JACK

Parker Simon is prettier than I remembered. And that's a fucking problem.

Not that I ever forgot her. I've spent the last seven years pretending she was just a blip, just one night of bad judgment. But the moment she stepped back into VT Global wearing that soft pink blouse and carrying a tote bag big enough to hold the secrets to my happiness, every lie I've told myself cracked down the middle.

She's still got those soft eyes, though her face has matured into something sharper, cleverer. Her brown curly hair is longer now. She had it twisted up on Friday, but it had fallen around her face and shoulders by the time we left the elevator. I remember exactly how those curls felt between my fingers.

I also remember how she looked at me that night seven years ago. Eyes wide. Lush lips parted. Her voice shaking after we finished when she said, "I can't believe we did that. Phil is going to kill us."

And I believed her. That she meant it. That it was a mistake.

Even though I hadn't been drunk. Even though I'd waited all damn night hoping for a sign she might want me too. Even though I still remember how she kissed like she meant it and clung to me like I was the only thing anchoring her.

She walked out before sunrise, whispering that we had to pretend it never happened. And I let her go.

I spent the rest of that day looking at the logistics. I'm ten years older than her. I had no business having a crush on her. Still don't.

Do I?

She's twenty-five now. Has twins. She's building a career⁠-

One that I might derail if I don't keep it in my pants.

But is that true, or is that conventional wisdom that sounds like common sense? We're both adults. We made an adult choice that night at the bar, and in the elevator Friday. It's no one else's business but our own.

Phil's goofy-ass face pops into my head, stealing the oxygen from that argument. He's been one of my best friends since prep school. He's why she left my bed so early the morning after. Ironically, he's the reason I've avoided him since I slept with his sister.

Avoided every family gathering Phil invited me to after that. Claimed scheduling conflicts. Blamed busy seasons. I even skipped a holiday ski trip to Aspen when I found out Parker was going. I'd be lying if I said I didn't worry about him finding out. He'd hate me for it. That'd be the end of our friendship.

Apparently, it's all well and good to be friends with a known womanizer as long as he doesn't fuck your sister.

I thought dodging invites would be enough distance between me and Parker. But then Phil mentioned she was looking for work, and somehow Gavin suggested we interview her. Said her résumé was solid. That she was smart, organized, good with people. I didn't disagree. I just kept my mouth shut, hoping for the best outcome for her. She deserves a good job.

And I deserve to have my ass kicked.

Now she's here. And she's not a kid anymore. None of us are. We have to start making better choices. We're professionals. We can do this. We'll just have to avoid being in an elevator together.

Which, of course, is exactly where we ended up. All four of us.

That elevator was never meant to get stuck. Never supposed to feel like a pressure cooker filled with hormones and heat and memories. But it did. And I kissed her. And she let me. No-she kissed me back. And then everything went sideways.

When I saw her panic, I didn't think about what I was doing. I just knew in my gut how to help her calm down. No thought went into it whatsoever, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

Now it's Monday morning, and I'm pacing in my office like a goddamn intern because a gossip blog has posted the audio of our encounter.

Not video. Thank God. Just sound. But that's damning enough.

Heavy breathing. Soft moans. A whispered "Jack, please." Some noise that could have been the elevator or could have been⁠-

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck.

JACK

Gavin's voice breaks through the speaker on my desk. "Conference room in five. Heather wants to go over damage control."

"I'm handling it."

"You sure? Because my mother already texted me three times and it's not even nine."

Of course she did.

Vivian Thatcher might not technically run VT Global anymore, but she's got her fingers in every polished glass surface we own. And her best friend Heather-the CHRO-is her eyes and ears. Always watching. Always judging. Always waiting to yank the reins if things get too messy.

I press the intercom. "Tell Heather I'll be there."

Then I press another button. "Call Danny Nguyen to my office."

Danny's the head of security. Ex-military. Sharp. Loyal. But if someone on his team leaked that audio, it means our house isn't in order.

A few minutes later, he walks in. "Morning, sir."

"Don't 'sir' me. Shut the door."

He does.

I turn my monitor so he can see the blog post. "How the fuck did they get this?"

Danny sighs. "I'm not sure. I'll pull badge logs and camera access. But we had issues that night with the rolling grid outages. Could've been stored locally and off-loaded by someone working late."

"Then you fire everyone who had access that night."

Danny raises a brow. "You want me to clean house?"

"I want you to clean house," I say, my voice flat. "If one of your team sold us out, they're all suspect."

He doesn't argue. Not at first. But then he crosses his arms. "Wasn't my guys having sex with an employee in a glass building."

My eyes cut to his. "What did you say?"

His jaw works. "Just saying what everyone's already thinking."

"If you want to keep your job, I suggest you stop thinking out loud. Fire them. Now."

He nods, jaw tight. "On it."

When he leaves, I press my fingers to my temples. It's not like I didn't know this would blow up. The second I touched her in that elevator, I knew.

And I did it anyway.

I've never been able to forget how she sounded in my arms the first time. And I never imagined she would look at me the way she did in that moment-like maybe she wanted me back.

Now it's a PR nightmare. Not the worst we've dealt with, but bad enough. Especially when it involves Phil's sister. Especially when it involves me.

Gavin's probably already spinning it as a consensual after-hours "intimate moment" between high-level staff. Harrison's likely brooding in the gym, pounding a heavy bag and blaming himself for not yanking the emergency override.

Me? I'm trying not to destroy everything that matters. My phone buzzes. It's a calendar update. Sent by Parker.

Project Kickoff: Spring Gala Proposal – 2 PM Today (conf room B)

I click it open. She's already outlined logistics, guest list targets, potential venue options, and a proposal doc titled "VT Looks Good Doing Good."

Smart. Polished. Already leaning into the kind of spin we need. It gives me an idea. I buzz Gavin. "Loop Heather in. I'm naming Parker Simon project lead for the spring gala."

There's a pause. "Isn't that a little..."

"Optical? Risky? Yeah. It's also smart. She's organized. She already started the damn doc. And if Heather wants proof we're taking advantage of our position, this is it. Parker just started here as your executive assistant, but if we're already grooming her for a higher position, Heather can't say too much about a role differential."

Another pause. "Right, so today is the day we're redefining the term 'thin excuse'?"

"Does it matter?"

He huffs. "I'll let her know."

A few minutes later, Heather calls.

"Jack."

"Heather."

"I was just about to request time on your calendar."

"Don't bother. I'm ahead of you."

"Really? Because the elevator footage⁠-"

"Doesn't exist," I cut in. "And if it does, it won't be leaving this building."

She hums. "Still, we need to follow protocol. I'm scheduling conduct reviews with everyone who was in that elevator. You understand."

"I do."

"And Parker?"

"Project lead for the gala. Smart, visible, controlled. Let the story become about charity, not scandal."

There's a beat of silence.

"Vivian would be proud."

"I'm not doing this for Vivian."

"No. But you're playing it her way."

The call ends, and I don't move for a minute.

Parker is going to hate this. She's the type who wants to blend in, not stand out. But there's no hiding now. She's the most visible employee in the company.

And somehow still the one thing I want most.

Which means I need to keep my hands to myself. Again. But God help me, I don't think I can. Not this time. Not now that I know how she tastes when she moans my name. Not now that I've felt her again.

And not when I'm pretty fucking sure I never stopped wanting her. I don't know how.

GAVIN

My office sits on the top floor of VT Global's headquarters in downtown Los Angeles, walled in glass on two sides with a view that stretches from the gridlock of Wilshire to the smog-softened edge of the Hollywood Hills. It's deliberate-everything in here is.

The desk is black marble, clean and cold, custom cut to fit the space without dominating it. The shelves behind me are walnut, built-in and backlit, lined with handpicked art books, a few quiet accolades, and one photo of my grandfather and me on the day I signed my first contract. That's the only personal item I allow.

The floor is polished concrete, waxed weekly. There's a bar cart in the corner-unused, mostly decorative-but it makes certain visitors more comfortable. The lighting is soft, adjustable, and strategically indirect, because I hate fluorescents and I like to see who sweats under pressure.

In short, it's perfect for me. Sadly, it's the only perfect part of my day.

My phone rings at 8:03 a.m., which is three minutes later than usual. For most people, that would mean nothing. For my mother, it means I should expect blood.

Vivian Thatcher is never late. She considers it both a professional weakness and a moral failing. If she's calling now-late, cold, and controlled-then something has already gone wrong, and she's chosen me as the first wound to suture or split wider.

I answer before it can ring again.

"Mother."

"Good morning, Gavin," she says, voice clipped like the heel of a Louboutin tapping tile.

"You're late," I say, because I know it annoys her.

"I was on with the Zurich office. They had a press leak involving a legacy model, a fertility clinic, and a defamation suit. I assume you've reviewed the Q2 projections?"

"I assume you remember you're retired."

Her voice sharpens. "Have you reviewed the Q2 projections?"

No point in goading her. She's on a tear. "I have. Up three point two percent across the board. Beauty margins are climbing thanks to influencer alignments. And the Thompson rollout performed thirty percent over forecast."

She exhales, and I can practically hear her eyes rolling. "I've seen the metrics. I'm asking for your opinion, not a book report."

"My opinion is that the numbers are strong. But it's a temporary bump unless we reinforce it with a credibility campaign. Gen Z trusts authenticity more than airbrush. We need to pivot strategy accordingly."

Vivian hums. That sound-the sound of consideration or condemnation, depending on what follows-always makes my jaw tighten. "How is the new assistant?"

I close the performance dashboard on my screen. Of course she wants to talk about Parker. She always circles back to what she actually wants to say once the formalities are out of the way.

"Parker Simon. Phil's sister."

"I know who she is."

"She started Friday."

"So I heard."

"From whom?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"Heather, of course." Heather Cloud, our CHRO and my mother's oldest friend, has a direct line to my mother that bypasses the org chart, protocol, and my patience. "She was surprised. I was shocked."

"Shocked that I hired a competent assistant?"

"That you hired someone whose family you've known since she was a teenager. It's a conflict."

"Hardly."

"It's nepotism."

"She went through the same interview process as every other candidate."

"Except that you knew her."

"Barely. She's Phil's sister-it's not like we hung out when we were kids. There's more than ten years between us. I also know half the top-level talent in this city. That's what happens when you're in business for your whole life."

"She's a risk."

"No," I say, fingers tightening around my stylus. "She's safe. That's the word you used last time, isn't it? Safe. Practically family. Not like Jenna, who you said flirted with half the office."

Vivian sniffs. "She did."

"She didn't. She's a lesbian. That cuts out more than half the office."

"She wore backless blouses."

"So have I."

She tsks loudly. "Gavin, don't get cute."

"I am what I am."

"She giggled in meetings."

"She increased client retention by eighteen percent and handled seven major product holiday parties without a single error."

"She sat on Harrison's desk."

"I don't care if she sat on the damn chandelier. She was a phenomenal assistant, and you ran her out of the company with your whispers and judgment." Not quite. But close enough.

Vivian's tone sharpens. "I didn't run anyone out. She left because she knew she wasn't getting promoted."

"She left because she married someone with more Oscars than you have cheekbones."

"That's not hard."

I allow myself one slow, deliberate breath. "She didn't flirt with anyone," I say. "And even if she had, that wouldn't have been a crime." Never mind the fact that Jenna fell for the same actress/influencer I was sleeping with. It happens. She was still a damn good executive assistant, and I won't stand for Mother disparaging her.

"She made the office feel undisciplined."

"An assistant didn't damage the brand. Your obsession with image did."

Silence. Only for a second. But long enough that I know I've scored a direct hit.

So, she pivots. "You'd have fewer headaches if you hired a man."

"And more lawsuits."

"Don't be glib."

"I'm not. You don't care about competence, you care about optics. You want VT to look perfect more than you want it to function well."

Her voice lowers to a hiss. "I spent thirty years building a brand synonymous with elegance, discretion, and restraint. I won't let that be undone by one ill-advised elevator ride."

The breath leaves me like a shot.

"Excuse me?"

"I've seen the blogs."

"Then you know there's no video. Just vague audio, barely audible at that."

"There doesn't need to be video, Gavin. People will believe what they want."

"Then they'll believe what I tell them. Isn't that the job of a public relations expert?"

She laughs, dry and humorless. "Oh, sweetheart. That's not how this works. You don't control the narrative anymore."

"I control this company."

"You think the board will protect you? When will you learn from your father's mistakes?"

I go still. "That's low."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"By implying I'm on the same path as my father?"

"He made one mistake, and it snowballed into twenty."

"I am not him." I don't mean to growl the words.

"You are your father's son."

"No. I am my mother's son. The one who learned to double-check every door for cameras and every room for whispers. The one who built this company with you breathing down his neck. And the one who's still doubling profits despite having to carry your legacy on his back."

She's quiet again. That unnerves me more than the yelling ever could. "I stepped back so you could take this company forward," she says, softly now. "But I didn't step away so you could burn it down."

"I'm not burning anything," I say. "I'm keeping it alive. You may have created VT, but I evolved it."

"Evolved it into what?"

"A place where we work with people like Parker Simon."

There's a pause, just before she hangs up. "My gut is never wrong."

"Maybe your gut is just scared of being irrelevant." I tap end call before she can say anything else she shouldn't.

The silence that follows is heavy. Not peaceful. Not cleansing. Just empty.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling, resisting the urge to throw something. I used to think I'd stop craving her approval once I got the CEO title. But I was wrong. The craving doesn't stop-it just gets buried deeper, disguised by paychecks and press releases and quarterly wins that never feel like enough.

I rub a hand across my mouth, forcing the tension from my jaw.

Parker. The name slides into my mind before I can stop it. She's not a kid anymore. Not the nerdy girl who hovered at the edge of every room, clutching a book and glancing around like she didn't belong. She's grown into something precise. Polished. Pretty in a way that makes men forget what room they're standing in.

And I've done everything I can to avoid her.

I gave her to Jack and Harrison. Not as an insult, not even as a test. Just...distance. She's better off in their departments. Safer. Away from me. Away from the part of me that remembers what she looked like in that elevator-pressed between three bodies and loving every second.

And what she sounded like when she moaned my name. God, I can still hear it.

Yes, technically she's my new assistant, not theirs, but if I don't keep her at a distance, this will blow up in our faces. I push back from my desk and stand, trying to work the tension from my shoulders.

This isn't sustainable. I can't keep pretending I'm not affected. And I can't keep entertaining lectures from a woman who thinks control and repression are the same thing.

Parker Simon is here. She's inside these walls. Wearing pencil skirts and smiling like she's not unraveling me one glance at a time. And it's only been three days. One, really. Two of those days were the weekend.