8. Harrison
HARRISON
There are bad mornings, and then there’s this one.
I’m on my third espresso by the time Bryce Aoki shows up. She’s not on the calendar, which pisses off our front desk—but Bryce doesn’t give a shit about protocol. She never has.
She walks in wearing black silk pants, platform boots, a cherry red jacket, and the kind of oversized sunglasses that scream “try me.” Her nails are long, sharp, and painted matte black. There’s a sleek briefcase in her left hand and a flash drive between two fingers in her right.
Never a good sign.
“Got five minutes?” she says, breezing into my office like she owns the place.
“For you?” I stand and gesture toward the chair. “Always.”
Bryce has been one of VT’s highest-profile clients for two years. She runs a luxury beauty brand that started as YouTube tutorials and now brings in eight figures annually. She’s blunt, brilliant, and has the reputation of making grown men cry in marketing meetings. I respect the hell out of her.
But today, her mouth is tight and her brow is drawn, and that makes my stomach clench. She hands me the flash drive. “You’ll want to listen to that. Now.”
I plug it into the laptop on my desk without asking questions. There’s only one file—audio, no label. I hit play.
Bryce. “So what exactly are you suggesting, Vanessa?”
And then, her. Vanessa Glass. Cool. Confident.
Voice like chilled white wine. “Gavin’s good at what he does, but he’s in over his head here.
He’s too close to the problem, and that makes him useless to you.
He’ll be too preoccupied with this to focus on clients.
I’m saying if VT can’t even protect their own CEO from this embarrassment, how are they going to protect you? ”
Bryce’s voice is calm. “You think they can’t?”
“I think VT isn’t the same company it was under Vivian Thatcher. I think you know that, and I think you’re wondering what it would look like to be the lead client on a roster that still gives a damn.”
Then a soft laugh.
“I’m just offering options, Bryce.”
“I have a firm. Thanks.”
The recording ends.
I close the laptop. My jaw’s already tight. “You were recording?”
Bryce shrugs. “You remember our last contract meeting? I said I’d be recording all verbal business discussions from that point forward. You agreed.”
My memory jogs. “Right. Liability clause.”
“Yep. Comes in handy.”
I nod once, trying to keep my voice calm. “Appreciate you bringing it to me.”
“I like working with VT,” she says. “But I also like to know what I’m dealing with.”
“Understood.”
“I haven’t said anything official yet. Not to Vanessa. Not to anyone. But I’m sure I’m not the only client she’s spoken to.”
That hits harder than I want to admit. “Knowing Vanessa, you’re right about that.”
Bryce stands. “Clean it up, Gunn.”
“Working on it.”
She leaves without another word.
I wait until the door clicks shut before I lean forward, plant both elbows on the desk, and swear under my breath. Vanessa. Fucking Vanessa. Of course she’s behind this.
It’s not just the leak. It’s everything—she’s been running a campaign of subtle sabotage that’s been escalating since Gavin dumped her.
Undermining us at events, causing havoc whenever she can.
One time, she even had one of our client’s cars towed “by mistake.” She’s always been icy, but now she’s even more vindictive.
Classless, really. This kind of corporate-level manipulation is beneath her. Or used to be.
If she’s the one behind the leak? She’s gone full scorched-earth.
I pull open a clean doc on my screen and start typing. Damage control plan. Internal PR strategy. Counter-message structure. Talking points for Bryce and anyone else who’s been approached.
But the words blur. Because this isn’t just business anymore. This is personal.
Vanessa knows exactly how much reputation means at VT. She knows that Vivian’s voice still echoes in our boardrooms, even if she’s not technically in charge. She knows that any whisper about our leadership is a stain we can’t afford. And she’s betting that we’ll fold under pressure.
I slam my laptop shut, shove my chair back, and stand. I’m so fucking sick of this.
I grab my phone and fire off a group text to a few names I haven’t contacted in months—people who owe me favors. People who live in the gray areas between data privacy and digital surveillance. White hat, black hat, I don’t care as long as they get the job done.
Our cybersecurity team is solid, but they play by the book. I need people who aren’t afraid to bend the rules. Break them, even.
If Vanessa left a trail, I’ll find it. And when I do, I’ll burn her to the ground with it.
Two hours later, I’ve got three burner emails from contacts who are already combing through Icon’s metadata and corporate back end. If the audio leak came from their system—and I’m positive it did—they’ll find the signature.
They always do.
But I’m still wound tight. Too tight. My whole body is locked like I’ve been clenching everything from the moment Bryce walked in. I’ve had enough of this week. “Fuck it.”
I step out of my office and head toward Jack’s. He’s standing, blazer off, sleeves rolled to the elbow like he’s about to choke a spreadsheet.
He looks up. “You okay?”
“No.”
He waits.
“Bryce came in this morning. She had a recording. Vanessa tried to poach her. Took a jab at Gavin. Said VT can’t protect its clients.”
Jack exhales, jaw flexing. “Jesus.”
“Yeah. I’ve got people looking into it. Off-books.”
He nods.
I scrub a hand down my face. “We need a break.”
Jack doesn’t ask what I mean. He just stares at me for a beat, then says, “The cabin?”
“Yeah.”
He turns toward the wall behind his desk, where a minimalist black-and-white map of the Angeles National Forest hangs like an art piece. That cabin—ours—sits up there, tucked into the trees, three hours from the city, invisible on GPS unless you already know where to look.
We haven’t used it in months. But now? We need it.
“I’m in,” Jack says.
We both look toward Gavin’s office.
“You think he’ll go for it?” I ask.
Jack shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”
We find him sitting at his desk, sleeves buttoned, cuff links glinting in the light. He looks up and reads the exhaustion in our faces instantly. “Whatever it is, I probably hate it.”
“The cabin,” Jack says.
Gavin leans back in his chair. “Jesus. We haven’t been up there since?—”
“Exactly,” I cut in.
He rubs his temple. “I can’t just disappear.”
“You’re CEO,” Jack says. “You can do whatever the hell you want.”
Gavin sighs, long and hard. “Fine.”
Then Jack says it. “We should bring Parker.”
My gut tightens. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Maybe because it’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to think and not say. But it’s out there now, hanging in the air like smoke.
I glance at Gavin.
He doesn’t speak right away. Then, “You sure that’s smart?”
Jack shrugs. “You want to keep pretending we’re not all thinking about her, be my guest. But I’m tired of the tension. Let’s figure it out.”
Gavin meets my eyes.
I say nothing. But I know. We’re already too deep. Might as well stop pretending the water’s shallow.
By the time I get back to my office, the room feels too small. Too still. Like the air itself has closed in on me. I drop into my chair, hands braced on the arms, and stare out the floor-to-ceiling window like it’s going to offer answers.
We’re bringing her. To the cabin.
The one place we go when the walls start closing in. When the deals go sideways and the pressure gets sharp enough to cut. When we can’t see each other in the office without someone snapping. It’s our reset button.
And we just agreed to bring the woman we’re all quietly losing our minds over into that space. Smart? Fuck no.
Necessary? Maybe.
I rub my palms over my face and lean forward, elbows on knees. I don’t want to do this. Not really. But the idea of not seeing her there, of knowing she’s still down here in the city while the three of us are pretending we don’t want her in every goddamn way that matters? That’s worse.
I close my eyes.
It’s not just about the sex. God knows that’s good—better than good, it’s life-changing—but it’s not the thing that scares me.
What scares me is how much I like being around her.
The way I can’t stop thinking about her.
The way she always seems surprised when someone acknowledges her, like she’s forgotten she’s allowed to be seen.
That vulnerability? It wrecks me.
I know what it is to be underestimated. Looked past. Expected to stay grateful and quiet. And when she looks at me like I’m more than a number on a spreadsheet, like I’m a man —not a title, not a suit—I forget to be defensive.
I just want her. And now I’ve agreed to bring her to the one place where everything always gets messier before it gets clean.
Just what we needed.
I huff at myself and look down at my inbox. Five unread reports. Budget updates. Line-item disputes. One from legal asking if I’ve drafted a statement for the “rumored personal entanglements” clause in the executive handbook.
I click it shut. I can’t think straight right now.
What I need is to move. To do something. Or someone.