Page 95 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“Monday,” I say. “But I have conditions.”
“I’m listening.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. He smells blood in the water.
“I need a signing bonus,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “A big one. Fifty thousand. Upfront. Consider it a consultation fee for the ‘Be Seen’ framework.”
Markus laughs. It’s a dry, rattling sound. “Trouble in paradise? That’s a steep ask, Tessa. Even for you. We usually reserve those kinds of bonuses for executive poaches.”
“This is an executive poach,” I counter, channeling every ounce of confidence I have left. “I am the Lead Brand Strategist for Mosaic. I built the ‘Be Seen’ campaign. You saw the teaser numbers. You saw the engagement metrics.”
“I know,” Markus admits. “Impressive work. Very… emotional. A bit soft for my taste, but effective.”
“It’s not soft,” I snap. “It’s resonant. And it’s exactly what Nebula is missing. Your user retention has been flatlining because your platform feels like a LinkedIn clone. I can fix that.”
Silence on the line. I hold my breath.
“You’re claiming you can bring that same magic to us?” Markus asks. “Without violating your NDA?”
“I can bring my strategy,” I say carefully. “I can bring my understanding of the market. And I can start Monday.”
“Why the sudden need for fifty grand in upfront cash?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters if you’re bringing stolen IP. I don’t mind breaking a non-compete, but I won’t touch a criminal lawsuit.”
“I’m not bringing stolen IP,” I say. “I’m bringing a better opportunity. Do you want me, or do you want me to go to Google? Because their recruiter called me yesterday.”
It’s a bluff. A massive, terrifying bluff.
“I want you,” Markus says. “I’ll match their salary, plus twenty percent. And I’ll have a fifty-thousand-dollar consulting retainer ready to wire the moment you sign. Consider it a signing bonus.”
My knees go weak. “I have a non-compete. Ethan will sue me.”
“Let him try,” Markus laughs, a cold, sharp sound. “He won’t win. Nebula has more lawyers than Mosaic has employees. We’ll tie him up in court for years until he bleeds cash and dropsit. I just need the contract signed before the start of business Monday.”
“Fine,” I whisper. “Send it.”
“Check your inbox in fifteen minutes. I’m paying for the strategy, Tessa. But I’m also paying to watch Ethan Branson bleed,” he adds, his voice dropping. “No more ‘artistic integrity’ debates. You execute my strategy.”
“Understood,” I whisper. “Just send the PDF. Thank you.”
I hang up.
I stare at the phone.
I did it. I found the exit. I found the one thing that trumps Ethan’s contract: a bigger check from a bigger enemy. I’m going to pay him back every cent. And then I’m going to walk away.
I should feel relieved. I should feel free.
Instead, I feel like I just sold my soul.
I walk into Mosaic like I’m walking to the gallows.
The energy in the office is frantic. The global launch is on Saturday. The air is thick with the smell of static, burnt coffee, and panic.
I keep my head down. I am wearing my usual uniform—the black blazer, the high collar, the severe bun. I look professional. I look cold.
