29. Parker
PARKER
I never thought I’d say this, but apparently, the internet loves us.
No, really. Like, loves us.
Just weeks ago, we were a headline waiting to explode.
One leaked audio clip and a round of HR whisper campaigns from Vivian’s best friend, and I was sure I’d end up unemployed, disgraced, and eating gluten-free freezer waffles in a bathrobe while the men I was absolutely-not-dating denied my existence to the press.
Instead?
VT Global’s new “radical authenticity” campaign is trending.
We’re the face of it. Fluff pieces are rolling out every other day with headlines like “Modern Love at the Top: Can Poly Relationships Work in the C-Suite?” and “Three Men, One Baby, and a Very Efficient Calendar.” My personal favorite?
“Who Needs a Glass Ceiling When You’re Sleeping with the Board? ”
That one made Jack spit his coffee across Harrison’s white leather couch.
And the thing is? It’s working. By getting ahead of the narrative and framing us as bold, transparent, and unconcerned with outdated societal norms, VT has shifted the tone completely. Nobody’s got dirt when we’re the ones handing out the shovels.
We even have a preferred press liaison now.
Her name’s Darla. She wears pastel power suits and has a voice like honey over gravel, and I suspect she could happily kill a man with a metal nail file if given enough motivation.
She sends me drafts of anything that mentions us before they hit publication.
The one she sent this morning has the lead-in: “Parker Simon is just like you—if you, too, were balancing a powerful role at one of LA’s most influential PR firms, co-parenting with three billionaires, and glowing your way through the first trimester of pregnancy.”
Jack read that over my shoulder, narrowed his eyes, and muttered, “What the hell does glowing even mean?”
“It’s a compliment.”
His scowl didn’t fade.
“If you keep scowling every time someone compliments me, we’re going to end up in a media narrative about ‘toxic alpha dynamics in poly households.’”
He snorted a laugh and kissed the top of my head in response.
We’ve been leaning into the strategy. Smiling in public. Letting ourselves be seen. I wore a wrap dress with tiny cartoon whales on it to VT last week and was told I looked “fresh and humanizing.” I don’t even know what that means. But apparently, it’s good.
Today isn’t about articles or campaigns or brand positioning. Today is about the grainy black-and-white image we’re about to see on a screen.
“Are you nervous?” Gavin asks as he opens the back passenger door of his absurdly oversized SUV and gestures for me to climb in.
I nod. “Terrified.”
“Of the ultrasound?” Jack asks as he slides in next to me. “Will it hurt?”
“No. They don’t hurt. I’m scared of the nurse misreading the scan and telling me I’m pregnant with triplets.”
Harrison climbs in on my other side, shutting the door behind him. “Don’t joke about that.”
“I’m not,” I mutter. “You know twins run in my family.”
Jack leans forward, looking between us. “Technically, you already have twins.”
“Exactly,” I say, adjusting the seat belt over my chest. “I’m basically a nesting doll.”
Gavin smirks and starts the engine. “No matter what we see in there, we’ve got it covered.”
“Easy for you to say,” I reply. “You’ve got an entire PR firm and an espresso machine that cost more than my car.”
Harrison rests a warm hand on my knee. “We’re here. Whatever’s in there, however many, we’ve got it.”
And just like that, the edge of panic eases.
The clinic is sleek and comfortable, probably overpriced, with walls painted the color of beach fog and a salt lamp glowing on the receptionist’s desk.
The woman behind it doesn’t even blink at the four of us checking in together.
She hands me a clipboard and gestures toward a bank of beige chairs with a practiced smile.
I fill out forms while the guys argue softly about which waiting room magazine is the most outdated.
Harrison finds a People from 2017 and is scandalized to learn half the couples on the cover are divorced now.
Jack picks up a parenting pamphlet and snorts at the title: “Diaper Duty for Dads.” Gavin pretends to read The Economist and absolutely does not.
Then they call my name, and the three of them are on their feet before I budge an inch. Apparently, they’re nervous too.
The ultrasound tech is kind. She explains every step, every knob, every beeping sound. She warns us the image might take a minute to show up. The gel is cold, and I wince. Jack winces in sympathy. Harrison kisses my hand. Gavin hovers like he wants to fix something and can’t.
Then the screen flickers. And there it is. A small flickering blob. Pulsing steadily. A beat all its own.
I can’t breathe for a second.
“There’s the heartbeat,” the tech says, and everything in the room narrows to that one sound. A fast, sure rhythm, steady and strong.
Jack exhales. Gavin reaches for my shoulder. Harrison leans in like he can’t look away. It’s real. This is happening. I’m going to be a mom. Again. We’re going to be parents. All of us. Together.
“Just one heartbeat, right?” I ask nervously.
She nods. “Just the one.”
“Okay. I can handle just one.”
Jack grins and kisses my forehead. “You can handle anything.”
We walk out of the clinic in that hazy kind of high you only get from good news and cold gel wiped off your stomach.
I’m still gripping the printout of the ultrasound like it might vanish if I don’t hold on to it tight enough.
One tiny flickering heartbeat. One perfect little shape. One brand-new person growing in me.
“I’m still betting on twins,” Jack says as we walk toward Gavin’s SUV. The thing is massive, dwarfing anything else in the parking lot.
“Oh my god,” I groan. “Don’t even put that into the universe.”
“I’m just saying.” He shrugs. “You’ve done it before. Statistically speaking?—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” I warn, but I’m laughing, and I can tell they all are too.
We’re halfway across the parking lot when it happens. A sharp voice cuts across the warm bubble we’ve wrapped around ourselves. “Well. Isn’t this sweet.”
We turn at the same time. The tension is instant—tight across my shoulders, in the way Jack shifts his posture, in the way Harrison steps half in front of me like a reflex. The way Gavin’s whole body goes tight.
Vivian walks out from between a pair of black SUVs.
No doubt they’re hers, here to work like walls for her dramatic entrance.
She’s dressed like she’s about to march into a Vogue interview and destroy the editor in person.
Her sunglasses are enormous, her heels ridiculous for this kind of pavement, and the look on her face could cut glass.
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” she says, her tone clipped and icy. “You’re all grown up, Gavin. Leaking old pictures of me? Turning on your own mother? I’d be impressed if it weren’t such an obvious plea for my help.”
Jack moves to my side. Gavin steps forward to meet her, standing between us with a calm I know costs him. Harrison is with him.
Gavin doesn’t take the bait. “This ends now.”
Vivian stops two paces away and tilts her head. “Excuse me?”
“No more games. No more buying buildings you don’t give a shit about. No more attempts to smear Parker or this family. You’re done. It’s over. You lost.”
She scoffs, shaking her head like he’s being overly dramatic. “And what exactly are you going to do about it? File a restraining order? Threaten me with bad press?”
“If I have to,” Gavin replies. “But I’d rather not have to go that far.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You can’t bar me from my own legacy.”
“You already gave it up,” he says. “And security at VT has been informed that you are not allowed in the building. It’s over, Vivian. Let it go.”
Her gaze snaps to Harrison next, sharp and full of something close to betrayal. “And you? I raised you too. You were nothing when I found you.”
“I was a kid,” Harrison says, voice low. “And I’ve paid you back with interest. You don’t own me. Back off, or we will end this in ways you can’t take back.”
“You think you can threaten me with your lies?” she hisses. “Pathetic.”
“No,” Harrison says. “With the truth. You’ve been playing dirty for decades. Leaking stories, covering up crimes, blackmailing rivals. And we’re done letting you hide.”
Her face tightens. “Never play a player, Harrison. You know that. If you had proof of anything, you would have used it by now.”
Jack snaps, “No, we wouldn’t. We’re better people than you.”
“And we do have evidence,” Harrison says, deadpan.
“Financial trails. Emails. Affidavits. Even footage. The photos were just an amuse bouche. You wrecked your husband’s career, lied to Gavin about why he left, manipulated the entire board for years, and covered up vehicular homicides, accidental drownings, and other deaths.
” He narrows his gaze on her. “I don’t bluff, Vivian. You’d do well to remember that.”
She pales. Then her voice drops, sharp and biting. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Mr. Butters says otherwise.”
The blood drains from her face.
I don’t know who Mr. Butters is, but she clearly does.
She turns on me next, wild-eyed. “This is all your fault.”
I press my hand to my stomach and look her in the eye. “No. This is your fault. You hated me from the start because that’s what you do.” I sigh. I’ve thought about this for a while now. “I feel sorry for you, Vivian.”
Her nose scrunches up at me. “I’m a self-made billionaire, and you’re nobody. Why the hell do you feel sorry for me?”
“Because you’re so full of hate that you forgot how to love.
Or maybe you never knew how in the first place.
I’m not sure which it is, and at this point, it doesn’t matter.
You’re a horrible person, and I wish nothing but the worst for you.
You’ll never know your grandchild, Vivian. Not because of me. Because of you.”