Waking up in a tangle of expensive sheets and even more expensive men should be illegal. Or at least require a warning label: May cause existential crisis and inability to return to regular programming.
Stephen's arm draped across my waist. Titus's breath warm against my shoulder. Raphael's hand possessively gripping my hip even in sleep. Last night had been... fuck. Last night had rewritten my entire understanding of physics, pleasure, and the human body's capacity for absolute destruction in the best way possible.
"Stop thinking so loud," Stephen mumbled against my neck. "It's too early for your brain to be doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"That thing where you overthink everything instead of just accepting you're living your best life."
He had a point. Annoying bastard.
Two weeks later, we were finalizing Meridian Tower documentation at Sullivan Stone when I finally said "I'm done at Freeman Industries."
The brothers looked up from their respective screens with synchronized concern. We'd turned their main conference room into our unofficial war room—blueprints everywhere, models on every surface, enough coffee to kill a horse.
"He found the Reddit post," I continued, spinning my pen between my fingers. "Never asked directly if I was fucking you all, but the trust is gone. Can't work for someone who looks at me like I'm a disappointment with legs."
Raphael's jaw went tight. "His loss."
"We'll handle it," Titus said quietly, already calculating something behind those intense eyes.
"Handle what?" I asked, though I already knew. These three didn't do anything halfway.
Stephen leaned back, smile sharp as a blade. "Freeman Industries. Whether daddy dearest hands it over or not, that firm is yours. We'll merge it, acquire it, hostile takeover if necessary. Whatever it takes."
"You can't just—"
"Watch us," all three said simultaneously.
Fucking hell. Dating billionaire business sharks had perks I hadn't fully calculated. They went ruthless for people they loved, corporate edition.
"I don't need you to fight my battles," I protested.
"No," Raphael agreed. "But you'll let us fight beside you. That's what this is, Dakota. Partnership."
Partnership. The word hit different when you'd seen these men demolish board rooms and then fall apart in your arms.
One month later, Meridian Tower wrapped with the kind of success that made careers. The ribbon cutting was a blur of cameras and champagne, but what stuck was the four of us, standing together as equals, watching our vision pierce the skyline.
Then the accolades started rolling in.
Architectural Digest. Forbes. The fucking New Yorker.
"Revolutionary sustainable design."
"Innovative structural solutions."
"The future of urban architecture."
My design elements were becoming industry standard. Everything I'd wanted to prove, proven.
"How does it feel?" A reporter shoved a microphone in my face at some awards gala I'd been forced to attend. "Being the youngest lead architect on a project of this magnitude?"
"Like vindication tastes better than champagne," I answered, not caring if it was PR-appropriate.
Stephen materialized at my elbow, hand sliding to my lower back. "She's being modest. Dakota Freeman is reshaping how we think about sustainable urban design."
The reporter's eyes tracked between us, clearly smelling gossip. "And your relationship to the Sullivan brothers is...?"
"Extensive," I said, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing tray.
The reporter blinked, caught off guard by my answer, but I was already turning away, the bubbles from the champagne fizzing on my tongue like tiny victories. Let them speculate. Let them guess. I was done explaining myself.
Life moved fast after that.
The call came on a Tuesday. I was sketching our dream house—four bedrooms, shared spaces, a library that would make Belle weep—when my phone rang.
"Dakota." My father's voice, careful and measured.
"Bruce." Because I was done with 'Dad' when he'd made it clear I was a disappointment.
"The Meridian Tower project... you exceeded every expectation."
"I know."
Silence. Then: "The firm is yours. Papers will be sent tomorrow."
My pencil stopped moving. "What?"
"Freeman Industries. It's yours. You’ve saved it, you've proven... more than proven..." He cleared his throat. "I was wrong. About many things."
"My personal life included?"
Another pause. "Anyone who makes you this successful, this... incandescent... they have my approval. Even if I don't understand it."
"You don't have to understand it," I said quietly. "Just accept it."
"I'm trying." The admission sounded physically painful. "I want you to be happy, Dakota. Even if that happiness looks different than I imagined."
Life didn’t return to normal—it became something better. Quieter. Realer.
We hung up without grand declarations or tearful reconciliations. But it was enough. More than enough.
"A turret?" Titus questioned, looking at my sketches. "Really?"
"I've always wanted a turret," I defended. "For reading. And plotting world domination."
"The kitchen needs to be bigger," Raphael added, leaning over my shoulder. "I need proper space for cooking."
"You cook?" Stephen and I said simultaneously.
"Of course I cook."
""And you order takeout constantly," Titus corrected.
"I'm learning," Raphael growled, which was adorable and terrifying simultaneously.
Our house. Our home. Four people who shouldn't work but did, building something that shouldn't exist but would. Every line I drew felt like defiance and declaration wrapped in sustainable bamboo flooring.
Our life had finally found its rhythm. Which, of course, meant it was time for a plot twist.
"I'm pregnant with twins!"
Amber's announcement came at our monthly brunch, causing me to spray mimosa across the table.
"Fucking hell, warning next time," I gasped, dabbing orange juice off my shirt.
"Where's the fun in that?" She glowed like a nuclear reactor. "Bryson cried for an hour. It was disgusting and beautiful."
"And you're all godparents," she added, gesturing to include the brothers. "I need backup for when these kids inevitably inherit my chaos gene."
"We'd be honored," Stephen said, looking genuinely touched.
"Group godparents?" Titus asked. "Is that legal?"
"We'll make it legal," Raphael stated, because apparently that was our answer to everything now.
Later that night, sprawled across our king-sized bed in Stephen's penthouse (we were still rotating apartments until the house was built), I let myself actually feel it all.
Success that was mine. Love that defied convention. Friends who rode or died. A future that looked nothing like the color-coded planner I'd maintained for years.
"Regrets?" Titus asked, fingers tracing patterns on my shoulder.
"Only that I didn't tell my father to fuck off sooner."
Stephen laughed against my hip. "That's my girl."
"Our girl," Raphael corrected from somewhere near my feet.
Our. Plural possessive. Grammar had never been sexier.
"So what's next?" I asked the ceiling. "We've conquered corporate architecture, revolutionized sustainable design, told society to fuck off..."
"We build our life," Titus said simply. "Together."
"Sappy bastard," I accused, but my heart was doing Olympic-level gymnastics.
"You love it," Stephen pointed out.
"I love you," I corrected. "All of you weirdos."
"Weirdos who worship you," Raphael added.
"True." I stretched like a satisfied cat. "Acceptable weirdos."
The future spread out like blueprints waiting to be realized. Unconventional. Complicated. Absolutely fucking perfect.
Some girls dreamed of fairy tales. I'd built something better—reality with three princes who knew my worth and multiplied it exponentially.
Take that, Reddit. Sometimes wanting to fuck your father's business partners leads to everything you never knew you needed.