Page 29 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends

“She’s not a villain.”

“She worked forIcon. Shestillworks for Icon. She probably leaked the elevator audio, and you brought her here.”

“She’s strategic, polished, and presentable. I’d rather you date someone like her than—well, than follow in your father’s secretary-chasing footsteps.”

There it is. I knew it was coming. The knife always finds its mark.

“I’m nothing like him,” I say tightly.

She sips her water again. “You’re sleeping with your assistant.”

I blink. So she knows. Or suspects. I dodge. “That tape is someone’s idea of a joke.”

“You will be a joke if you carry on like your father.”

I sit back, fuming. “I wasn’t aware my sex life required your approval.”

“It doesn’t. But your judgment does.”

I let the silence settle for a second. Two. Then I speak, voice sharp. “You’re worried aboutjudgment? Invite Vanessa to the next board meeting. Maybe she can leak the minutes while she’s there.”

Vivian’s mouth tightens. Just a little. “She made mistakes,” she says carefully. “But she’s still a better match for you than a woman whose brother wouldmurderyou if he found out.”

I feel heat crawl up my spine. “Don’t bring Phil into this like you care about him.”

“That boy spent enough time in my house during his teen years to be one of my own, and that girl isn’t just some assistant, which makes this messier than usual. You could ruin him.”

“Phil isn’t that fragile.”

“But she is,” Vivian says. “Don’t be cruel. Not like your father. Don’t break her heart for sport.”

The accusation lands. I look away. The waiter brings our food. I don’t touch mine.

I stand.

Vivian watches me, composed, unreadable. Her plate untouched.

“Don’t ever ambush me with Vanessa again.”

“She was in the area.”

“You don’t even believe that.”

“She’s good for your image.”

“I don’t need help with myimage.I need you to stop thinking you get to control me like you’re the boss of me.”

Her face softens slightly. “You’ll always be my son, Gavin. That doesn’t go away.”

I push my chair in slowly. “And you’ll always be Vivian Thatcher. That doesn’t give you the right to orchestrate my life.”

I don’t wait for her response. I walk out, every step echoing louder than it should. I don’t make it to the valet stand. My mind races. I need to walk.

I pass through the club’s white-columned foyer and take the side exit, down the stone pathway that curves along the golf course. The hedges are trimmed within an inch of their lives. The fountains burble like nothing bad ever happens here. And for once, I can’t keep the mask on long enough to make it to the parking lot.

So I keep walking.

Down past the terraced lawn where a server is setting up folding chairs for some member’s second wedding. A wedding on a Thursday? Probably a retiree.