26. Brian
CHAPTER 26
Brian
Are you trying to kill me?
I reread the text from Parker Adams, our head of PR.
For the record, I do not need this.
It’s been a week since Jules moved in, and she’s been avoiding me like roller food at a gas station. But, fuck me, she’s so close that no matter where I go or what I do, I can’t escape her.
Her light giggles hit me when I least expect it, and that scent—like peach blossoms and home with just a hint of citrus—follows her damn near everywhere she goes, lingering in every room she leaves just enough to taunt me.
And then there’s the constant click-click-click of her fingers on a keyboard, a relentless drumbeat she’s never without because she is always, always working on something. I swear, the way things are going, that laptop will get more hand action from her than I ever will.
But here’s the thing—that doesn’t actually bother me .
Jules has been chasing the dream of being a writer since eighth grade, starting with a blog about indie musicians and obscure bands she discovered before anyone else.
By fourteen, she’d scraped together enough money to swap pen and paper for a keyboard and never looked back.
And deep down, I know nothing makes her happier than pouring every last word onto the screen. It’s her obsession, her escape. Her passion.
So, I don’t complain. Not about any of it. But damn, every reminder of her—whether it’s the way she bites her lip while she types or her perpetual fascination with my vintage running tees, which I know she’s been stealing from the dryer to sleep in—the woman has me taking cold showers three times a day just to keep myself in check.
The truth? If I have her this close for much longer, every last ounce of my restraint and self-control will snap.
I step into my office. Instantly, Parker repeats her text, out loud. “Are you trying to kill me?”
I point a finger at her. “Attempted murder is a serious accusation, Parker.”
She crosses her arms, utterly unimpressed. Parker’s been with the company for years—a no-nonsense ball buster who takes no prisoners, ever. Her entire PR team is already gathered around my conference table, their faces drawn tight with stress.
I brace myself, expecting her to start with, “You got married?”
But instead, she flips open a stack of papers, revealing a tabloid with my face splashed across the front page.
The headline makes my head explode .
Brian Bishop:
Playboy Billionaire or Corporate Saboteur?
What the fuck?
Below it, there are pictures of me with Roxana Voss, looking way too cozy for comfort. It was taken at the restaurant, probably by a patron or one of the staff. The article insinuates everything from a love triangle to corporate espionage.
All I can think is thank God, none of the kids are in the shot. Harrison would have my balls hanging by a tight thread.
“This is bullshit,” I growl, feeling my temper rise. “We’re going to sue Roxie Voss and her entire company.”
Parker’s eyes flash with controlled fury. “There’s just one problem. Ms. Voss didn’t write this.”
“What?” I flip to the byline, my stomach dropping when I see the name: Sydney Sun. Next to it, that damn vixen image that’s practically seared into my brain.
First, she hero-worships me. Now, she vilifies me.
My blood simmers, rage bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to erupt. Because I’ve officially crossed the line from wanting to kiss her to wanting to crush her.
She could’ve said anything about me—call me a womanizer with a few depraved tastes, label me a commitment-phobe with a wicked one-hit-wonder streak.
Fine.
Whatever.
All’s fair in love and war.
But this isn’t just about me. It’s about Mark’s company. A family legacy I won’t let her destroy .
“This ends now,” I say, my voice cold and final. “I don’t care how you do it, Parker. Just take care of it. Whatever it takes.”
She holds my gaze, her expression hardening. “You’re sure about that?”
I hesitate for a split second. “Yes.” I handed Sydney an exclusive, and she used it to stab me in the back. So, fine—no more Mr. Exclusive. Our attorneys can start handing out lawsuits like fun-sized Snickers on Halloween.
But then I remember how much press our lawsuits usually attract and pull back. “No. Not whatever it takes. Just quiet it down.”
I’ll take care of Sydney Sun myself.
Parker nods, her jaw set with determination. “All right. We’ll handle it. But just so you know, we’re already putting out fires left and right,” she continues, her tone edged with frustration. “Every day is a whole new frontier of damage control, so please, tell me you won’t be adding more lighter fluid to the fire.”
I blow out a breath, knowing what’s coming. “I did happen to get married last week.”
Her eyes widen, and I casually wiggle my ring finger. An annoyed smirk tugs at her lips.
“What?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Nothing. Just that you didn’t say a word.” She pats my belly. “Does someone have a bun in the oven?”
I wish. “Definitely not.”
“And that would’ve been useful information to help us get your legions of adoring fans off your back. Which coming from the guy who overshares every one-night stand, is weird.”
She’s right. It is weird .
The whole point of this sham marriage was to control the narrative, to mold the story exactly how we need it, and hit send. Publish it to the World Wide Web and beyond.
But instead of sticking to the plan, I buried it, locked it away.
Why?
Maybe it’s because I know how much Jules despises the spotlight, mostly because of me. And yet, I’m about to throw her straight into the center of it. It’s twisted—being both her villain and her husband.
But here’s the thing: no matter which role I’m playing, protecting her is non-negotiable. Anything less is not an option.
“We’ll get a press announcement out the door,” I say, already feeling the weight of the decision.
The phone rings, and I switch it to speaker. “What?” I snap, irritation seeping through my bones. The last thing I need today is more shit on my plate.
“Do you accept a collect call from Fiji?”
I blink, momentarily thrown as Parker and the team start to leave.
“Yes,” I answer, a grin tugging at the corners of my lips, brightening my mood instantly. “A collect call? From Fiji? Didn’t know that was still a thing,” I mutter.
“It is when Mark and I decide to go all ‘unplugged’ for our honeymoon.” Jess’s voice cuts in with that signature snark she’s honed over the years. “We had to have someone translate the headline with your picture. Even half a world away, my ‘keeping it low-key’ brother is making headlines.”
“And he got married,” Parker blurts out, her voice echoing through the room. I shoot her a warning glare, and she quickly ducks out, shutting the door behind her.
Chuckling with a groan, I rub a hand over my face, trying to muster the energy to deal with my baby sister going full throttle on me. “Good morning to you, too, Jess. Or is it evening?”
“Don’t you ‘good morning/evening’ me,” she snaps. “Do you have any idea how maddening it is to be lounging on a beach in Fiji, trying to unwind, only to see your cheesy grin splashed across every headline? And I’m too far away to flick your forehead or squeeze you in a bear hug?” She takes a breath. “And you’re married?”
“Sort of.” I don’t bother mentioning it’s temporary. Jules sucked it up with her family, so I’ll do the same with mine.
I can practically hear the eye roll in her voice. “Right. ‘Sort of.’”
Mark jumps in, “Like ‘I sort of just put in the tip?’”
Jess adds, “Or ‘we’re sort of pregnant’? Wait, are you pregnant?” There’s a strange excitement in her voice.
“Men don’t get pregnant,” I remind her, but she lets the question hang in the air.
The silence stretches, and something hollow expands in my chest until it deflates like a slow leak. “No,” I finally say. Why I have to hide the slight shadow of disappointment is beyond me, but I do.
She lightens the mood with a quick shift. “And, by the way, I already knew you were hitched.”
“How?”
“Mrs. D. finally got a hold of us this morning. Apparently, she’s been leaving a ton of voicemails and emails on Instagram, not realizing that not only are we without our devices, but we never check our Insta messages anyway. It’s usually full of Insta-stalkers making obscene offers to get with Mark.” She sighs. “She said the wedding was beautiful. Just the Spensers and close friends.”
“I’d intended for it to just be us, but then her parents caught wind,” I admit, feeling a slight pang of guilt because I know Jess is hurt. “It was an impulse,” I say honestly. “Hurting you was the last thing I wanted.”
“Jess will be fine,” Mark cuts in. “You may have had a wedding, but I’ve already gotten an earful about her plans for a mammoth reception, so start thinking of the guest list now.”
If the marriage lasts that long. “Absolutely.”
“Wait,” Mark’s voice cuts in. “The Spensers? There are two Spenser sisters, right?”
“Yup.”
“And are you going to tell us which one? Or keep us in the dark?” Jess asks, and I can hear the curiosity practically eating her alive.
“Somehow, keeping you in suspense feels like Christmas morning.”
She huffs. “Fine, at least give me a hint. Didn’t one of them absolutely hate your guts?” Jess presses, a playful yet accusatory quality to her tone.
“Still does, pretty much. Guess my warm and fuzzy side did the trick.”
Mark laughs, loud and booming. “Please, for the love of everything holy, spare me any mental images of your warm and fuzzy side. But you dated Angelina, right?”
A fact I wish people would let die. “No comment. ”
“And the other one is Juliana, right?” Jess asks. “Close to a year apart, but all three of you in the same grade?”
“Yes. And she goes by Jules,” I correct, a little too quickly.
“And don’t forget the third woman in his life,” Mark adds.
Huh? “What third woman?”
They both laugh, and I can practically see Mark’s grin stretching ear to ear. “One Miss Sydney Sun, the writer of that article we had translated. So, who the hell is she, and what exactly did you do to land yourself on her bad side?”
Question of the fucking day.