Page 155 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
I pull the Sterling file closer. The Morality Clause isn’t the only headache. There are operational discrepancies Asher flagged earlier this morning—minor server latency issues in the Confessions module. It’s likely just a load-balancing hiccup from the influx of new users, but with the investors watching our every move, everything has to be flawless.
I spend the next four hours actively drowning myself in spreadsheets and compliance reports. It’s numbing work, which is exactly what I need to keep the demons at bay.
Until two o’clock.
I need coffee. Real coffee, not the sludge from the personal machine in my office.
I head out to the communal kitchen, keeping my face perfectly neutral and my terrifying CEO mask firmly in place so absolutely no one stops me for a quick chat.
I turn the corner into the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks.
Tessa is there.
She’s standing by the counter, gripping the edge of the marble hard enough to drain the blood from her fingers. She’s wearing a loose, cream-colored blouse—highly unusual for her, since she usually favors tailored fits that drive us all insane—and she’s staring at the microwave like it’s an active bomb.
I should immediately turn around. I should follow my own direct order to give her space.
But then she sways.
It’s incredibly subtle, just a slight tilt off her axis, but I’m moving before my brain even registers the decision. I cross the distance, my hand shooting out to firmly grip her elbow and steady her.
“Easy,” I murmur, my voice dropping low.
She jumps with a violently sharp intake of breath, jerking away from my touch like I’ve physically burned her. She spins around, her back hitting the counter. Her hazel eyes are wide and completely panicked.
And Owen was absolutely right—she’s a wreck. Her skin, usually glowing with that natural vitality that draws everyone to her, is waxy and pale. There are deep, dark smudges under her eyes, and a visible sheen of sweat coats her forehead despite the aggressive office AC.
“Ethan,” she breathes, her hand immediately going to her throat. “You… you startled me.”
“You almost hit the floor,” I say, keeping my hands raised slightly to show I’m not going to grab her again. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she stammers. “Just… lightheaded. I barely ate breakfast. Bad idea.”
“Tessa.” I step closer, lowering my voice so the two interns by the vending machine won’t hear us. “You’ve been an absolute ghost for forty-eight hours. You’re canceling meetings. You clearly haven’t slept. Talk to me.”
Her eyes snap back to mine, and for a split second, I see genuine terror there. Pure, unadulterated fear.
“It’s everything,” she whispers. “The contract. The scaling. The… ” She swallows hard. “The intense pressure. I just need to focus, Ethan. I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”
She gestures vaguely between us, right in the space where the electricity usually crackles. Now, the air just feels cold and dead.
“Do what?” I ask, my own deeply buried insecurity rising up to choke me. “Us? You can’t do us?”
“Not here,” she hisses, glancing nervously at the interns. “Please. Just… let me work. I need to handle this on my own.”
I need to handle this on my own.
The rejection is a hard hit. We handle things together. That is the entire fundamental point of Mosaic—taking the broken pieces and making a unified whole. If she is trying to handle things alone, it means she doesn’t see herself as part of our picture anymore.
I stiffen, the harsh sting instantly hardening into a thick, protective shell.
“Fine,” I say, my voice dropping to that cold, professional timbre I use to terrify hostile boardrooms. “If you need space, absolutely take it. But you’re the Lead Brand Strategist. If you aren’t fit to perform your duties, you need to tell me. The company has to come first.”
It’s the exact wrong thing to say. I know it the second the words leave my mouth. It’s Ethan the CEO, Ethan the Protector, desperately trying to regain control of a terrifying situation by forcefully creating distance.
Tessa physically flinches. The hurt in her eyes is immediate, followed quickly by a cold, impenetrable wall of resolve. She forcibly straightens her spine, completely masking the dizziness I know she is actively fighting.
“I’m perfectly capable of performing my duties, Mr. Branson,” she says, her voice turning to ice. “I’ll have the strategy brief in your inbox by five o’clock.”
