Page 176 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
The panic recedes. The cold, hard resolve takes over. They’re right. Running is what Richard did. Fighting is what we do.
“Nebula,” I say. “Markus knows. Or he suspects. That’s why he hacked the Confessions. He’s looking for ammunition to leak to the press.”
“He’s fishing,” Asher agrees.
“Then we don’t let him,” I say. The strategist in me is waking up. The panic attack is over; the War Room is open.
“How?” Owen asks.
“We go on the offensive,” I say. “We stop playing defense. We stop worrying about hiding from Sterling, and we start worrying about burying Markus Vance.”
“That sounds dangerous,” Owen says, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
“It is,” I agree. “But he threatened my family. He threatened my child.”
I look at Asher. “Can you trace the hack back to Nebula? Definitive proof? Not just a shell company?”
“If I dig deep enough,” Asher says. “If I stop patching and start counter-attacking. I can penetrate their server. Find the payment trail to Greg. I can find the communication logs between Greg and Markus.”
“Do it,” I order. “Burn it down, Ash. Get me the proof. If Markus wants a war, I’ll give him a war. I’ll destroy Nebula before I let them touch a hair on Tessa’s head.”
“And Tessa?” Owen asks gently. “What about her?”
I close my eyes. I broke her heart tonight. I have to fix it.
“I need to go to her,” I say. “I need to make this right.”
“She doesn’t want you to grovel,” Owen says, clapping me on the back. “She wants you to lead. She wants to know you’re all in. She wants the Protector.”
I nod. I adjust my cuffs, rolling down my sleeves, buttoning them. I straighten my spine. I’m not Richard Branson’s son anymore. I’m Ethan—the oldest brother. The CEO.
And I’m a father.
“I’m all in,” I say. “Whatever it takes. The company, the money, the reputation—it can all burn. But we keep the baby. We keep her.”
“Agreed,” Asher nods.
“Let’s go back upstairs,” I say.
We walk back to her door. Using my key, I push it open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim, casting long shadows across the floor. Tessa is still on the sofa, curled onto her side, hugging a pillow to her chest as if trying to hold herself together physically. Her eyes are red and swollen.
Her head snaps up when I walk in.
She flinches.
It’s a small movement, barely a tremor, but it guts me. She’s bracing herself for bad news. She’s bracing for me to hand her a severance package, or a check for an abortion, or an NDA.
I cross the room and drop to my knees on the rug beside the sofa, ignoring the ache in my joints to get eye-level with her stomach.
“Ethan?” she whispers. Her voice is wrecked.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is jagged, raw. “I panicked. I was a coward.”
“You left,” she accuses me, a fresh tear sliding down her nose. “You walked out.”
“I know,” I say. I reach out, my hand hovering over her hip, asking for permission. She doesn’t pull away. “I was scared. I thought I would fail you. I thought I would be like my father.”
