Grace’s POV
Two weeks since Ryan touched me again in that desperate, possessive way against our bedroom wall.
Two weeks of my husband returning piece by piece—morning kisses, lingering looks across the dinner table that hold actual warmth, his hand finding mine during dinner with a gentleness I'd forgotten existed.
But while Ryan grows closer, Cole has become a ghost in our own house, leaving before I wake, returning after I'm in bed, sleeping on the couch more often than in his designated guest room.
Tonight, we sit at dinner in suffocating silence.
I've made Cole's favorite—the pasta with garlic and red peppers I promised him two weeks ago when he never came home that night, when he finally returned at 2 AM smelling like whiskey and another woman's perfume.
Ryan cuts his chicken with mechanical precision while Cole pushes food around his plate like a sullen teenager.
The only sound is silverware against plates, the tick of the kitchen clock, the weight of everything we're not saying.
"We need to talk," Ryan announces suddenly, setting down his fork with decisive finality, unable to bear the silence anymore. "All three of us. This isn't sustainable."
Cole doesn't look up from his plate where he's building tiny mountains of pasta he won't eat. "About what?"
"About why you're avoiding us," I say, finding my voice despite the knot in my throat. "You've been distant lately. You leave before breakfast, you come home after midnight, you…"
You stopped touching me, I think desperately but can't say out loud. You haven't kissed me in two weeks, haven't held my hand, haven't even looked at me properly. I start to forget how good you feel.
"Maybe I'm busy," Cole says flatly.
"With what? The blonde from the bar?" The words escape before I can stop them, accusation bleeding through despite my attempt at casual tone.
Cole's fork clatters onto his plate with enough force to chip the ceramic. "How did you…"
"Derek saw you." Ryan joins, precise and cold. "We have rules. That violates the contract. No one outside the three of us. You signed it, Cole. Your signature is right there under mine."
"I didn't fuck her," Cole says through gritted teeth.
"But you wanted to." Ryan's statement hangs in the air like an accusation.
"Of course I wanted to!"
Cole explodes suddenly, standing so abruptly his chair tips backward.
"I'm not your hired dick, you know? You two are married, you made vows at an altar. I didn't make any promises. So yeah, I wanted to fuck someone who actually wanted me back without a permission slip from her husband!"
"That's not what you are," I protest weakly, but even I can hear how hollow it sounds.
"Let's be honest about what this really is."
Cole's eyes are wild now, desperate and angry and hurt all at once.
"Ryan needed someone to fuck his wife so he could get his mojo back. Mission accomplished. He's touching you again, fucks you again, being a husband again. So what exactly am I still doing here?"
"You're not honoring our agreement," Ryan says coldly, falling back on contracts and logic like they're shields.
"Oh, you want the contract honored?" Something snaps in Cole's expression, becomes dangerous and reckless. "You want me to fulfill my obligations? Fine. Let me show you exactly what you bought."
Before I can process what's happening, Cole moves toward me with predatory intent, his hands gripping my shoulders with force that isn't painful but isn't gentle either.
He spins me around to face the table, and I squeak in surprise as he bends me forward, his body pressing against my back in a parody of intimacy.
"Cole, what are you—"
His hand slides up my thigh, lifting my skirt roughly, his fingers finding the edge of my underwear with mechanical precision, nothing like his usual reverent touch.
"This is what you want, right Ryan?"
His voice is ugly, mocking, nothing like the man who held me while I cried.
"To watch me fuck your wife? Get your rocks off while I do the dirty work? Should I bend her over this table right now, make her moan for you while you take notes on technique?"
"Get off her!" Ryan moves faster than I've ever seen him, shoving Cole backward with enough force to send him stumbling.
Ryan steps protectively in front of me, his body a wall between us. "Don't you dare treat her like that! She's not some object for you to use to make a point. What the hell has gotten into you?"
They stand chest to chest, both breathing hard, testosterone and hurt feelings charging the air between them. Cole's fists clench and unclench at his sides while Ryan's jaw works with barely contained fury.
For a moment, I think they might actually fight—these two men who've been best friends for over a decade, about to throw punches over me.
"You want to know what's gotten into me? I'm tired. That's what's gotten into me. Tired of living in someone else's house, tired of following someone else's rules, tired of pretending this bizarre situation is normal.”
Cole's voice cracks with something raw. “I can't do this anymore—the scheduled intimacy, the contracts, the watching and being watched. It's fucked up."
The words hang between us like smoke. Ryan's jaw tightens, and I can't breathe, can't move, can't do anything but stand there with my skirt still askew from Cole's rough handling.
"This isn't me."
Cole’s running his hands through his hair in agitation.
"I don't do domestic arrangements. I don't do three-way contracts. I agreed to help out a friend, but this has turned into something else entirely, and I can't… I just can't do it anymore."
"Cole…" I start, reaching for him, but he steps back sharply.
"Fuck this," Cole spits suddenly, all his frustration condensing into two words. "And fuck your contract."
He turns toward the door with decisive finality, and I know with crystalline clarity that if he walks out now, he's not coming back. "Cole, please…"
But the door slams behind him with devastating force, the sound echoing through the house like thunder.
I stand trembling in the sudden silence, my body still positioned awkwardly from his rough handling, my heart splitting down the middle.
Ryan's arms come around me immediately, pulling me against his chest, his hand stroking my hair with gentle comfort. "It's okay," he murmurs against my temple. "I've got you. You're safe."
But I stare at the door Cole just walked through, and safe is the last thing I feel. My husband holds me, solid and present and mine, while the broken man who just walked away takes something essential with him.
Ryan's embrace feels like a cage and salvation simultaneously, and I don't know which one I need more or which one I can live without.