Page 31 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Lola

I ’m so glad I reworked the schedule to build in some midday downtime. I couldn’t keep up with the pace—mentally or physically.

The schedule was built with support in mind. I used to have three instructors. Most of my time went to private clients and small group sessions, or just filling in the gaps. Trying to do the work of four people completely alone? Yeah, that was not even remotely sustainable.

Reid’s been helping out where he can. It’s weird having him around all the time, but…

I kind of like it? We’ve never been around each other like this before.

In the past, it always ended in some verbal sparring match that spiraled until we were both pissed off and saying shit we didn’t mean.

Now, when we get worked up—we just have sex.

So yeah, that’s progress. Is it healthy progress? I don’t really care. I’m having orgasms. Lots of them.

I prop my feet up on my desk and slouch down in my chair. I don’t have any errands to run today and the studio is already cleaned and restocked. The boys are all busy, so instead of an orgasm break, I’m mindlessly scrolling through my social media.

I scroll past a protein powder ad, two influencer reels I have zero interest in, and a new exercise routine that supposedly takes off ten pounds in ten minutes. Then I see Gigi’s latest post.

My feet fall from the desk as I sit ramrod straight. This bitch…

She’s posed in front of the stove in our kitchen, holding the mug I bought last fall from a pop-up market.

The same mug she once called fugly and said didn’t “work with the aesthetic” in our kitchen.

Her hair is in perfect waves, her makeup looks airbrushed, and it all looks a little suspiciously “put together” for something that’s supposed to be candid.

All very on-brand for Gigi.

It’s not the mug or the filter that has me ready to breathe fire. It’s what she’s wearing.

Reid’s jersey.

And literally nothing else.

The caption reads: “You can’t steal what was never yours ”

She didn't tag anyone, but she didn’t have to. All of San Diego knows who that jersey belongs to.

And it’s perfectly clear who she’s talking about: me.

My stomach does that slow, sinking twist that always feels so godawful. The likes are climbing by the second. The comments are rolling in, all in support of Gigi and Reid.

Is that who I think it is

Omg stopppp. You two are

I knew it

Power couple energy.

I manage to swallow the urge to throw my phone across the room. Instead I lock the screen and set it face-down on the desk.

I know what this is.

She’s making a point. And I’m supposed to see it. She wants me to know she can have him. That she already has. Reid swears she didn’t, but it doesn’t matter—because now the internet thinks she has, and that’s basically the same thing.

I press my palms into my eyes and exhale slowly. Three more classes. Then I can spiral properly.

Except I already am.

Does Reid know about this? Did he let it happen? I want to send him the post with a big fat ?? and let him explain himself. Or deny it.

He says he didn’t sleep with her. But is he being honest with me? It’s not like Reid to ever turn a woman down.

I worry that if we ever do go public with our relationship, then people will cry foul because obviously I stole him from Gigi.Whatever. I don’t have time for this right now. I have a business to salvage.

I push off from the desk and go through the motions—re-rack the props, double-check my afternoon client notes. I tell myself I’ll deal with Gigi later, that it’s not worth the energy right now.

Then my phone buzzes.

It’s a message from a longtime client. She’s been with me since I first opened the studio. She stuck with me through every scheduling glitch, playlist fail, and instructor turnover.

“Hey, just checking in—are you okay? Heard some talk about your studio being bought out? Hope it’s just rumors. Let me know if I should cancel my class pack.”

Bought out? What the hell is she talking about?Is Gigi behind this?

I force myself to respond as casually as I can manage:

“Hey! Definitely just a rumor. Nothing’s changing over here. Promise.”

I add a smiley face for extra reassurance, and hit send. Then I start making calls.

I check in with a couple clients and probe to see if they’ve heard anything similar. Then I skim through a few forums, scroll through some social media accounts, and finally reach out to someone I trust in the local wellness scene.

It takes her less than five minutes to get back to me.

She and Blaire are friends and had brunch together recently. The gist of what Blaire said was: I’m in over my head, the business is sinking, and one of the guys next door is stepping in to “rescue” me.

I manage to explain that none of that is true and then I hang up the phone. What the actual fuck?

How did it come to this?

I share a home with these women. I used to trust them with my life. I thought they’d be bridesmaids in my wedding one day. Now one is wearing my almost-boyfriend’s jersey for revenge and social media clout, and the other is out there planting rumors designed to destroy what’s left of my business.

How much more of this am I supposed to take?

How much more do I have to lose before they’re satisfied?

And, more importantly, how am I supposed to live with them after this?