My Brother's rich best friends

PARKERThere’s a reason people don’t start new jobs the Friday before a long weekend.It’s weird.Everyone’s half-packed to escape the city, you’re overdressed in a blazer that’s already pilling under the arms, and the office smells vaguely like someone microwaved fish before they bolted out the door.But when Gavin Thatcher—the silver-haired legend of celebrity damage control and CEO of VT Global—tells you to come in on a Friday “to get a feel for things,” you don’t argue. You show up fifteen minutes early with anxiety in your bloodstream and exactly twelve backup pens in your tote bag.And you try not to throw up in your mouth when the elevator dings on the twentieth floor.“Hey, baby sister,” Phil says, standing there in his VT polo like a smug little gatekeeper to hell. “Ready to meet the wolves?”“Wolves,” I repeat, blinking at my brother. “You couldn’t just say ‘executives’? Or, I don’t know…people?”Phil’s already grinning like this is the best part of his entire week. “They do

JACKParker Simon is prettier than I remembered. And that’s a fucking problem.Not that I ever forgot her. I’ve spent the last seven years pretending she was just a blip, just one night of bad judgment. But the moment she stepped back into VT Global wearing that soft pink blouse and carrying a tote bag big enough to hold the secrets to my happiness, every lie I’ve told myself cracked down the middle.She’s still got those soft eyes, though her face has matured into something sharper, cleverer. Her brown curly hair is longer now. She had it twisted up on Friday, but it had fallen around her face and shoulders by the time we left the elevator. I remember exactly how those curls felt between my fingers.I also remember how she looked at me that night seven years ago. Eyes wide. Lush lips parted. Her voice shaking after we finished when she said, “I can’t believe we did that. Phil is going to kill us.”And I believed her. That she meant it. That it was a mistake.Even though I hadn’t been

GAVINMy office sits on the top floor of VT Global’s headquarters in downtown Los Angeles, walled in glass on two sides with a view that stretches from the gridlock of Wilshire to the smog-softened edge of the Hollywood Hills. It’s deliberate—everything in here is.The desk is black marble, clean and cold, custom cut to fit the space without dominating it. The shelves behind me are walnut, built-in and backlit, lined with handpicked art books, a few quiet accolades, and one photo of my grandfather and me on the day I signed my first contract. That’s the only personal item I allow.The floor is polished concrete, waxed weekly. There’s a bar cart in the corner—unused, mostly decorative—but it makes certain visitors more comfortable. The lighting is soft, adjustable, and strategically indirect, because I hate fluorescents and I like to see who sweats under pressure.In short, it’s perfect for me. Sadly, it’s the only perfect part of my day.My phone rings at 8:03 a.m., which is three min

HARRISON I hate these meetings. Boardroom full of smug suits who think my last name is a footnote and my résumé a typo. Half of them pretend to listen while checking the value of their weekend homes. The other half are waiting for me to trip over a decimal point so they can pounce like it proves something. I didn’t go to Stanford. I didn’t come from old money. I didn’t intern because my dad pulled strings—I started in this company sweeping floors. And now I run the damn budget. So when someone says—offhand, like it’s harmless—“Well, we all know a four-year degree is the minimum for leadership material,” it takes everything I’ve got not to snap the damn pen in my hand. I glance up from the report in front of me, nice and slow, and meet eyes with the speaker—David Brinley, head of o

JACKThe phone buzzes just as I take a sip of coffee I’ve already reheated twice.Vivian.I don’t groan. I don’t sigh. I’ve learned how to take her calls without giving her the satisfaction of knowing she’s interrupted anything. She raised Gavin like a chess piece. I was the one she used to practice strategy on first.I tap the screen and slide into my chair. “Vivian.”“Jack. I assume you’ve heard about the leaked audio?”“No pleasantries today?”“Do you think this is the time for charm?”I sip the coffee. It’s terrible. “I’ve heard about it.”“Then you understand the problem.”“I do.”“I’m hearing whispers of a potential board request for audit. That doesn’t happen unless someone—someone very close to the top—has created a reputational vulnerability.”“Gavin has it under control,” I say. “And our lawyer’s already issued takedowns. The relevant security guards were fired. It’ll blow over.”“Do you know how many scandals start with someone saying it’ll blow over?”I say nothing. I don’