"No."
The word came out like a gunshot. Clean. Final. No room for negotiation.
"We won't be discussing anything further right now." I stood, hands flat on the conference table, channeling every ounce of don't-fuck-with-me energy I possessed. "This weekend is Amber's bachelorette party, and I'm the host. That, for the moment, is more important than whatever emotional clusterfuck you're trying to create."
Stephen opened his mouth. I shut that shit down immediately.
"You want to talk about unfair?" My voice could've frozen hell. "Your careers are bulletproof. Mine? One rumor about me sleeping my way to the top and I'm done. Finished. Every accomplishment reduced to 'she must've fucked someone for that.' So excuse me if I'm not ready to make life-altering decisions based on your sudden need for clarity."
Raphael stepped forward, hands raised in that universal 'calm down' gesture that has literally never calmed a woman down in the history of mankind.
"Dakota—"
"Oh, and speaking of clarity," I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Amber wants me to bring all three of you to her wedding. As my dates. Plural."
The room went so quiet I could hear the HVAC system judging us.
"What?" Titus's voice cracked. Actually cracked. File that under things I never thought I'd witness.
"Yeah. My best friend, in her infinite wisdom and probable tequila haze, decided it would be 'so fun' if I brought my three... whatever you are... to her wedding." I grabbed my laptop, shoving it into my bag with unnecessary force. "No one else knows. Yet. But given how today's going, I'm sure that'll change soon enough."
"Dakota, we need to discuss—" Raphael started.
"You know what? Right now, I'm not even sure I want to attend the wedding with any of you." The words came out raw, honest, more painful than I expected. "You each need to think about what you really feel for me. Not what you want. Not what's exciting or forbidden or whatever the fuck this has been. What you actually feel."
I headed for the door, then turned back. "I won't make decisions for all four of us. Playing with desire is one thing—making a commitment is something entirely different. Figure out which one you're actually asking for."
The dramatic exit would’ve been perfect—heels clicking, hair flipping, dignity intact—if I hadn’t had to double back for the goddamn flowers. The pause at the door killed the momentum, but whatever cinematic power I lost, I made up for in spite.
I marched back, grabbed the oversized bouquet, and hauled it to the breakroom trash can. It took two trash bags and some aggressive shoving to make it fit.
I double-bagged it like evidence from a scandal—because professionally, that’s exactly what it was. A violation of boundaries. A neon sign reading compromised.
Thursday and Friday passed in a blur of aggressive professionalism—the kind that felt like a full-contact sport. We were polite. Efficient. Carefully distant.
Four people who absolutely, definitely were not sleeping together. No tension, no history, no heat simmering beneath every glance. Nothing to see here, folks.
Every interaction was coated in a layer of corporate chill so thick it could’ve been trademarked. We talked deadlines, budgets, materials. Not a single stray look. Not one loaded comment. Just sterile, grown-up competence.
And me? I buried myself in work and bachelorette party planning with a level of intensity usually reserved for covert military operations.
Spreadsheets. Color-coded timelines. Emergency glitter kits. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the fact that I was walking through minefields made of past decisions and unspoken feelings.
Saturday night was supposed to be simple: get Amber wasted, make questionable decisions, standard bachelorette protocol. And credit where it's due—we fucking delivered.
Five women in our late twenties, clinging to the illusion that we could still party like we did at twenty-one. The night kicked off with shots that tasted like fun and burned like poor decisions—followed by dancing that left us all one wrong move away from needing a chiropractor.
We screamed lyrics into a karaoke mic like we were headlining Madison Square Garden, even though the sounds coming out of our mouths definitely violated several local noise ordinances. There was glitter involved somehow. Possibly tears. Maybe both.
It was messy, loud, and absolutely perfect.
"I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUU," Amber screamed into the microphone, mascara streaming, tiara crooked, sash reading "BRIDE TO BE" in glitter that would haunt my apartment for months.
By 2 AM, I was hauling two hundred pounds of drunk bride-to-be up three flights of stairs because elevators are for people who plan ahead.
"You're the best," Amber slurred against my shoulder. "Like, the actual best. I love you so much. You know what? You should marry Stephen. No wait—Titus. Actually, Raphael. Fuck it, marry all of them. Is that legal?"
"Only in Utah," I grunted, adjusting my grip. "And I think you need a religious exemption."
Bryson opened the door before I could knock, looking concerned and adorable in Star Wars pajamas. "Jesus, I was about to send a search party. Why didn't you call?"
"I was in charge tonight," I hiccupped, realizing I was significantly less sober than I thought. "Calling for help seemed like admitting defeat."
We maneuvered Amber to bed, Bryson handling her with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this dance before. She mumbled something about unicorns and threesomes before passing out completely.
In the kitchen, Bryson started brewing coffee without asking. Best friend telepathy—he knew I wasn't done with the night yet.
"You okay?" He slid a mug across the counter. "You look like you're gonna puke."
"Not from alcohol." I wrapped my hands around the ceramic, letting the heat ground me. "From my life."
"Dakota." His voice went soft, concerned. "Talk to me. We've been best friends since high school. Whatever it is, I'm here."
And that's what broke me. Not Stephen's ultimatum. Not the professional tightrope. Not even the constant emotional whiplash of wanting three men who made me question everything. It was Bryson's simple, uncomplicated friendship that made the walls finally crumble.
The tears came fast and ugly. Full body sobs that probably woke the neighbors. Bryson looked like I'd just told him I was dying, hands fluttering uselessly between comfort and panic.