Chapter 3 Ethan
ETHAN
Control.
My life is built on it. My company is built on it.
The code that runs the backend of Mosaic is a masterpiece of logic and order, designed to bring chaos into alignment.
I don’t like surprises. I don’t like variables I can’t account for.
And I absolutely do not like walking into my own office on a Monday morning, feeling like I’m walking through a minefield.
I stare at the empty glass desk across the open-plan floor. It’s the Lead Brand Strategist’s desk.
Her desk.
“Stop looking at it,” I mutter to myself, turning my back on the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the Austin skyline.
I march to my own desk, a slab of black marble that costs more than my first car, and sit down. I have forty-eight emails marked urgent. The investors are asking for updated user-retention projections. The legal team needs a signature on the revised privacy policy.
I stare at the screen. The words blur. Instead of quarterly projections, all I see is red silk.
Help. Red or Black? Which one guarantees I get laid tonight?
I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching the bridge of my nose. Two days. It’s been over two days since the party, and the image hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s gotten sharper.
I can still see the flush on her face when she realized who we were. I can still see the way her pupils blew wide when I cornered her on the dance floor. I can still feel the weight of the deception—standing next to Harper, pretending I hadn’t already stripped that dress off her in my mind.
Tessa Hartley. Harper’s best friend. The girl with the scraped knees who used to cry when she lost at hide-and-seek. The girl I am supposed to protect, not fantasize about bending over a conference table.
“Get it together, Branson,” I growl.
She’s an employee. She’s family. She’s a no-go area.
I open the first email. I force my brain to engage. Subject: Series B Funding Timeline.
I type out a reply. My fingers hit the keys with a little more force than necessary. Strict. Professional. Distant. That’s the strategy. We treat her like any other hire and ignore the text and the dress.
We bury the memory of Friday night in a shallow grave.
The door to my office flies open. Not like a normal door. It slams against the stopper with a force that rattles the framed patents on the wall.
“We are golden!”
Owen strides in, looking irritatingly fresh for a Monday morning. He’s wearing a crisp navy suit, holding two coffees, and wearing a grin that usually means trouble.
“Knocking is a concept, Owen,” I say without looking up. “You should try it sometime.”
“Knocking is for people who bring bad news,” Owen counters, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel. He sets a steaming cup on my desk. “Black, two shots of espresso. You look like you need it. Did you sleep at all?”
“I slept fine.”
“Liar,” Owen sits in the chair opposite me, slouching in a way that wrinkles his jacket. “Asher has been here since four. I think he’s rewriting the entire messaging protocol.”
“Good,” I say. “At least one of you is working.”
“I’m working,” Owen protests. “I just got off the phone with the venue coordinator for the launch party. They agreed to the branding overhaul. And…” He pauses for dramatic effect.
“... I secured the feature in TechCrunch. They’re running a profile on the ‘Phantom Trio’ next month.
We go public with our identities to the world right after the app drops. ”
That is good news. Huge news, actually. A TechCrunch feature is exactly what we need to satisfy the investors before the Series B round.
“Good work,” I nod, taking a sip of the coffee. It’s bitter and hot, exactly how I like it. “Make sure they send the questions in advance. I don’t want any surprises.”
“Speaking of surprises,” Owen’s grin widens, shifting into something sharper. “She’s here.”
My hand goes perfectly still on the coffee cup. I don’t have to ask who she is.
“Is she?” I keep my voice flat, my eyes on my screen.
“Yep. Just walked into the lobby. She’s early. Fifteen minutes early.” Owen leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “She looks… professional. No red silk today.”
“Don’t,” I warn him.
“What? I’m just reporting the facts.”
“We are not talking about the dress, Owen. We are not talking about the text. That didn’t happen.”
“It definitely happened,” Owen laughs. “In fact, I have the screenshot.”
“Delete it.”
“Make me.”
I glare at him. “This isn’t a game. She’s our employee. If HR gets wind of that text, or the fact that we replied to it, we’re looking at a lawsuit that could tank the Series B before we even launch. We have to be smart.”
“I know, I know,” Owen waves a hand dismissively. “Strictly professional. I remember the lecture.”
The door opens again. This time, it’s quieter.
Asher slips inside. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He’s wearing a black hoodie over a T-shirt, his blonde hair messy, his blue eyes intense and shadowed, and he’s holding a tablet.
“The encryption protocols are updated,” Asher says, his voice rough as he leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “And I updated her permissions.”
“Whose permissions?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Tessa’s,” Asher says. “I gave her access to the raw user session data. She needs to see the behavioral patterns to build the marketing personas.”
“Raw session data?” I frown. “That’s high clearance, Ash. Usually, we wait until after the probation period.”
“She needs it,” Asher shrugs. “If she’s going to do the job, she needs the tools. I sandboxed her environment. Scrubbed logs. No PII. She can only see patterns.”
“It’s a massive risk,” I snap. “She leaks one piece of user data, we’re finished.”
“She won’t,” Asher says simply. “I rigged the sandbox myself. The second Owen hands over those credentials and she logs in, I’ll be tracking every keystroke.”
I look at my brothers. Owen is grinning like he just picked a lock. Asher is staring at the floor, humming with that quiet, intense energy he gets when he’s obsessed with a problem.
And I realize, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that my strategy of “ignore it and it will go away” is destined to fail. They aren’t ignoring it. They’re circling it.
“Listen to me,” I say, standing up. I put my palms flat on the desk, looking between them.
“I mean it. She’s Harper’s best friend. Her parents treat us like sons.
If we mess this up, if we make her uncomfortable, or if we cross a line, we lose more than just a strategist. We lose our sister. We lose our family.”
Owen’s smile fades slightly. “We know, Ethan. You don’t have to lecture us.”
“Then act like you know,” I snap. “When she walks through those doors, she’s Ms. Hartley and we’re her bosses. There’s no flirting, no commentary on her wardrobe, and absolutely no mention of Friday night.”
“Fine,” Owen sighs, “but you have to admit, the irony is incredible. We hire a Brand Lead to fix our image, and she starts by sending us a nude.”
“It wasn’t a nude,” Asher corrects him softly. “It was a question.”
I look at Asher. “What?”
“She asked for help,” Asher says, finally looking up. His eyes are clear and analytical. “She wanted to know what works. She treats attraction like a variable to be optimized. Ideally, she approaches her job the same way.”
I stare at him. Only Asher could look at a photo of a woman in lingerie and analyze her work ethic.
“Just… keep it professional,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Owen, you handle the onboarding. Show her the systems. Introduce her to the team. And keep it public.”
“Me?” Owen points to himself. “Why me? You’re the CEO. Technically, she reports to you.”
“Because if I do it,” I admit, the truth clawing its way out of my throat, “I might fire her just to get her out of the building.”
Owen laughs. “You’re terrified of her.”
“I’m not terrified. I’m risk-averse.”
“Same thing.” Owen stands up, buttoning his jacket. “Relax, E. I’ll handle the tour. I’ll be the perfect gentleman. I won’t even look at her legs.”
He heads for the door.
“Owen,” I call out. He pauses, hand on the handle. “Check her file. Make sure the employment contract is fully executed before she logs in.”
“Already done,” Owen salutes lazily, grabbing his own coffee off the edge of my desk. “See you in the War Room.”
He leaves. Asher pushes off the wall and follows him without a word, presumably to go stare at his monitors and avoid human contact until lunch.
I am alone again. I sit back down and take a deep breath, trying to steady the rhythm of my heart. It’s just a job, I tell myself. She’s just an employee. I look at the empty glass desk outside my window again.
Then, I see movement. The elevator doors at the far end of the floor slide open. A figure steps out.
And there she is.
She pauses for a second, a strand of loose auburn hair falling over the strap of her leather tote bag, scanning the open-plan office.
She looks… different. The red silk is truly gone.
In its place, she’s wearing a tailored cream blouse tucked into high-waisted navy trousers that cut off just above her ankles.
It’s professional. It’s modest. It’s exactly the kind of outfit a Lead Brand Strategist should wear on her first day.
And I hate it.
Even with the high neckline and the sensible fabric, I know exactly what is underneath. My brain unhelpfully overlays the image from Friday night—the curve of her waist, the shadow of her cleavage, the way her skin glowed in the dim light of the lounge.
She starts walking toward the reception desk, the sharp sound of her heels echoing against the polished concrete.
“Showtime,” I mutter.
I walk out of my office into the open lobby. Owen is already there, leaning against the reception desk, beaming like he’s welcoming a celebrity. Asher is lurking near the server room door, holding his tablet like a shield.
“Tessa!” Owen calls out, his voice echoing in the quiet space. “You made it. And you’re early. We like early.”