Page 27 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends

“That’s not what this is.”

She snorts. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” I say, firmer. “It’s not.”

She falls quiet. We both do. Because that’s exactly what it is, on the surface. But there’s always been more in it for me, and saying that now won’t fix things.

She finishes buttoning her blouse, picks up her tablet from the floor, and takes a breath like she’s about to run a marathon. “We should pretend this never happened.”

That gut-punch again. I try to not visibly flinch. “You sure?”

“I’m not sure about anything,” she says. “But I know I can’t fall apart right now.”

“Who said anything about falling apart?”

“I’m trying to survive, Jack. I don’t have the luxury of being reckless like this again. For Phil’s sake, and for my kids’ sake.”

I want to argue. Want to tell her this wasn’t reckless—it wasright. But I don’t. She wouldn’t hear it right now.

She walks to the door, unlocks it, and opens it a few inches. Then she stops. “I meant what I said,” she says without looking at me. “You were…amazing.”

And then she’s gone.

I don’t move. I just stand there, heart pounding, staring at the space she left behind. Déjà vu all over again.

The first time we were together, she ran. Not because it was wrong—but because she thought it was. She thought Phil would freak out. And now?

Now she’s got so much more on the line. And I’m not sure she’ll ever give herself permission to want me the way I want her.

But I do. God, I do.

And I don’t know how many more times I can watch her walk away from me.

7

GAVIN

Thursday lunchwith my mother is not optional.

It’s not formalized in any document or calendar entry. It’s not listed under shareholder obligations or brand image protocols. But it is, somehow, binding. Every Thursday at noon, I make the pilgrimage to a members-only country club carved into the Bel Air hills, where linen is crisp, steak is blood-warm, and expectations are lethal.

The valet knows me by name. His uniform is spotless, his smile neutral. I tip him well—always. Not because I care about appearances, but because I like being remembered for something other than my last name.

The dining terrace is exactly as I left it last week. Manicured hedges flanking smooth concrete, canvas umbrellas casting diffuse shade across white tablecloths. The air smells faintly of rosemary and chlorine, like someone’s personal chef just grilled an herb-crusted salmon by the pool.

Vivian has already claimed our regular table. Of course.

She’s seated beneath the largest umbrella, her posture pristine, one ankle crossed over the other like she’s on the cover of a financial magazine. Her immaculate white hair—a sharp, chin-length bob—has not a single strand out of place despite the breeze. Her face is artfully preserved, all high cheekbones, sculpted brows, and just enough smile-line filler to suggest she doesn’t laugh too often.

She wears white, as usual. Silk blouse, linen trousers, a beige Burberry trench folded neatly over the back of her chair like it’s waiting to judge me too.

And she’s not alone.

My stomach drops as I recognize the woman seated beside her. Vanessa. Of course. I approach like a man walking into a trap he knew was coming and walked into anyway.

“Gavin,” my mother says smoothly, rising just enough to kiss my cheek. “You remember Vanessa.”

I do. She’s impossible to forget.