Chapter 23 Tessa #2
Sterling looks squarely at him. “I understand the tech, Ethan. The algorithm is impressive, and Asher’s work is, as always, genius.”
Asher doesn’t even look up from his screen. “Thank you.”
“But,” Sterling continues, “my concern isn’t the code. It’s the brand.”
He slides an old-school manila folder across the polished wood. “I represent a consortium of conservative investors,” Sterling says. “Families. Foundations. People who heavily value stability and tradition.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop another ten degrees. The suffocating smell of his cologne only gets stronger, clogging my airways until I have to take a desperate sip of water just to settle my trembling stomach.
“We are a highly stable company,” Owen says with a tight smile. “Our user base has tripled since the launch, and retention is up forty percent.”
“Numbers fluctuate,” Sterling dismisses. “Reputation is forever.”
He opens the folder, revealing a color printout of a local gossip blog called Austin Tech Watch.
The bold headline reads:
THE PHANTOM TRIO UNMASKED
“Since the beta launch party, the press has been digging,” Sterling says smoothly. “Your anonymity is completely gone, gentlemen. They know exactly who you are now, and they’re actively hunting for blood.”
He taps the printout. There are grainy, zoomed-in photos of them from the launch party last month—Ethan looking furious at a reporter, Owen laughing with a model, and Asher looking like he wants to murder the camera.
And in the background of all three photos, blurry but undeniably present, is me.
“You three remained anonymous for years,” Sterling continues. “That mystery was a massive asset. Now, you’re public figures, and public figures are heavily scrutinized.”
“We anticipated this,” Ethan replies calmly. “We have a strict PR strategy in place.”
“Do you?” Sterling shifts his cold, calculating gaze entirely to me. “Miss Hartley. You’re the voice of Mosaic, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re also… quite close to the founders?”
A spike of cold dread nails me to my chair.
Under the table, Asher shifts his laptop just enough so the hard plastic taps my elbow—a silent, grounding signal.
“I’m the Lead Strategist,” I say, keeping my voice remarkably steady despite the nausea churning in my gut. “I work closely with the executive team to ensure our messaging is aligned.”
“Of course,” Sterling smiles, though the expression never reaches his eyes.
“Here is the reality, gentlemen,” Sterling says, dropping the pleasantries. “The convertible notes from your Series A funding mature on Friday. That’s fifty million dollars in debt, plus interest.”
Ethan stiffens. “We were negotiating an extension.”
“The extension is off the table,” Sterling says, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “The market is volatile, and my consortium wants absolute security. So, here are your options.”
He raises his hand, holding up three fingers.
“Option one: you pay back the fifty million by Friday at five o’clock.”
“Done,” Owen says immediately, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll wire it from my personal trust right now. We don’t need your extension.”
Sterling smiles with a cold, reptilian satisfaction.
“Read the fine print, Owen. Clause fourteen, section C, clearly states that repayment must be made via company liquidity generated from operations. No external injections, and absolutely no founder bailouts. If you try to pay it with your personal trust, it counts as a change of control event.”
“Which instantly triggers the conversion,” Ethan realizes, his voice dropping to a deadly timbre. “You rigged the contract.”
“I secured my investment,” Sterling corrects. “You can’t pay it personally, and based on Mosaic’s current burn rate, the company certainly doesn’t have fifty million in liquid cash.”
He drops his index finger.
“Which leaves option two. The debt converts to equity. I acquire fifty-one percent of Mosaic, taking the majority and the board. And the very first thing I do with my new controlling stake is fire the three of you and install my own corporate team to manage the profits.”
The silence in the room is absolute, echoing like the heavy steel click of a trap snapping shut.
“You’re holding us hostage,” Owen says, his voice low and incredibly dangerous.
“I’m protecting my assets,” Sterling replies, utterly unfazed. He drops his middle finger, leaving only one. “Which brings us to option three.”
He slides the folder the rest of the way across the table.
“You sign the Series B term sheet today. This restructures the debt, keeps you in the driver’s seat, and leaves you in full control of your company.”
“With a condition,” Ethan guesses, staring at the manila folder like it’s a live explosive.
“With a protection,” Sterling clarifies. “I’m willing to let you keep your company, but I need a legal guarantee that you won’t tank the stock price with your… proclivities. We’ve added a strict Morality Clause to the term sheet.”
Owen lets out a short, sharp laugh. “A Morality Clause? What is this, the 1990s?”
“It’s a financial trigger,” Sterling says smoothly. “It stipulates that the founders must mitigate all operational risk. That means no public scandals, no media circuses, and certainly no PR nightmares stemming from… deviant lifestyles.”
Sterling looks at the three of them pointedly, and the silence that follows is deafening.
My lungs seize up, making the air in the room feel dangerously thin.
“Care to define deviant?” Ethan asks slowly, his voice dropping to a dangerous timber.
“Polyamory, communal living arrangements, or whatever brand of sexual deviancy the press decides to label it,” Sterling lists off effortlessly.
“Anything that alienates our core, traditional demographics and tanks the stock price.” He taps the heavy stack of paper.
“If any of you are found to be in violation of public decency, it triggers an immediate default event. The debt converts to equity, I take the board seats, you’re removed for cause, and you lose absolutely everything. ”
Sterling shifts his gaze back to me. “And just to be thorough, it also applies to key executives. Including you, Miss Hartley.”
I feel genuinely sick. The potent combination of blind panic and the suffocating smell of his cologne is completely overwhelming. I press my hand hard against my stomach, silently praying I don’t gag right over the table.
This isn’t just about losing funding; it’s a hostile takeover neatly packaged with a moral bow tie.
Ethan picks up the document and scans the first page. His face remains a mask of stone, but I watch his jaw muscle tick—a telltale sign that he’s a fraction of a second away from choosing violence.
“We value our privacy, Robert,” Ethan says finally. “But we aren’t monks.”
“I don’t expect monks,” Sterling says, pushing his chair back. “I expect professionals. Keep your private lives completely private, and keep them traditional.”
He pauses with his hand resting on the back of his chair.
“Actually, speaking of tradition,” Sterling adds casually. “I had breakfast at a café on Sixth Street on Sunday. It was a lovely morning.”
The entire room goes perfectly still.
“I saw a very interesting group hug on the sidewalk,” Sterling continues, his eyes locking onto Ethan. “Tell me, Ethan. Do you usually kiss your employees on the mouth before noon?”
Ethan doesn’t even flinch, but the temperature in the room drops below freezing.
“It was a celebration, Robert,” Ethan replies smoothly. “A goodbye to my sister. If you saw anything else, you seriously need to check your prescription.”
“Perhaps,” Sterling smiles with a shark’s quiet menace. “But perception is reality, and my perception is that you are reckless.”
He buttons his suit jacket slowly and deliberately.
“I heavily suggest you prioritize stability, gentlemen. Because if I’m forced to look closer at your management style, I guarantee I won’t like what I find.”
Without extending a hand, he turns toward the door. “You have forty-eight hours to sign. Good day.”
Two hours later, we’re locked inside the server room.
“He has us,” Owen growls, pacing the narrow aisle between the humming server racks like a caged animal. “The old bastard has us in an absolute chokehold.”
“He timed it perfectly,” Ethan says, leaning heavily against the main rack while staring at the floor. “He waited until the exact debt maturity date because he knew we couldn’t possibly raise fifty million in cash in three days.”
“If we don’t sign,” Asher says from his spot on the floor, surrounded by glowing monitors, “he immediately executes the conversion clause. He takes fifty-one percent, turning us into mere employees in our own company right before he fires us.”
“So we sign,” Ethan decides.
He finally looks up at me, his gray eyes looking entirely tortured. “We sign the term sheet, restructure the debt, and go completely dark. We make sure he never sees a single slip-up ever again.”
“It’s a loaded gun,” I say quietly. “And it’s pointed directly at our heads.”
Ethan pushes off the rack and walks over to me. He completely ignores Rule One. He ignores the cameras—which Asher already looped anyway—and reaches out to cup my face.
“I won’t let him take this from us,” Ethan vows. “I won’t let him destroy what we built.”
“So what do we do?” I whisper.
“We accept the terms and play his game, but we win.”
“How exactly do we win if we can’t even be us?” Owen asks, slumping against the far wall.
“We can be us,” Ethan says fiercely. “In the dark. In the shadows. We just can’t be us in the light, not until we generate enough capital to buy him out.”
“It creates a massive vulnerability,” Asher notes. “One slip, and we lose the company.”
“Then we make damn sure we don’t slip,” Ethan says. He looks at Owen. “I’m in.”
“I’m in,” Owen agrees, his jaw locked. “I’d rather hide than lose Mosaic.”
He looks at Asher.
“Calculated risk,” Asher nods. “Accepted.”
Ethan looks down at me. “Tessa?”
I look at my unit. My men. They’re entirely willing to sign away their freedom and live with a sword hanging over their heads just to keep the company—and to keep me.
“I’m in,” I whisper.
“Good,” Ethan says, pressing a hard kiss to my knuckles. “Now get back to your office. You’ve got a video call at one o’clock.”
“I do?”
“Yes,” Ethan says, checking his watch. “With Harper. She texted me this morning threatening to fly back and stab me if I kept you in a meeting past one.”
A fresh, icy wave of nausea rolls through my gut. “Oh god,” I groan. “I completely forgot.”
“Go,” Owen says, gently pulling me toward the door. “Put on your best innocent face. We’ll handle the contract.”
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting at my desk, staring blankly at my computer screen. The shrill ringing of the incoming video call is drilling a hole straight into my brain.
Incoming Call: Harper
I take a deep, shaky breath and check my reflection in the dark monitor. Do I look guilty? Do I look like a woman who was ravished in a broom closet three hours ago? Do I look like someone who just agreed to a fifty-million-dollar lie?
I quickly smooth my hair, force a bright smile onto my face, and click answer.
The screen instantly fills with pixelated sunshine. Harper is sitting at a bustling cafe table with a half-eaten croissant on her plate and the Eiffel Tower poking up in the background like a walking French cliché. She looks radiant, stylish, and effortlessly blonde.
“Bonjour, bitch!” she screams.
“Harper!” I smile, and for a second, it surprisingly feels real. “Look at you! You’re so ridiculously French.”
“I am, aren’t I?” She adjusts her red beret. “I’ve decided I’m never coming back. The cheese alone is totally worth the visa issues. How is Austin? Is it hot and miserable?”
I laugh, rolling my eyes at her dramatic flair. “It’s humid,” I say. “And incredibly busy. It’s quiet without you, though.”
“Is it?” She grins. “Or is it just boring? How are the boys? Are they behaving?”
“They’re working,” I say, forcing a casual shrug. “Ethan is in a mood because of the Series B funding, Owen is stressing out about user retention, and Asher is just… Asher.”
“So, totally normal,” she laughs. “I honestly worry about them, Tess. When I left Austin, Ethan looked like he was about to snap, and I swear Asher just looked lonely.”
She leans closer to her camera, her expression softening into something genuine and vulnerable.
“I’m really glad you’re there,” she says seriously. “Knowing you’re in the office with them makes me feel so much better. They actually listen to you. You’re the glue that keeps them human.”
I feel hot tears prick the corners of my eyes. I’m not the glue, I want to scream. I'm dynamite.
“I try,” I whisper instead.
“Hey,” she says, immediately noticing my expression. “Are you okay? You look incredibly stressed. Ethan sent me a text saying he’s stuck in a War Room meeting and might be late for our catch-up later. Is everything okay over there?”
“It is,” I assure her. “It’s just intense right now.”
“Well, don’t let them burn you out,” Harper orders strictly. “If Ethan makes you cry, you tell me. I’ll fly back and stab him with a salad fork.”
“I will,” I promise.
“I have to go,” she says, suddenly glancing off-screen. “Jean-Luc is downstairs with his scooter, which is both terribly dangerous and ridiculously romantic.”
“Go,” I laugh. “Don’t die.”
“Love you, Tess! Give the boys a hug for me, but not a weird one!”
She winks, and the screen goes abruptly black.
I sit alone at my desk, feeling entirely isolated despite the low hum of the bullpen around me.
Give the boys a hug for me.
I drop my head into my hands, letting the physical, crushing weight of the guilt wash over me. I’m lying to my best friend, deceiving a ruthless investor, and sleeping with my bosses.
I slowly look down at my stomach. I’ve been feeling completely off all week—nauseous, exhausted, and suddenly hypersensitive to smells. It’s probably just the stress from the launch aftermath and the exhausting toll of keeping so many massive secrets.
It has to be the stress.
I yank open my desk drawer, pull out a bottle of antacids, and quickly pop two of them into my mouth.
Just stress, I tell myself firmly.
But as I swallow the chalky tablets, a tiny, freezing spike of dread settles deep in my gut. It’s a terrifying variable I haven’t calculated yet.
What if it’s not stress?
I shove the thought away, because I absolutely cannot deal with what-ifs right now. I have a multimillion-dollar Morality Clause to dodge. I have a company to save. I have three men to protect.
I turn back to my computer and force myself to focus. The work continues, and the secret continues. But the clock is loudly ticking down, and I have a terrible feeling that Sterling’s brand of family values is about to make my life a lot more complicated.