7. Gavin
GAVIN
Thursday lunch with my mother is not optional.
It’s not formalized in any document or calendar entry.
It’s not listed under shareholder obligations or brand image protocols.
But it is, somehow, binding. Every Thursday at noon, I make the pilgrimage to a members-only country club carved into the Bel Air hills, where linen is crisp, steak is blood-warm, and expectations are lethal.
The valet knows me by name. His uniform is spotless, his smile neutral. I tip him well—always. Not because I care about appearances, but because I like being remembered for something other than my last name.
The dining terrace is exactly as I left it last week. Manicured hedges flanking smooth concrete, canvas umbrellas casting diffuse shade across white tablecloths. The air smells faintly of rosemary and chlorine, like someone’s personal chef just grilled an herb-crusted salmon by the pool.
Vivian has already claimed our regular table. Of course.
She’s seated beneath the largest umbrella, her posture pristine, one ankle crossed over the other like she’s on the cover of a financial magazine.
Her immaculate white hair—a sharp, chin-length bob—has not a single strand out of place despite the breeze.
Her face is artfully preserved, all high cheekbones, sculpted brows, and just enough smile-line filler to suggest she doesn’t laugh too often.
She wears white, as usual. Silk blouse, linen trousers, a beige Burberry trench folded neatly over the back of her chair like it’s waiting to judge me too.
And she’s not alone.
My stomach drops as I recognize the woman seated beside her. Vanessa. Of course. I approach like a man walking into a trap he knew was coming and walked into anyway.
“Gavin,” my mother says smoothly, rising just enough to kiss my cheek. “You remember Vanessa.”
I do. She’s impossible to forget.
Vanessa is wearing a slate-blue dress that clings to her like a second skin.
Her wavy blond hair flutters gently in the breeze.
Diamond studs, delicate wristwatch, no necklace—understated elegance designed to say I don’t need to try .
Her skin is golden, glowing. She looks like a woman who sleeps in silk and wakes up at sunrise for Pilates and fresh-pressed green juice. Because she does.
And she’s still one of the most dangerous people I’ve ever loved.
“Vanessa,” I say, taking the seat across from both of them. “What a surprise.”
She smiles. Just enough teeth to show that she knows exactly what she’s doing. “You look well.”
“I try to keep up. You seem to be doing the same. Have you moved past hacking into other people’s contracts yet, or is that still your hobby?”
Her blue eyes flash. “Still curious about how the leak got out?”
“I was told it was sabotage. Who am I to argue with internal reports?”
She sips her iced tea. “You know me. Always keeping my ears open.”
“And your eyes on my business.”
“Our business overlaps.”
“It hasn’t overlapped since we broke up.”
Mother clears her throat like we’re bickering too loudly in church. “We’re here for a civilized meal. Try not to drag your unresolved tensions into the shared bread basket.”
“I’m nothing if not civil,” I mutter, unfolding my napkin.
The waiter appears. My mother orders her usual—grilled salmon, no dressing, sparkling water with lemon. Vanessa requests the chopped salad. I order the steak. Rare. I want blood on this plate.
The conversation is minimal and grating while we wait. Vanessa talks about her newest role at Icon PR. She’s recently been promoted to VP of security strategy.
“Does that role include sending anonymous blog tips?”
She demurs, laughing softly, like she’s too classy to deny anything outright. She never admits to anything. That was always part of the appeal. And the problem. Her lips curve into the seductive smirk that killed me when we met. “A lady doesn’t blog and tell.”
“If I see any ladies, I’ll be sure to let them know.”
She excuses herself to the ladies’ room, leaving me alone with my mother and the tightening coil in my chest. Vivian sips her water, eyes fixed on the view of the golf course. “She’s doing well.”
“She cheated on me.”
“She was lonely.”
“She worked eighty-hour weeks. She always said she didn’t have time to be lonely.”
“You weren’t present.”
“She cheated on me, and you invited her to lunch.”
Vivian finally turns to look at me, calm as ever. “When women cheat, Gavin, it’s because they’re not getting something they need. Emotional support. Intimacy. Attention. That’s not our fault.”
I grind my teeth. “And when men cheat?”
“It’s because they can. There’s no thought involved. It’s just opportunity and ego. Like a dog licking themselves.”
I stare at her. “That’s your calculus on why you thought it’d be a good idea to invite my cheating ex to lunch.”
“It’s human nature. Women reach for connection. Men reach for convenience.”
“So Vanessa was entitled to cheat on me because I wasn’t emotionally available enough?”
“She’s not a villain.”
“She worked for Icon . She still works for Icon. She probably leaked the elevator audio, and you brought her here.”
“She’s strategic, polished, and presentable. I’d rather you date someone like her than—well, than follow in your father’s secretary-chasing footsteps.”
There it is. I knew it was coming. The knife always finds its mark.
“I’m nothing like him,” I say tightly.
She sips her water again. “You’re sleeping with your assistant.”
I blink. So she knows. Or suspects. I dodge. “That tape is someone’s idea of a joke.”
“You will be a joke if you carry on like your father.”
I sit back, fuming. “I wasn’t aware my sex life required your approval.”
“It doesn’t. But your judgment does.”
I let the silence settle for a second. Two. Then I speak, voice sharp. “You’re worried about judgment ? Invite Vanessa to the next board meeting. Maybe she can leak the minutes while she’s there.”
Vivian’s mouth tightens. Just a little. “She made mistakes,” she says carefully. “But she’s still a better match for you than a woman whose brother would murder you if he found out.”
I feel heat crawl up my spine. “Don’t bring Phil into this like you care about him.”
“That boy spent enough time in my house during his teen years to be one of my own, and that girl isn’t just some assistant, which makes this messier than usual. You could ruin him.”
“Phil isn’t that fragile.”
“But she is,” Vivian says. “Don’t be cruel. Not like your father. Don’t break her heart for sport.”
The accusation lands. I look away. The waiter brings our food. I don’t touch mine.
I stand.
Vivian watches me, composed, unreadable. Her plate untouched.
“Don’t ever ambush me with Vanessa again.”
“She was in the area.”
“You don’t even believe that.”
“She’s good for your image.”
“I don’t need help with my image. I need you to stop thinking you get to control me like you’re the boss of me.”
Her face softens slightly. “You’ll always be my son, Gavin. That doesn’t go away.”
I push my chair in slowly. “And you’ll always be Vivian Thatcher. That doesn’t give you the right to orchestrate my life.”
I don’t wait for her response. I walk out, every step echoing louder than it should. I don’t make it to the valet stand. My mind races. I need to walk.
I pass through the club’s white-columned foyer and take the side exit, down the stone pathway that curves along the golf course.
The hedges are trimmed within an inch of their lives.
The fountains burble like nothing bad ever happens here.
And for once, I can’t keep the mask on long enough to make it to the parking lot.
So I keep walking.
Down past the terraced lawn where a server is setting up folding chairs for some member’s second wedding. A wedding on a Thursday? Probably a retiree.
Through a grove of lemon trees designed to look wild and effortless—probably arranged by some landscape architect who charges by the thought. Every part of this place is curated. Nothing organic. Nothing unplanned.
Just like my mother likes it.
I loosen my tie as I walk, fingers tight with restraint. My pulse still hasn’t come down. My mouth tastes like salt and steel. And rage.
She really invited Vanessa .
The same Vanessa who worked for Icon while we dated. The same Vanessa who kept her passwords in Latin and her heart behind a firewall. The same Vanessa who smiled through every dinner and never once looked me in the eye when she said she loved me.
She cheated on me. She never admitted it—not outright—but I read between the lines.
The late nights. The deleted messages. The way she started wearing perfume again after claiming it gave her migraines.
The private eye’s photos of her with several men in pricy resorts.
That one picture of her in the back seat of a convertible in a parking garage, riding her secret partner.
And now, Vivian thinks I should take her back. Her theories grind my gears. Vanessa is strategic. Understands expectations. Good for the brand.
The worst part?
Vanessa was good for my image. When we were seen together, people took notice. She’s gorgeous, a former model. We looked good together, each of us boosting the other’s profile. They saw me as polished, stable. Controlled. The anti-Jamison.
But she never loved me. And it never felt real with her. With Vanessa, everything was presentation.
But with Parker?—
My hands tighten into fists at my sides.
With Parker, it’s different. And that’s exactly what scares my mother. Not that she’s worried about Phil—that’s a smoke screen, and I see right through it.
Parker is, to Mom’s mind, a secretary. And that means I’m following my father’s footsteps. That’s all Vivian needs to hear. I’ll be just like him. A man who couldn’t keep it in his pants. I’ll have a marriage that ends with a tabloid headline and a PR fire.
I stop at the edge of the lawn and sit on a stone bench beneath an olive tree. I let my head fall back. Let the filtered sunlight hit my closed eyes. Let the silence sit with me. But even now, I’m not alone.
Parker’s voice floats in behind my mother’s. Soft. Hesitant. The way she says my name.
But I have to get her out of my head. She’s younger. Phil’s sister. Our assistant. And yet, every time she walks into a room, my world tilts a little.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. The way her nose scrunches when she’s frustrated. The way she talks about her kids with that balance of exasperation and awe that tells me she actually likes being a mom, even when it’s hard.
The way she says my name. I keep coming back to that part. I didn’t even know I liked the sound of my name until she said it like that.
I open my eyes. The sky is too blue. Too cloudless. It doesn’t match the storm inside me. I pull out my phone. No new texts. Nothing from her.
I tap open her contact, stare at the screen, and start to type: We should talk.
Then I delete it. Because I don’t know what I’d say after that. That I’m sorry? That I want her? That I don’t know how to want someone without ruining it?
None of it feels fair. Not to me. Not to her.
She deserves someone simple. Someone who doesn’t carry a legacy like a noose. Someone who doesn’t hear his mother’s voice in his head every time he wants something for himself.
I pocket the phone and stand. Time to get back to reality. The valet hands me the keys with a smile, but I don’t look at him. I slide into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and sit there for a moment before pulling out of the lot.
At home, I shower, trying to scrub off the afternoon. The country club’s scent—sunblock, citrus, judgment—lingers in my brain. I stand under hot water for longer than I should, letting it burn across my shoulders, trying to carve out space to think.
When I step out, the steam is thick. I wipe a hand across the mirror, and my own reflection stares back at me.
Dark eyes. Sharp jaw. Tie tossed over the doorknob.
I look like him. I hate that I look like him. I never meant to become Jamison Thatcher’s son in more than name. I worked my whole life to avoid his choices, his scandals, his hunger. But now here I am, falling for a woman I can’t have, making mistakes in dark rooms and private elevators.
Only difference is, I feel it. He never did. I pull on a shirt and pour a glass of scotch I don’t even want. I just need to hold something. The apartment is too quiet. No music. No news.
The scotch isn’t what I want. I’m craving something I’ve never let myself want before.
Not just her. But a whole life with her.
The kids in the photo on her desk. Her laughter in my kitchen. Her hair on my pillow. Her voice at the end of every goddamn day asking me how I’m doing and meaning it. Something real.
I never let myself want that. And now it’s all I can think about.