Page 75 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

"I'm terrified, Tess," he'd admitted, stirring the simmering sauce. "I have no idea how to be a father. And twins..." He'd shaken his head, a rueful smile playing at his lips. "But maybe this is the universe’s way of making me refocus on what’s truly important."

"I'm scared too. I never imagined having one baby at this point, let alone two."

He'd nodded, adding cream to the pan. "But we're in this together, right?"

The question had hung between us, weighted with all its implications. Not just about the babies, but about us—this relationship that started as a convenient arrangement and transformed into something neither of us would have ever anticipated.

"Together," I'd agreed, the word feeling like a promise.

Over perfectly cooked penne with chicken and sun-dried tomato sauce we'd laughed so hard coming up with ridiculous baby names for twins.

"If they're boys, we could go with something classical," Charlie had suggested, refilling my water glass. "Wolfgang and Amadeus?"

I'd nearly choked on my pasta. "Yes! Or do you like Ludwig and Johann better?"

"Ooh, so tough to pick between those," he had said, slapping his thigh. “Or…we could go in a totally different direction. How about Cappuccino and Espresso? That will be perfect if they want to eventually take over Emerald City."

I'd thrown my napkin at him, laughing despite myself. "Now you're just being ridiculous."

"Okay, okay. What about Theodore and Frederick?"

"Better. But wouldn't they naturally become Teddy and Freddy? That's too cutesy."

"Teddy and Freddy Astor," he'd mused, and the casual assumption that the babies would have his last name had sent a strange flutter through me—not disagreement, just the realization of how many decisions lay ahead of us.

"What if they're girls?" I'd asked, twirling pasta around my fork.

"Coda and Cadenza," he'd suggested with a perfectly straight face.

"You've been googling music terms, haven't you?"

"Maybe."

We'd continued this way through dinner, tossing increasingly ridiculous names back and forth, and for a while, it had felt normal. Like we weren't struggling to figure out what we were to each other while simultaneously preparing for twins.

After dinner, curled on the couch, Charlie had grown serious again.

"I want to be there for you," he'd said, his hand finding mine. "For the babies. I can't promise I'll be perfect at it. I'll probably mess up a lot. But I'm in this, Tess. All the way."

I'd looked at him then and seen the determination in his eyes, mixed with vulnerability I'd rarely glimpsed before. In that moment, I'd believed him.

Now, with two hours until the biggest audition of my life, I pick up my bow, and run through a series of scales to warm up my fingers. The familiar routine calms me and everything else fades away.

Today, I have just one task: play my heart out for the Seattle Symphony and take home the prize.

My phone chimes again with another text from Charlie just as I’m walking out the door:They'd be fools not to hireyou. But if for some reason they don’t, we'll figure something else out. I've got you.

I read the message twice, warmth spreading through my chest. Then I pick up my cello case and music folder, take a deep breath, and head for the door. Whatever happens at this audition, Charlie's right—we'll figure it out together.

The marble lobby of Benaroya Hall rises around me, all soaring ceilings and polished surfaces that reflect the morning light in glittering fragments. I've performed here before with PacWest, but walking through these doors as an auditioner feels different.

My cello case bumps gently against my leg as I check in with the receptionist, her crisp efficiency a sharp contrast to the churning in my stomach. The weight of everything—the twins, Charlie, my crumbling career at PacWest—presses down on my shoulders, but I straighten my spine against it. For the next thirty minutes, nothing exists but my cello and the music.

A young man in a Seattle Symphony polo shirt leads me down a corridor to a small practice room. "You'll warm up here," he says. "Someone will come get you when they're ready."

I nod, suddenly unable to form words. The practice room is familiar territory—windowless, sound-insulated, containing nothing but a chair, a music stand, and a small table. I unpack my cello, my fingers moving through the ritual they've performed thousands of times: loosening the case latches, lifting out the instrument, securing the endpin, tightening the bow.

Twenty minutes later, another staff member appears. "They're ready for you, Ms. Whitlock."

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