Page 200 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
Tessa smiles, leaning her head on my shoulder.
“Let’s go home,” she says.
I reach over, grabbing my laptop off the table, and follow her toward the door.
36
ETHAN
The tie is straight. The suit is bespoke, Italian wool, cut to fit my shoulders perfectly. My hair is perfectly styled.
I look in the mirror, and for the first time in my life, I don’t see a CEO preparing for a board meeting. I don’t see a soldier preparing for a mission. And I definitely don’t see Richard Branson’s son looking for the nearest exit.
I see a groom.
“You’re staring,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn. Owen is leaning against the doorframe of the master bedroom suite in our new Westlake estate. He’s wearing a suit identical to mine—midnight blue, crisp white shirt—but his tie is loose, and he’s grinning like he already won.
“I’m checking for variables,” I say, adjusting my cufflinks.
“There are no variables,” Asher says, stepping out of the walk-in closet.
He’s also dressed in the blue suit, but his is buttoned with military precision. He walks over to me, reaches out, and adjusts my pocket square by two millimeters.
“The logistics are sound. The weather is optimal—seventy-five degrees, low humidity. The guests have arrived. The security perimeter is secure.”
I look at my brothers. My best men. My co-grooms.
Technically, legally, the marriage license sitting on the dresser bears two names: Ethan James Branson and Tessa Marie Hartley. We discussed it for nights. We ran the models. For the sake of the twins, for the sake of the company’s insurance and inheritance laws, one of us had to be the legal husband.
Owen voted for me because I’m the oldest. Asher voted for me because my credit score was two points higher than his.
Tessa voted for me because she knew I needed it. She knew I needed the piece of paper to prove to the ghosts in my head I wasn’t going to run away.
But today isn’t about the paper.
Today is about the vows.
“Do you have the rings?” I ask.
“I have the rings,” Owen says, patting his pocket. “All four of them. Which, by the way, costs more than the GDP of a small country.”
His smile fades. He runs his thumb over the velvet box in his pocket.
“God,” he breathes out, a harsh sound. “To think we almost broke her over fifty grand.”
I look up from my tie, my hands paused on the knot. The room goes quiet.
“We didn’t know,” I say, my voice rough with guilt. “We thought we were managing a risk. We didn’t know she was the asset.”
“It wasn’t about the money,” Asher says from the doorway. He’s holding the marriage license, but he’s looking at the rings. “It was about control. We tried to buy her compliance because we were too terrified to ask for her loyalty.”
“She never has to worry about money again,” I say, pulling the knot tight. “She never has to worry about anything again. We spent the first month trying to trap her with debt. I’m going to spend the rest of my life freeing her with this.”
“Sterling is gone anyway,” Owen notes.
“He’s gone,” I confirm, turning from the mirror. “The #MyMosaic campaign triggered a bidding war. Sequoia Capital swooped in with an expedited term sheet and a better valuation this morning. We used it to secure a bridge loan and buy out Sterling’s Series A investment entirely. He took his check and walked.”
