Page 148 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
So why can’t I shake the terrifying feeling that Sterling is going to find out and tear this all down?
25
TESSA
The morning light hitting the glass walls of the conference room feels less like sunshine and more like an interrogation lamp.
“And that’s why the Q3 strategy focuses on micro-communities,” I say, pointing to the slide.
My voice sounds perfectly professional, delivering what should feel like a victory lap. The last few weeks have been incredible. The Sterling contract is signed, the $50 million is secured, and we’ve settled into a terrifyingly systematic rhythm. For the first time in my life, I actually feel safe.
I should be glowing. Instead, I’m dying. There’s a relentless pounding in my head, and my stomach is twisted into a cold knot of nausea that tightens every time I move.
“Excellent work, Tessa,” Ethan says from the head of the table.
His eyes lock onto mine, shedding the CEO glare for a soft, secret warmth that tells me exactly what he’s remembering—the way I screamed his name last night.
I try to smile back, but the skin on my face feels too tight.
“Are you okay?” Owen asks, spinning a pen between his fingers as he studies my face. “You look a little… green.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Probably just the sushi from last night.”
“Okay,” Ethan says, standing up. “Let’s break for coffee. Be back in ten.”
The moment the smell of dark roast and hazelnut creamer wafts over from the credenza, it hits me exactly like the sake did last night—a physical punch to the gut.
The bile rises in my throat, hot and acidic.
Don’t throw up, I beg myself. Don’t throw up in front of the executive team.
Muttering a quick excuse, I walk out, forcing myself to keep a brisk, focused stride so it looks like I’m taking an urgent phone call.
The second I hit the hallway, I sprint.
I burst into the empty women’s restroom, dive into the handicap stall, and lock the door just as my stomach violently revolts.
I drop to my knees and dry heave, but nothing comes up except acid and the phantom taste of the sake. Sitting back on my heels, my forehead is clammy and I’m violently shaking.
Food poisoning, I tell myself. It has to be the sushi. Maybe the tuna was off.
The restroom door opens, and heels click sharply against the tile.
“Tessa?”
It’s Sarah from HR. Of course it’s Sarah, the woman who notices absolutely everything.
“In here,” I croak. “Just… not feeling well.”
I flush the toilet, unlock the stall door, and stumble to the sink to rinse my mouth. The reflection staring back at me in the mirror is ghostly pale with watery eyes.
Sarah is washing her hands, watching me closely in the glass.
“Rough night?” she asks sympathetically. “I heard you guys celebrated the funding.”
“Yeah,” I say, pressing a cold paper towel to the back of my neck. “Celebrated a little too hard.”
“Hangover?”
