All Chapters of My Brother's rich best friends: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

GAVINThursday lunch with 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 p

HARRISONThere are bad mornings, and then there’s this one.I’m on my third espresso by the time Bryce Aoki shows up. She’s not on the calendar, which pisses off our front desk—but Bryce doesn’t give a shit about protocol. She never has.She walks in wearing black silk pants, platform boots, a cherry red jacket, and the kind of oversized sunglasses that scream “try me.” Her nails are long, sharp, and painted matte black. There’s a sleek briefcase in her left hand and a flash drive between two fingers in her right.Never a good sign.“Got five minutes?” she says, breezing into my office like she owns the place.“For you?” I stand and gesture toward the chair. “Always.”Bryce has been one of VT’s highest-profile clients for two years. She runs a luxury beauty brand that started as YouTube tutorials and now brings in eight figures annually. She’s blunt, brilliant, and has the reputation of making grown men cry in marketing meetings. I respect the hell out of her.But today, her mouth is

PARKERA strategy retreat. That’s what they’re calling it.Three words spoken in a tone so casual I almost believed it was going to involve whiteboards and brainstorming sessions and maybe some kind of team-building exercise involving ropes.It does not. It involves a flight on a private jet, followed by piling into a rented SUV with three men who’ve each had their hands on me at some point in the last ten days, driving into the goddamn mountains to “get some perspective.”The road winds through the forest like something out of a postcard. Tall pines, golden sunlight slipping between branches, a silence so thick it makes my city-dulled ears ring. I haven’t been away from Levi and Lyra for more than twenty-four hours since they were born. It’s a lot.But here I am. Three days. No kids. No Wi-Fi worth a damn, according to Jack. Just me and my bosses and the most complicated set of feelings I’ve ever tried to shove into a professional pencil skirt.I told my mom it was a work trip. Techn

JACKI’ve always been an early riser.Not because I like sunrises. I don’t. They’re quiet and slow and oddly sentimental, and I’ve never had much use for any of those things. But waking up early means I control the day before it has a chance to control me. And that’s something I do believe in.The sky is just starting to shift when I head downstairs—bare feet on warm wood, hair still damp from the quick shower. I expect silence. Maybe the hum of the fridge. A creaking floorboard. That’s usually all I get this time of day.But the lights are on. Soft. Cozy. And I smell coffee.I round the corner into the kitchen and stop short. Parker is sitting on one of the stools at the island, her knees drawn up beneath her in leggings, hoodie slouched off one shoulder, a mug between her hands. Her hair’s a little messy. She looks half asleep and completely perfect.“Morning,” she says.I blink. “You’re up.”She shrugs, sips. “Mom life. Six years of being woken up by tiny humans at dawn. My body do

GAVINI wake to the smell of waffles.Real ones. Not the frozen kind you pop in a toaster, but fresh batter on cast iron, crisping into golden edges and soft middles. There’s cinnamon in the air too, and something citrusy—orange zest, maybe? Someone’s gone gourmet.It’s not Jack. He doesn’t believe in breakfast that doesn’t come in a shaker bottle. Can’t be Harrison. The man treats food like fuel—efficient, unceremonious.Parker.I lie in bed a few seconds longer than I should, staring at the ceiling. There’s a knot low in my chest that’s been there since yesterday—since I agreed to bring her here, into this place that was never meant to hold anything fragile.The lodge is for retreat. For strategy. For solving problems in a place where noise can’t follow. Bringing her was reckless.But watching her last night, flushed from tequila, laughing at Jack’s muttered sarcasm, resting her hand lightly on Harrison’s knee without even realizing she’d done it, having her here feels less like a r