Chapter 5

GAVIN

My 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 minutes later than usual. For most people, that would mean nothing. For my mother, it means I should expect blood.

Vivian Thatcher is never late. She considers it both a professional weakness and a moral failing. If she’s calling now—late, cold, and controlled—then something has already gone wrong, and she’s chosen me as the first wound to suture or split wider.

I answer before it can ring again.

“Mother.”

“Good morning, Gavin,” she says, voice clipped like the heel of a Louboutin tapping tile.

“You’re late,” I say, because I know it annoys her.

“I was on with the Zurich office. They had a press leak involving a legacy model, a fertility clinic, and a defamation suit. I assume you’ve reviewed the Q2 projections?”

“I assume you remember you’re retired.”

Her voice sharpens. “Have you reviewed the Q2 projections?”

No point in goading her. She’s on a tear. “I have. Up three point two percent across the board. Beauty margins are climbing thanks to influencer alignments. And the Thompson rollout performed thirty percent over forecast.”

She exhales, and I can practically hear her eyes rolling. “I’ve seen the metrics. I’m asking for your opinion, not a book report.”

“My opinion is that the numbers are strong. But it’s a temporary bump unless we reinforce it with a credibility campaign. Gen Z trusts authenticity more than airbrush. We need to pivot strategy accordingly.”

Vivian hums. That sound—the sound of consideration or condemnation, depending on what follows—always makes my jaw tighten. “How is the new assistant?”

I close the performance dashboard on my screen. Of course she wants to talk about Parker. She always circles back to what she actually wants to say once the formalities are out of the way.

“Parker Simon. Phil’s sister.”

“I know who she is.”

“She started Friday.”

“So I heard.”

“From whom?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“Heather, of course.” Heather Cloud, our CHRO and my mother’s oldest friend, has a direct line to my mother that bypasses the org chart, protocol, and my patience. “She was surprised. I was shocked.”

“Shocked that I hired a competent assistant?”

“That you hired someone whose family you’ve known since she was a teenager. It’s a conflict.”

“Hardly.”

“It’s nepotism.”

“She went through the same interview process as every other candidate.”

“Except that you knew her.”

“Barely. She’s Phil’s sister—it’s not like we hung out when we were kids. There’s more than ten years between us. I also know half the top-level talent in this city. That’s what happens when you’re in business for your whole life.”

“She’s a risk.”

“No,” I say, fingers tightening around my stylus. “She’s safe. That’s the word you used last time, isn’t it? Safe. Practically family. Not like Jenna, who you said flirted with half the office.”

Vivian sniffs. “She did.”

“She didn’t. She’s a lesbian. That cuts out more than half the office.”

“She wore backless blouses.”

“So have I.”

She tsks loudly. “Gavin, don’t get cute.”

“I am what I am.”

“She giggled in meetings.”

“She increased client retention by eighteen percent and handled seven major product holiday parties without a single error.”

“She sat on Harrison’s desk.”

“I don’t care if she sat on the damn chandelier. She was a phenomenal assistant, and you ran her out of the company with your whispers and judgment.” Not quite. But close enough.

Vivian’s tone sharpens. “I didn’t run anyone out. She left because she knew she wasn’t getting promoted.”

“She left because she married someone with more Oscars than you have cheekbones.”

“That’s not hard.”

I allow myself one slow, deliberate breath. “She didn’t flirt with anyone,” I say. “And even if she had, that wouldn’t have been a crime.” Never mind the fact that Jenna fell for the same actress/influencer I was sleeping with. It happens. She was still a damn good executive assistant, and I won’t stand for Mother disparaging her.

“She made the office feel undisciplined.”

“An assistant didn’t damage the brand. Your obsession with image did.”

Silence. Only for a second. But long enough that I know I’ve scored a direct hit.

So, she pivots. “You’d have fewer headaches if you hired a man.”

“And more lawsuits.”

“Don’t be glib.”

“I’m not. You don’t care about competence, you care about optics. You want VT to look perfect more than you want it to function well.”

Her voice lowers to a hiss. “I spent thirty years building a brand synonymous with elegance, discretion, and restraint. I won’t let that be undone by one ill-advised elevator ride.”

The breath leaves me like a shot.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen the blogs.”

“Then you know there’s no video. Just vague audio, barely audible at that.”

“There doesn’t need to be video, Gavin. People will believe what they want.”

“Then they’ll believe what I tell them. Isn’t that the job of a public relations expert?”

She laughs, dry and humorless. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s not how this works. You don’t control the narrative anymore.”

“I control this company.”

“You think the board will protect you? When will you learn from your father’s mistakes?”

I go still. “That’s low.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“By implying I’m on the same path as my father?”

“He made one mistake, and it snowballed into twenty.”

“I am not him.” I don’t mean to growl the words.

“You are your father’s son.”

“No. I am my mother’s son. The one who learned to double-check every door for cameras and every room for whispers. The one who built this company with you breathing down his neck. And the one who’s still doubling profits despite having to carry your legacy on his back.”

She’s quiet again. That unnerves me more than the yelling ever could. “I stepped back so you could take this company forward,” she says, softly now. “But I didn’t step away so you could burn it down.”

“I’m not burning anything,” I say. “I’m keeping it alive. You may have created VT, but I evolved it.”

“Evolved it into what?”

“A place where we work with people like Parker Simon.”

There’s a pause, just before she hangs up. “My gut is never wrong.”

“Maybe your gut is just scared of being irrelevant.” I tap end call before she can say anything else she shouldn’t.

The silence that follows is heavy. Not peaceful. Not cleansing. Just empty.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling, resisting the urge to throw something. I used to think I’d stop craving her approval once I got the CEO title. But I was wrong. The craving doesn’t stop—it just gets buried deeper, disguised by paychecks and press releases and quarterly wins that never feel like enough.

I rub a hand across my mouth, forcing the tension from my jaw.

Parker. The name slides into my mind before I can stop it. She’s not a kid anymore. Not the nerdy girl who hovered at the edge of every room, clutching a book and glancing around like she didn’t belong. She’s grown into something precise. Polished. Pretty in a way that makes men forget what room they’re standing in.

And I’ve done everything I can to avoid her.

I gave her to Jack and Harrison. Not as an insult, not even as a test. Just…distance. She’s better off in their departments. Safer. Away from me. Away from the part of me that remembers what she looked like in that elevator—pressed between three bodies and loving every second.

And what she sounded like when she moaned my name. God, I can still hear it.

Yes, technically she’s my new assistant, not theirs, but if I don’t keep her at a distance, this will blow up in our faces. I push back from my desk and stand, trying to work the tension from my shoulders.

This isn’t sustainable. I can’t keep pretending I’m not affected. And I can’t keep entertaining lectures from a woman who thinks control and repression are the same thing.

Parker Simon is here. She’s inside these walls. Wearing pencil skirts and smiling like she’s not unraveling me one glance at a time. And it’s only been three days. One, really. Two of those days were the weekend.