Page 137 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“You look flushed,” he notes, brushing my cheek.
“I wonder why.”
“Blame the AC,” he murmurs, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Go. I’ll wait two minutes.”
I slip out of the closet into the bright, sterile, and painfully normal hallway. I walk toward the elevators, taking deep breaths until my heart rate drops back to double digits.
My phone buzzes.
Group Chat: SYSTEM OVERRIDE (Encrypted)
Asher: Pulse rate elevated to 115 BPM. Successful extraction?
Ethan: Get to the conference room. Sterling is early. Fix your hair.
Owen: Worth it.
I bite my lip to suppress a smile and quickly fix my hair in the reflection of the elevator doors.
I know I’m playing with fire. But as I walk into the boardroom and spot Ethan at the head of the table—stoic, terrifying, and utterly mine—I realize I have zero intention of putting it out.
I’m just pouring gasoline on it.
Inside the boardroom, the air is cold enough to preserve a steak.
Robert Sterling doesn’t look like a tech investor; he looks like a ruthless senator from a 1950s movie. He’s silver-haired, impeccably suit-clad, and radiates the kind of old money that doesn’t scream, but rather whispers harsh judgments.
He sits at the opposite end of the long mahogany table with his fingers steepled. The smell of his cologne—something musky and thick, like old leather and stale pipe tobacco—drifts across the table.
It hits the back of my throat, oily and cloying, sending a fresh, violent wave of nausea straight to my stomach. I swallow hard, desperately forcing the bile down. Not now, I tell myself. Don’t throw up on the fifty-million-dollar investor.
Ethan sits to my right in full CEO mode, his spine like steel and his face an unreadable mask. Asher is to my left, typing silently on his laptop, while Owen leans back in his chair, playing the role of the charming creative despite the anxious bounce of his leg under the table.
“It’s… colorful,” Sterling finally notes, his voice bone-dry.
“It’s vibrant,” I correct gently, taking shallow breaths through my mouth to avoid the sickening smell of his cologne. “The data shows that our target users respond to high-contrast visuals and authentic messaging. They don’t want polished corporate speak, Mr. Sterling. They want connection. They want a tribe.”
“Tribe,” Sterling repeats, treating the word like it tastes sour. “A bit primitive, isn’t it?”
“It’s human,” Ethan interjects, his deep voice immediately commanding the room. “Mosaic isn’t just an app, Robert. It’s a digital ecosystem for fragmented identities. We connect people based on psychographics, not just demographics.”
Sterling looks squarely at him. “I understand the tech, Ethan. The algorithm is impressive, and Asher’s work is, as always, genius.”
Asher doesn’t even look up from his screen. “Thank you.”
“But,” Sterling continues, “my concern isn’t the code. It’s the brand.”
He slides an old-school manila folder across the polished wood. “I represent a consortium of conservative investors,” Sterling says. “Families. Foundations. People who heavily value stability and tradition.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop another ten degrees. The suffocating smell of his cologne only gets stronger, clogging my airways until I have to take a desperate sip of water just to settle my trembling stomach.
“We are a highly stable company,” Owen says with a tight smile. “Our user base has tripled since the launch, and retention is up forty percent.”
“Numbers fluctuate,” Sterling dismisses. “Reputation is forever.”
He opens the folder, revealing a color printout of a local gossip blog called Austin Tech Watch.
The bold headline reads:
