I scanned the salon like a paranoid spy. Brides everywhere. Mothers clutching tissues. Sales associates with superhuman hearing and zero chill about gossip.
"Too many ears in here," I whispered, suddenly aware that 'I'm fucking three brothers' wasn't exactly champagne-and-tulle conversation.
Amber's grin went full Cheshire Cat. "I already know who this is going to be about."
She spun back to the mirror, suddenly laser-focused on the dress like she'd just discovered the secret to cold fusion. "The sooner we choose this dress, the sooner we can be alone and talk properly."
Of course she knew. Amber had friend-telepathy that bordered on witchcraft.
We blazed through the remaining options with newfound efficiency. Yes to the A-line. No to the princess ballgown that made her look like a cupcake. Maybe to the sheath until we both started crying because apparently we were Those Girls now.
"This one," Amber declared, back in The Dress—the one that made her look like she'd stepped out of an architect's wet dream. Clean lines, perfect proportions, structural integrity that could withstand both dancing and ugly-crying.
"If this dress were a building," I said, because I'm incapable of normal observations, "it would win every fucking award. Like, Frank Lloyd Wright would weep."
"Only you would compare my wedding dress to architecture." She was crying. So was I. The saleswoman probably thought we were day-drinking disasters.
Transaction complete, dress ordered, we escaped to Amber and Bryson's apartment—a converted loft that somehow managed to be both Pinterest-worthy and actually livable. Gaming setup in one corner, Amber's marketing mood boards in another. Organized chaos at its finest.
"Bryson's at Kevin's," Amber announced, already pouring wine like a sommelier on a mission. "Some twelve-hour gaming marathon. We have the place."
My brain felt like a browser with too many tabs open. Sex tabs. Feeling tabs. What-the-fuck-am-I-doing tabs.
"Just between us," I said, which was basically asking Amber to take a sacred vow since she loved gossip like I loved structurally sound buildings.
"Obviously. Now spill before I combust."
Deep breath. Another gulp of wine. Fuck it.
"I've been sleeping with the Sullivan brothers."
"Called it!" Amber actually fist-pumped.
I barely had time to blink before her face morphed from smug to shocked to something close to religious ecstasy.
Then—wine. Everywhere. Amber was choking, laughing, possibly ascending to another plane of existence.
"DAKOTA FREEMAN. You absolute legend. You madwoman. You fucking icon." She was practically vibrating. "Tell me everything. Every. Single. Detail."
So I did. The Reddit post. The confrontation in the car. The night that rewired my brain. Stephen's morning ambush. Titus and his calculators. Shopping with Lily. Raphael's waterfront vulnerability. All of it came pouring out like a confessional on steroids.
"Holy shit," Amber breathed when I finally stopped talking. "You're living in a reverse harem novel. Like, an actual real-life one. Do you know how many women would kill for this?"
"I expected judgment," I admitted. "Maybe a PowerPoint about professional boundaries."
"Fuck that." She refilled our glasses. "Remember my junior year? The semester I dated Maria AND her roommate? Or when I had that thing with the entire volleyball team's starting lineup?"
"That was sequential, not simultaneous."
"Details." She waved dismissively. "Point is, life's too short for boring sex and missed opportunities. You've been celibate for three years, Dakota. THREE YEARS. You were basically a born-again virgin. Now you're making up for lost time with three gorgeous, successful men who worship you? That's not scandalous. That's efficient."
"Efficient?" I choked on my wine.
"Maximum pleasure, minimal time waste. Very you." She grinned wickedly. "You absolutely have to bring all three to the wedding."
"Amber, no—"
"Amber, yes. Can you imagine the photos? The dancing? The way every single person will be jealous as fuck?" She was already planning it, I could see the wheels turning. "Just don't outshine me and Bryson too much. It's still our day."
"My father will literally have a stroke if he finds out."
Her expression shifted, suddenly serious. "Okay, let's talk about that. What's the worst-case scenario here?"
"He finds out. Decides I'm a whore unfit to inherit Freeman Industries. Blackballs me from the industry. I end up living under a bridge making tiny cardboard buildings for spare change."
"That's... dramatically specific."
"I've thought about it a lot."
Amber leaned forward, catching my hands. "Listen to me. Your father's opinion stopped mattering the day he made it clear you'd never be good enough just for being born without a penis. You're brilliant. You're talented. You're building your own future with or without his approval."
"But—"
"No buts. You're already proving yourself on the Meridian Tower project. You think the Sullivans would risk a two-billion-dollar deal just to get laid? They see your value. Professional and personal." She squeezed my hands. "Be proud of who you are, Dakota. You're creating your best life. If your father can't see that, fuck him."
The tears came out of nowhere. Not cute wedding dress tears—ugly, snotty, years-of-daddy-issues tears.
"I'm scared," I admitted. "What if I lose everything?"
"Then you build something better," Amber said simply. "With three hot architects helping with the blueprints."
We spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between wedding planning and dissecting every interaction I'd had with the brothers. Amber's enthusiasm was infectious, her lack of judgment revolutionary.
By the time I left, my head felt clearer than it had in weeks.
My apartment building's hallway smelled like Indian food and weed—the bougie young professional special. But at my door, something else caught my attention.
Flowers. Not grocery store bullshit—real flowers. The kind that required actual thought and probably a consultation with a florist who used words like "arrangement" and "seasonal blooms."
My hands shook as I unlocked the door, scooping up the bouquet. White roses mixed with something purple I couldn't identify. Elegant. Expensive. Intentionally chosen.
The card was simple, cream-colored stock that felt expensive between my fingers. My heart hammered as I opened it, one question screaming through my brain:
Which brother had sent them?
Or—and this thought made my knees weak—had they coordinated? Was this some kind of collective gesture? A three-way romantic offensive that I was absolutely not emotionally prepared for?
The possibilities spun out in my mind. Stephen's charming confidence. Titus's thoughtful intensity. Raphael's controlled passion. Any of them could have chosen these flowers. All of them could have.
I stood in my doorway, flowers in one hand, card in the other, realizing I was completely, utterly, magnificently fucked.
And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly where I wanted to be.