Page 82 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends

“Do I want to know what’s on this?”

“Hard to say.”

I unfold it and read the first line. Right there—at the top of the donor routing chart, listed as a silent financial backer to a shell investment firm linked to Icon PR’s operations fund—is a name I know too well.

Vivian Thatcher.

The page in my hand doesn’t tremble. I do.

Just slightly. A flicker in the fingers. A twitch in my jaw. The paper stays still, held tight between hands that have gripped thousand-dollar pens and stage microphones and steering wheels at 130 miles an hour—but never something like this.

At the top:Thatcher Holdings.

Underneath it, a cascade of shell corporations. Dummy entities. Private funds. All of them tied to a series of boutique investment portfolios designed for one thing. Silent influence. One of those portfolios feeds money directly into Icon PR’s strategic operating pool.

The same pool responsible for their “aggressive expansion tactics.” Their legal safety net. Their digital campaign infrastructure. The same pool involved with the bug in our elevator, if the routing is to be believed.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe.

Jack steps behind me and reads over my shoulder. He exhales like he’s been punched.

Parker’s already sitting. She looks pale again, hand resting unconsciously on her stomach.

Harrison doesn’t move.

“You’re sure,” I say. My voice sounds low. Hollow. Not like mine.

He nods. “We triple-verified the routing.”

“When did you get this printout?”

He sighs. “Did you see a scruffy-looking guy in catering about ten minutes before Vanessa fell?”

“No.”

“That’s because my hackers are good at being invisible.”

I drag my fingers through my hair as I hold on to the last crumb of hope. “Could be a coincidence.”

“It’s not. Her financial manager signed off on the transfer last quarter. We pulled the authorization from the portfolio disclosures tied to her West Coast advisory team.”

Parker quietly says, “She funded the people trying to destroy her old company.”

“She paid for the leak,” Jack mutters.

“She paid to humiliateme,” I say, even as I don’t believe it. I can’t. “This is too far, even for her. Your guys must be mistaken.”

Harrison locks eyes with me. “She engineered it. We need to do a sweep of the whole building. Especially our offices. It’s not a coincidence that we were bugged in that elevator at the exact right moment to create a scandal. She’s not going to leave something like this up to chance.”

“I know what you’re saying makes sense, but…” How am I supposed to live with this? Knowing my own mother is capable of doing this to me? To the people I care about?

“Chance is not in her vocabulary,” Jack says. “Your mother is nothing if not thorough. There will be more bugs. We should check our cars, our homes, everywhere we normally go.”

I fold the paper slowly, tightly, the edges creasing sharper than I intended. No one speaks. It’s too much.She’stoo much. Because this is how my mother works. Not with loud fights or direct orders. With funding, silence, and curated chaos that keeps her at the top of the food chain.

I can’t wrap my brain around this. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle, and I’m looking at the box. I know how the pieces fit together…but I can’t stand looking at the picture.

“She knew about Vanessa before the gala,” I murmur. “She invited her.”