"Tell Lily I said hi?" I asked Raphael as he shrugged on his jacket, heading out to pick up his daughter.
"Of course," he said, and the smile that crossed his face did absolutely illegal things to my cardiovascular system.
After he left, I sprawled on my couch with my laptop, diving into bachelorette party planning hell.
Amber wanted "intimate and classy," which in Amber-speak meant "get me drunk enough to forget I'm committing to one penis forever."
Five girls total—me, the bride-to-be, and three of her college friends who I'd met exactly twice and remembered exactly nothing about except one had a laugh like a dying seal.
Monday morning, I woke up and chose violence. By which I mean, I chose the power suit that made my ass look phenomenal and paired it with heels that could double as weapons.
The Meridian Tower client meeting wasn't just critical—it was my chance to prove I belonged in rooms full of older white dudes who still thought "lady architect" was an oxymoron.
"Holy shit," Stephen breathed when I walked into our pre-meeting huddle at Sullivan Stone Company.
"You look..." Titus started, then stopped, which for him was basically a Shakespearean sonnet about my appearance.
Raphael just stared, jaw tight, eyes dark. "We're going to have a problem today."
"What problem?" I asked, checking my phone for any last-minute client emails.
"Every man in that room is going to be looking at you instead of the blueprints," he growled.
"Good," I shot back. "Maybe they'll actually agree to our proposals while they're distracted."
The conference room at Meridian Corp was exactly what I expected—mahogany everything, leather chairs that cost more than my car, and me as the only person without a Y chromosome.
I set up my presentation materials while the Sullivan brothers arranged themselves strategically around me like very well-dressed guard dogs.
Everything started fine. Professional. My initial presentation killed—I could see it in their faces, the shift from skepticism to genuine interest as I walked them through our innovative structural solutions. I was crushing it.
Then Brad happened. Or was it Chad? Brett? Whatever—he was Generic White Guy #3 from their team, and he decided my presentation was the perfect time to audition for Creep of the Year.
"Fascinating stress load calculations," he said, leaning way too far into my personal space. "Maybe we could discuss them further over dinner? I know a place that's much more... comfortable than this boardroom."
The air turned ice-cold in an instant. I could almost hear the sound of the Sullivan brothers clenching their jaws in unison.
"The only thing we'll be discussing," I said, voice sugar-sweet, "is work."
But Chad-Brad-Brett wasn't done. "Come on, sweetheart. All work and no play..."
"Makes Dakota an extremely successful architect who doesn't have time for your bullshit," Titus cut in, his tone so cold it could've flash-frozen hell.
Stephen's charming mask slipped entirely. "I believe Ms. Freeman's presentation speaks for itself. As does her complete lack of interest in your unprofessional advances."
Raphael didn't say anything. He just stared at the guy with the kind of expression that made grown men reconsider their life choices. The kind that whispered 'I know where you live and how to hide bodies'.
Brad-Chad-Brett's colleagues suddenly found their phones fascinating. Their lead negotiator cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should focus on the structural specifications?"
The rest of the meeting was tense but productive. Professional victory tasted sweet, even with the bitter aftertaste of casual sexism.
"Lunch?" Stephen suggested as we packed up, his hand finding the small of my back. "I'm thinking somewhere private. I need to decompress before I do something that violates my probation."
"You don't have probation," I pointed out.
"I will if I ever see that asshole again," he muttered.
We ordered Thai food and headed to Stephen's place, the closest of their homes to the client's office. The brothers were still radiating barely contained fury, which was simultaneously concerning and weirdly hot.
"You handled that well," Raphael said as we spread containers across Stephen's kitchen island.
"What was I supposed to do? Cry? Throw my heel at him?" I stabbed at my pad thai with perhaps excessive force. "I've been dealing with Chads since freshman year architecture. They're like cockroaches—gross, persistent, and somehow always in spaces where they don't belong."
"We could make him disappear," Titus offered casually, like he was suggesting we order dessert.
"No murder," I said firmly.
"Who said anything about murder?" Stephen asked, his golden retriever persona nowhere to be found. "There are other ways to make someone regret their choices."
"Down, boys," I said, but heat pooled in my stomach at their protective fury. "I'm fine. Really. Just another Monday in corporate America."
"You shouldn't have to be fine with it," Raphael's voice was rough. "You shouldn't have to deal with that shit."
"No, I shouldn't," I agreed. "But here we are. Welcome to being a woman in male-dominated fields. The fun never stops."
The atmosphere shifted, tension morphing from anger to something else entirely. Something charged and familiar. Stephen moved closer, caging me against the counter.
"You know what I wanted to do?" he asked, voice low and dangerous. "When he was looking at you like that?"
"Stephen..." I warned, but my voice came out breathy.
"I wanted to bend you over that conference table," he continued, "and show everyone in that room exactly who you belong to."
"I don't belong to anyone," I shot back, but my body betrayed me, responding to the possessiveness in his tone.
"No?" Titus pressed against my back, his hands settling on my hips. "Then why are you shaking?"
"Because I'm pissed off," I lied.
"Liar," Raphael rumbled, moving to complete the triangle, boxing me in. "You're shaking because you want this as much as we do."
The air crackled between us, heavy with promise and need. This felt exactly like that first night—inevitable, explosive, wonderfully destructive to any sense of professional boundaries.
"We can't just fuck every time someone pisses us off," I protested weakly.
Stephen's laugh was dark. "Watch us."
And then his mouth was on mine, and I stopped pretending I wanted to be anywhere else.
Because here's the truth they don't put in the corporate handbooks: Sometimes the best response to a shitty day is to let three dangerously possessive men remind you exactly how worshipped you deserve to be.
Even if it's completely inappropriate. Especially then.