Page 35 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“The ‘Buffering’ tagline is out,” he says, his voice flat. “It implies our tech is slow. I spent three years optimizing the backend speed. I will not have a billboard telling the world we are slow.”
“It implies human processing,” I argue. “It’s empathetic.”
“Empathy doesn’t scale,” Ethan shoots back. “Efficiency scales. Change the copy. Make it stronger. Make it bold.”
“Bold like a red dress?” I challenge.
The words slip out before I can stop them. Owen chokes on his donut. Asher goes perfectly still.
Ethan goes deathly still. His eyes widen, then narrow into dangerous slits. The air in the room instantly changes from corporate dispute to nuclear warhead.
“Everyone out,” he says.
“Ethan—” Owen starts, standing up.
“Out,” Ethan cuts him off. He doesn’t shout or slam the table. He speaks with a quiet, lethal finality that freezes the air in the room.
Sarah scrambles for her things, grabbing her laptop and retreating toward the exit like the room is on fire. Owen stands up slowly, shooting me a worried look.
“Tess, come on,” Owen says, reaching for my arm.
“No,” Ethan says. “Ms. Hartley stays.”
Owen pauses. He looks from Ethan to me. The protective brother instinct wars with the business partner instinct.
“I’m fine, Owen,” I say, not breaking eye contact with Ethan. “Go.”
Owen hesitates for one more second, then nods. “I’ll be right outside.”
He ushers Sarah out. Asher follows, casting one last, unreadable look at me over his shoulder before the glass door slides shut.
We are alone.
The silence in the conference room is deafening.
Ethan walks over to the wall panel and hits a button. The glass walls instantly fog over, turning opaque white. Privacy mode.
He walks over to the window, staring out at the city, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His shoulders are tense, the muscles visible through his white shirt.
“You undermined me,” he says quietly.
“I disagreed with you,” I correct him. “That’s my job.”
“In front of my team.”
“They’re my team too, Ethan.” I walk over to the table and start gathering my papers. My hands are shaking, but I refuse to let him see it. “If you wanted a yes-man, you wouldn’t have hired me.”
He spins around. “I don’t ignore data.”
“You’re ignoring this!” I gesture to the screen. “Asher backed me up. The data supports the emotional angle. You’re just too… too stubborn to see it because it’s soft. Because it’s vulnerable.”
“I’m not afraid of vulnerability,” he says, but the muscle ticking in his jaw calls him a liar.
“Yes, you are,” I accuse him. I step closer, fueled by his cold shoulders and dismissive glances. “You’ve built this fortress around yourself because you’re terrified of anything real. You treat this company like a machine because machines don’t have feelings. They don’t have feelings, don’t get hurt, or make mistakes.”
“I built this company to survive,” he growls, stepping toward me. “You don’t know what we sacrificed. You don’t know what it took to get here.”
“Then tell me!” I shout, slamming the remote down on the table. “Stop treating me like a liability and talk to me like a partner!”
