15. Gavin
GAVIN
I call my mother the way I fire people. Politely. Firmly. Without offering options. “Thursday morning, ten sharp,” I say. “At my office.”
Vivian Thatcher doesn’t ask why. She never has to. She says she’ll be there with the sort of clipped elegance that carries undertones of disapproval and barely concealed curiosity.
Perfect.
I arrive twenty minutes early on Thursday and spend exactly ten of those staring at the glass wall that looks out over the executive floor, waiting for her.
When she arrives, she doesn’t stop at reception.
She doesn’t greet the staff. She doesn’t look at the client decks being assembled on the table for this afternoon’s donor pre-meet.
She simply walks in, her heels sharp on the hardwood, coat draped over one arm, sunglasses still on despite the fact that we’re fifty feet from any natural light.
And I watch her pass Parker’s desk.
Parker’s head is down, focused on her screen, dark hair pulled back into a sleek twist. She’s in navy today, a pencil skirt and a silk blouse that she wears like she forgot she’s beautiful. Her pen taps gently against her notepad, unconscious rhythm.
Vivian slows as she nears her.
My jaw tightens.
She doesn’t speak. Just spares Parker a glance that’s too quick to read, and then keeps walking. I watch her every step.
If she had so much as narrowed her eyes at Parker, I would have canceled the meeting and let her stew for another week. But she doesn’t. She reaches my door and knocks, once.
I stand. “Come in.”
She steps through like she’s entering a boardroom she already owns. “Darling,” she says, sliding her sunglasses off and tucking them into her handbag. “You’re looking very?—”
“Busy,” I finish. “Yes.”
She glances around my office like she hasn’t seen it a thousand times. “New art?”
“No.”
She sits in the chair across from my desk and crosses her legs. “You always keep it this cold in here?”
“I like to stay alert.”
“I like to feel my hands.”
“The bloodless usually have poor circulation.”
A beat of silence stretches between us. This is how it always starts. A dance of perfectly timed jabs dressed in cashmere and subtle eye rolls.
I sit.
She adjusts the cuff of her sleeve. Her nails are pale pink today. That’s her version of casual. “I assume this is about the gala.”
I smile. “Of course.”
“You’ve decided to take my advice, then?”
I pause. “Actually,” I say, “I wanted to talk about Parker.”
The shift is subtle. Barely a flicker in her expression. But it’s there—the micro-frown, the slight lift of her brow. “I did warn you.”
“About what?”
“That girl,” she says, as if we both should have known. “She’s not one of us. She doesn’t belong in that role.”
“She’s qualified. She’s been running the event for weeks.”
“Running it,” she scoffs gently, “or improvising her way through it? Heather says her documentation is inconsistent, her budget approvals are chaotic, and she’s leaned heavily on her relationships with you boys to bypass protocol.”
“You mean she’s efficient.”
“I mean she’s dangerous. To you. To the firm.”
I sit back in my chair, letting her talk. Letting a narcissist ramble is usually the best way to make them screw up.
“I saw the conduct review,” she adds, voice almost musical. “Appalling, frankly.”
And there it is. The slip. The moment I’ve been waiting for. Because only two people in this company had access to that review before it hit the board—Heather and me. And I know damn well I didn’t forward it. So unless Heather’s psychic, she’s been leaking internal documents to my mother.
I nod, slowly. “Interesting.”
She smooths her skirt. “What?”
“Nothing.”
She frowns.
“Gavin,” she says. “This isn’t about winning. It’s about protecting what we built.”
“I didn’t build this company to be held hostage by personal vendettas.”
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
I smile. “You’ve had your fun. But you’re done here.”
She tilts her head. “What are you talking about?”
I reach into my desk drawer and slide a single sheet of paper across the desk.
She picks it up, and her expression finally shifts into something real, bypassing her filler and face lift. “What is this?”
“A resignation letter.”
“From who?”
“Heather.”
Vivian laughs once. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s signed. Effective immediately.”
She lowers the paper. Her voice sharpens. “She would have told me.”
I shrug. “Not if she wanted to keep her severance.”
Vivian’s lips thin.
“I offered her a generous package. One week’s grace period. Quiet exit. No press, no emails. No calls to you.”
“You…you threatened her.”
“I offered her a choice,” I say, folding my hands. “She could accept the deal and walk with her dignity intact, or I’d fire her for cause.”
Her fingers tighten on the paper. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“She already cleaned out her office this morning. IT locked her credentials an hour ago.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“No,” I say. “I’m correcting one.”
Vivian’s jaw tightens. And for the first time in years, she looks off-balance.
I let her sit with it. Because this isn’t a warning. It’s a message. And she’s finally hearing it.
Vivian glares at the page in her hand like she can will it into meaning something else. “This is absurd,” she says, voice clipped. “You’re bluffing.”
“I don’t bluff,” I say calmly.
“She’s the CHRO. She’s been with VT longer than you’ve been out of college.”
“And in that time, she’s acted as your stand-in, your mouthpiece, and your enforcer. I let it go for years. But this—going after an employee behind my back, and just as importantly, leaking internal documents to you? Violations of her contract.” I shake my head. “This is where it ends.”
She sets the letter down like it’s beneath her fingers to hold. “You’ve lost perspective.”
“No,” I say, voice still even. “I’ve gained some.”
She tilts her chin. “You wouldn’t have this company if it weren’t for me.”
“And the company wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t spent the last four years cleaning up after your legacy.”
That shuts her up for a moment. She smooths her skirt again, a little slower this time. “When your father?—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, sharp and flat.
She holds up a hand, but I don’t let her finish.
“You named me CEO when the board demanded fresh blood after the Cannes disaster. You didn’t pick me because I was ready. You picked me because you needed a shield. A Thatcher name with a cleaner face. You didn’t trust anyone else to carry the optics.”
“I picked you because I thought you were capable.”
“You picked me because you were scared.”
She doesn’t deny it.
“And I stepped up,” I say. “Even when I didn’t want it. Even when every part of me knew I was being fed to the wolves to protect the brand.”
“You were the only one who could do it.”
“I was an ex-actor with an Ivy League minor in economic theory,” I snap. “I wasn’t ready. You made me ready. You forced it.” I stand, finally, and round the desk.
Vivian shifts back in her chair slightly. She doesn’t like it when I move like her. Calm. Controlled. Powerful.
“I didn’t want this job,” I tell her, voice low. “I wanted a career in something I chose. But you made sure I couldn’t walk away.”
“Gavin—”
“I took the reins. I kept the board together. I updated our tech systems, expanded our international contracts, and cleaned up the tabloid trail your husband left behind like a chemical spill.”
“I never asked you to do all of that.”
“No. You just handed me the keys and told me not to crash.”
Vivian stands, fast. “We did what we had to do. We survived. ”
“And you’ve spent every day since trying to control every woman who walked through our doors so that none of them would ever make headlines again.”
She stiffens.
“You want to know what Parker’s real crime is?” I ask. “It’s not her résumé. It’s that she didn’t beg for your approval before being good at her job.”
Vivian says nothing.
“You don’t get to sabotage her because she didn’t kiss the ring.”
“This isn’t about her. ”
“Of course it is.”
“No,” she snaps. “It’s about you. Letting your hormones compromise your leadership. You’ve gotten involved with someone you can’t protect. Not forever.”
I step back. There it is. The core of it. The threat.
She’s not just scared of Parker. She’s scared of what Parker represents—an emotional vulnerability she spent her whole life trying to train out of me. If I care for someone else, she loses her power over me.
“Well,” I say. “We’ll see about that.”
Vivian narrows her eyes. “If you let her bring this company down, I will not bail you out.”
“You won’t have to. Because she’s not going to.”
“She’s reckless. She doesn’t understand who she’s dealing with.”
“She’s handling your bullshit better than most of the VPs you’ve handpicked in the last ten years.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re making a mistake.”
“No,” I say. “I’m correcting one.”
She grabs her bag off the chair, fast and clipped. “If this blows up in your face, don’t come crying to me.”
“Come to you for emotional support? Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She storms to the door.
I wait. Then I add, loud enough for her to hear as she grabs the handle, “And if you’re really this bored in retirement, you should get a hobby.”
She slams the door hard enough to rattle the glass.
I let out a slow breath. My hands are shaking—but just a little. I go to the window, watching her cut through the main office floor like a warship slicing through fog. She doesn’t even glance toward Parker’s desk this time.
Smart. Because if she did, I’m not sure I’d let her walk out so easily.
Vivian’s departure is only a win if it sticks, and it never does. She’ll be back. With softer claws and stronger allies. Heather was the right place to start, but I know this game. There’s always another hand.
Still. It felt good to finally say it.
To tell her, to her face, that her time micromanaging this company is over. That I’m done apologizing for being her son, for carrying the wreckage of my father’s name, for stepping into the job she never really let go of.