea hits me.
“Here?” I whisper, the panic spiking. “They live three hours away. They must have driven in the night.”
“A wellness check brings uniforms and press to the lobby,” Ethan says, his voice calm, calculating the variables. He presses the button. “Send them up.”
“Ethan!” I gasp. “We can’t just let them in! Look at this place!”
I gesture frantically around the living room. It screams Billionaire Sex Pad. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table, Asher’s server blades on the counter, and three men who look like they just finished a war.
