Monday morning arrived and I did something revolutionary: absolutely fucking nothing.
No alarm. No panic-scrolling through emails. No pretending I gave a shit about structural load calculations. Just me, my bed, and the radical act of sleeping until my body decided it was done.
Noon. My body decided noon was acceptable.
I stretched like a cat who'd discovered opposable thumbs, every muscle remembering what rest felt like. Wild concept—treating your body like something other than a machine designed to generate profit for disappointed fathers.
The massage appointment I booked was criminal. Two hours. Full body. The kind that makes you question if you've ever actually been relaxed before. The masseuse worked out knots I'd been cultivating since freshman year. Each muscle she touched seemed to exhale years of trying to be perfect.
"You carry a lot of tension," she observed, digging into a particularly stubborn spot between my shoulders.
"I carry a lot of everything," I mumbled into the face cradle.
By the time she finished, I felt like I'd been disassembled and rebuilt. Better. Stronger. Like maybe I could actually handle whatever shitshow awaited me.
Back home, I made tea and did something I'd been avoiding for days: thinking.
Not the spiraling, panic-driven kind. The real kind. The sitting-in-silence-with-your-truth kind.
I pulled up their photos online—professional headshots from various architectural magazines. Stephen's megawatt smile that hid his possessive streak. Titus's intense gaze that saw everything but struggled to speak it. Raphael's commanding presence softened only by thoughts of his daughter.
"Fuck," I said to my empty apartment.
Because there it was. The truth I'd been dodging like it had a restraining order.
I was in love with all three of them.
Not crushing. Not just horny. Not even that comfortable "I could see myself with them" feeling. Full-blown, chest-exploding, life-ruining love. The kind that made you do stupid things like tell your father to fuck off and torch your career.
Three different men. Three different loves. Each irreplaceable.
Stephen made me feel desired in ways that should be illegal. His possessiveness shouldn't turn me on, but it did. God help me, it really did.
Titus made me feel understood without words. His emotional blindness somehow made him see me clearer than anyone else.
Raphael made me feel safe to be vulnerable. His walls called to mine, two damaged people finding strength in shared brokenness.
No single person could be all three. No single person should have to be.
"Well, shit," I told Stephen's photo. "This complicates things."
My phone sat on the coffee table, judging me. Time to face the music.
I powered it on and watched the screen explode like digital fireworks. Missed calls. Texts. Voicemails from numbers I recognized and some I didn't.
Three threads stood out:
Stephen: Dakota, what happened? Please talk to us.
Titus: We'll fix it. Don't shut us out.
Raphael: Answer your fucking phone. We're worried.
Amber's thread was different: Babe, you okay? Bryson said you were pretty wrecked Saturday. Also why is your phone off? Did you finally snap and murder someone? Need an alibi?
I called Amber first. Safe choice.
"You're alive!" Her voice was pure relief. "I was starting to plan your memorial service. Very tasteful. Lots of architects crying into their blueprints."
"Can I come over?"
"Obviously. Wine or tequila?"
"Tea. I need to stay sober for this conversation."
"Fuck. That serious?"
"That serious."
I texted the brothers next: I'm fine. We'll talk tomorrow at work. Just need tonight.
Then I drove to salvation in the form of my best friends' overpriced apartment.
Bryson opened the door looking concerned. "You look better than Saturday."
"Low bar, but thanks."
Amber had already set up what she called the "emotional crisis station"—couch, blankets, tea, and enough tissues to handle a small flood.
"Spill," she commanded.
So I did. Every awful detail of Sunday's confrontation. My father's face when I told him to give the firm away. Walking out. Choosing myself.
"Holy shit," Amber breathed. "You actually did it. You told Bruce Freeman to fuck off."
"Language was slightly more professional, but yeah."
"I'm so fucking proud of you," she said, tackling me in a hug that smelled like vanilla and vindication.
Bryson nodded from his usual sprawl in the chair, legs kicked up. “About time someone stood up to him. Dude’s been treating you like a consolation prize your whole life.”
“If I leave the firm—” I started, heart thudding.
“Then we leave too,” Amber cut in before I could even finish.
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” she snapped, not unkindly. Her tone left no room for argument. “We’re a package deal. Always have been. You jump, we jump. That’s how this works.”
“Like the Titanic,” Bryson chimed in helpfully.
“Terrible metaphor,” Amber muttered, side-eyeing him. “Everyone dies in that one.”
“But they die together?”
“Still not helping.”
I laughed—like, really laughed. The kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep, cracking through the weight I’d been dragging around for days.
These idiots. My idiots. My ride-or-die crew who knew every unflattering truth about me and still showed up. My chosen family who saw the chaos, the ambition, the bruised pride—and loved me anyway.
“For real though,” Bryson said, his voice dropping into something more sincere. “You’re the strongest person I know. And I know Amber, so that’s saying something.”
“Hey!” Amber protested, mouth open in mock offense.
“You cried at a commercial yesterday.”
“It was about dogs finding homes!” she shot back, defensive and still clearly a little emotional about it.
“And that’s beautiful,” I said, grinning at both of them. “You two are completely unhinged.”
“Damn right,” Bryson said, raising his soda like a toast.
Amber nudged my knee with hers. “And we’re yours. So wherever you go next? We’re already there.”
I left an hour later, heart full and spirit lifted. Whatever happened next, I wouldn't face it alone. I had people. Good people. People who'd jump off sinking ships with me.
The universe, however, had other plans.
Because standing outside my apartment building, looking like they'd been there since the dawn of time, were all three Sullivan brothers.
Stephen was pacing, energy radiating off him in waves. Titus leaned against the wall, arms crossed, stillness that meant he was thinking too hard. Raphael stood in the middle, presence commanding enough to stop traffic.
They looked up as I approached. Three sets of eyes. Three different expressions of worry, frustration, and something else that made my chest tight.
Time to stop running from the truth. All of it.