14. Jack
JACK
The coffee’s hotter than usual this morning. I don’t ask why. Harrison always makes it strong, but when it’s bordering on nuclear, it usually means he didn’t sleep—or he’s thinking too hard and needed something to burn the thoughts off.
For me, the first burn of the morning is the only kind I trust anymore. Wakes me up better than alarms or news alerts. Better than guilt, even.
He hands me a mug without a word and sinks into the chair across from my desk, stretching out like he owns the place. One ankle propped on his knee, mug in one hand, the other resting on the armrest like a man waiting for the next fire.
I take a sip and almost cough. “You trying to kill me?”
“You’re awake now, aren’t you?”
“Barely.”
“Then it’s working.”
It’s early. The kind of early where the hallways outside are still quiet, where the sky over the city’s still gray and gold instead of full sun, and where everything feels a little more honest before the day dresses itself in PR and politics.
We don’t usually talk much in the mornings.
That’s never been our thing. Gavin needs structure.
Harrison needs movement. I need silence—and black coffee.
But today’s different. There’s too much sitting under our skin.
Has been since Parker walked in yesterday morning and didn’t look any of us in the eye.
“She’s pulling back,” Harrison says after a few minutes.
He doesn’t have to say who.
“She thinks we’re letting her fall,” I say.
“She thinks we’re letting them push her out.”
He says them like it’s obvious. And it is. Vivian and Heather.
That email yesterday was the kind of thing Parker will pretend didn’t hurt. She’ll smile. She’ll do her job. She’ll stay late, file every note, and still look like she’s bracing for a tap on the shoulder from security.
She’s here, but she’s not here. Too scared to be present.
“She’s not talking to us,” Harrison adds. “Not avoiding, exactly. Just…quieter.”
“She thinks if she makes less noise, they won’t notice her.”
“They’ve already noticed her.”
I nod once, sip again. The coffee’s not any better.
“She’s still showing up,” Harrison says.
“She always will.”
“She shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
“She won’t.”
It’s not a promise. It’s a decision.
The kind we’ve always made quietly. Not with big speeches. Just with presence. With action. We don’t grandstand—we show up.
But that conduct review? That was a knife in the back. Filed without Gavin’s signature, without so much as a warning, dropped into her inbox like she’s a risk to contain. Heather knew exactly what she was doing. So did Vivian.
I’m still chewing on that when the door to my office slams open so hard it rattles the hinges.
Gavin’s already mid-stride, pacing, his suit jacket unbuttoned, tie in his pocket, hair pushed back like he hasn’t stopped moving since sunrise. “She’s going to boycott the gala.”
I blink. “Who?”
He stops. Turns. Eyes blazing. “Vivian.”
Harrison leans forward, still calm, but his shoulders straighten. “Pulling her seat?”
“Pulling everything. Her table. Her donation. Her name from the program.”
“She sent that to you?”
“She sent it to the board. ”
Gavin slaps a folder onto my desk. The top page is a formal letter, signed Vivian Thatcher, cc’d to three donor liaisons and two board members. Neatly worded, full of snide phrasing dressed in elegance. No direct accusations—Vivian’s too smart for that—but it’s all there in subtext.
She questions the “strategic placement” of unqualified personnel. She regrets “seeing the legacy of the firm diluted by interpersonal entanglements.” She urges the board to “reassess leadership’s recent decisions in the interest of reputation preservation.”
No names. But we all know who she’s talking about.
“She said she’s embarrassed,” Gavin mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “That we’re embarrassing her.”
“She said that to you?” I ask.
“She said, and I quote, ‘You can either run a scandal management firm or be the scandal yourself. Choose wisely.’”
Harrison lets out a slow breath. “She’s not pulling punches.”
“She never does.”
I glance back at the letter. “She’s setting you up. If the gala tanks, it’s your fault. If it succeeds without her, she can still claim moral superiority.”
“She wants Parker off the event,” Gavin says. “Full stop. If I don’t pull her, Vivian walks.”
“And if she walks?” I ask.
“People follow. Donors. Sponsors. Maybe even a few board votes.”
There it is. The real play. Not about Parker. About Gavin. Heather and Vivian aren’t targeting an assistant—they’re shaking the tree to see what falls out. And if Gavin bends now, they’ll never stop.
“She’s saying Parker’s unqualified?” Harrison asks.
“More than that,” Gavin says. “Heather’s been feeding her information. Started asking questions last week—who hired Parker, how she was vetted, whether her relationship to Phil created a conflict.”
“She knows damn well it didn’t,” I mutter.
“She doesn’t care,” Gavin says. “She’s painting Parker as a liability. She doesn’t fit the image, so they want her gone.”
“And the conduct review?” I ask.
Gavin pulls out his phone and tosses it on the table. “6:12 a.m. yesterday. Filed by Heather. No consultation. No signature from me. I found out when legal cc’d me on the final doc.”
I open the email. It’s worse than I expected. Three paragraphs. Just enough to sound official. Just enough to create a record that something’s wrong, even if nothing is. The language is vague—“potential conflict…concerns raised…recommendation for temporary reassignment.”
“This is bullshit,” I say.
“She filed it under reputation risk.”
“Heather is the reputation risk,” Harrison mutters.
“She’s not working alone,” Gavin says. “Vivian’s backing her.”
Of course she is. They’ve been in lockstep for years—Vivian’s voice, Heather’s hands. Heather enforces what Vivian doesn’t want to say out loud. Besties in the worst way.
“And now what?” Harrison asks. “You’re supposed to yank Parker off the gala so your mother doesn’t get her feelings hurt?”
“According to Heather, yes.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
“Vivian pulls everything. And if she does that, the board starts asking questions.”
“About your leadership,” I say.
Gavin nods.
“And if Parker stays, you look compromised.”
“If I pull her, I am compromised,” he says, voice hard now. “I’m not throwing her under the bus for optics.”
Good. Because if he even hinted at the possibility, I’d have to reconsider working here, and I’ve grown accustomed to my career. I don’t want to start over somewhere else. “Then what are we doing?”
“I’m trying to keep the gala from turning into a referendum on my decision-making.”
“It already is,” Harrison says. “You just haven’t responded yet.”
Silence falls again. Heavy. Charged. He’s not wrong, and we all know it. I finish the last of my coffee. Cold now. Bitter in a different way. Then I look at Gavin. Really look at him.
And I see the weight on him—the pressure of being his mother’s son in a company she built with gold-plated claws. He’s trying to run forward with her hand still clenched in his shoulder blades.
It won’t work. I clear my throat. “She’s testing you.”
“No shit,” he says without malice.
“She wants to know if she can still pull your strings.”
His jaw clenches. “She can’t.”
“Then prove it.”
He meets my eyes.
And I say, quietly but clearly, “It’s time she understood her son is not her bitch.”
He knows I’m not insinuating anything by that. I can tell by the way he isn’t punching me in the face.
Silence stretches after I say it.
Not tense, not awkward—just heavy. The kind that waits.
Gavin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
He stands in front of me with his hands braced on the back of the chair and his spine straight, like the only thing holding him together is the bones he inherited from someone he stopped trusting a long time ago.
Harrison shifts beside me, crossing his arms as he leans his shoulder into the doorframe. He doesn’t say anything yet. Doesn’t need to. We’re both waiting to see what Gavin does with the truth.
His jaw flexes, once. Then again. His fingers tap a slow rhythm on the edge of the chair—deliberate, practiced, like he’s buying himself just a few more seconds to walk the edge of this decision.
Because this isn’t just about Parker. It’s about Vivian. About legacy. About who holds the strings now that Gavin has the title and she’s technically in retirement—but still very much in the shadows, pulling levers with Heather as her stand-in marionette.
“She’s not going to stop,” he says finally. “If I push back, she’ll escalate.”
“She always does,” I say.
“And the board?—”
“Will smell blood if you don’t hold your ground,” Harrison finishes.
“She’s put me in an impossible position.”
“No,” I say. “She thinks she has. That’s why you hold the advantage right now. She thinks she’s already won. You have to prove otherwise.”
Gavin exhales, slow and tight. Then drops into the chair he’s been gripping like a lifeline. “I hate that I’m even hesitating.”
“Then don’t,” I tell him. “Stop giving her space in your head. Take it back.”
He scrubs a hand down his face and sits there a long moment, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like it’s going to reveal some new playbook none of us have seen.
“She’s my mother,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“She built this place.”
“Yeah.”
“She also tore down half the women who tried to work here and replaced them with mirrors of herself,” Harrison mutters.
Gavin almost smiles. But it’s bitter. “She says Parker doesn’t reflect VT values.”
“Good,” I say. “She’s the first person who reflects the kind of values we should’ve had from the start.”
Gavin glances up.
“She’s competent. Honest. Loyal,” I say. “She’s not here to network. She’s here to work. And she’s not just surviving—they keep throwing knives at her, and she keeps showing up.”
“And if we let them keep cutting her,” Harrison adds, “we’re no better than the ones holding the blades.”
It’s a low blow, but it lands exactly where it needs to.
Gavin sits back slowly, folding his hands in his lap. His face is composed, as always. He’s had media training since he was eight. His father was an actor. His mother, a sculptor of brands. Gavin Thatcher knows how to wear a mask better than anyone.
But this isn’t a mask. Not right now. Right now, I can see the cracks.
“You think the board would back me if I keep Parker on the gala?” he asks.
“They’ll back strength,” I say. “They always do.”
“They don’t like surprises,” Harrison adds. “But they like a clear decision-maker.”
“She’s not a scandal,” I say. “She’s a scapegoat.”
Gavin runs his thumb along the seam of his sleeve. “They think I’m compromised.”
“Then show them what being committed looks like.”
His gaze flicks to mine. Sharp. Focused.
“Your mother isn’t VT anymore,” I continue. “You are.”
“She thinks I’ll fold.”
“And that should make you very, very angry.”
A long beat passes. The kind that settles somewhere in the gut and waits for your stomach to catch up.
Then Gavin says, “Do you remember when we opened the second office downtown?”
“Yeah.”
“Vivian told me not to. Said we weren’t ready. Said we’d look arrogant.”
Harrison nods at the memory. “She wanted you to wait until she could take the credit.”
“I did it anyway.”
“And it worked.”
He nods. “It did.”
“That’s who you are, Gavin. You don’t flinch. You don’t wait for permission. You lead. Vivian and Heather have forgotten that you’re the goddamned CEO. It’s time to remind them.”
His eyes go distant for a second. Then he stands and walks to the window. He stares out at the city—clean lines of architecture cutting against early morning haze, the pulse of movement starting to build, the weight of reputation coiling in the air like humidity.
And when he turns back toward us, his voice is clear. Quiet. Final. “Parker’s not going anywhere.”
And I can feel the shift in the room like a wave changing direction.
“She stays,” Gavin says. “Vivian can throw her tantrum. Heather can whisper into as many ears as she wants. Fuck ’em.”
“And the board?” Harrison asks.
“They’ll adjust or they’ll leave, and I don’t much care which way they turn.”
There it is. The real Gavin. Not the heir. Not the careful curator of image. Just the man. The one who built this company with us from the ground up. The one who doesn’t take shit from anyone once he’s decided it’s not worth taking.
“Glad you showed up as you today, man.”
“Yeah, well. It’s high time I did, right?” Gavin snorts a laugh. “This is gonna get fucked before it gets better.”
Harrison grins. “Let’s cause some chaos.”