"You slept with all three of them? At the same time? In Jared Spencer's penthouse?"
Scarlett's coffee cup freezes halfway to her mouth, suspended in mid-air like her ability to process basic information.
The elderly woman at the next table isn't even pretending to read her newspaper anymore. She's straight-up eavesdropping with the intensity of someone watching the season finale of their favorite reality show.
"Keep your voice down," I hiss, kicking her under our usual corner table at Grind House—the coffee shop we've been treating like our personal therapy office for three years. "And technically, I only slept with Maxwell that first night. The others just... participated in the warm-up activities."
"Oh, well, that's completely different." She sets her mug down with the exaggerated care of someone handling nitroglycerin. "My bad. Let me adjust my shock levels from 'holy fucking shit' to 'holy fucking shit with a slightly different font.'"
"Scarlett—"
"No, no, I need a moment."
She presses both palms flat on the table like she's trying to ground herself in reality.
"My best friend—who two days ago was a virgin convinced she was invisible to these men—just told me she had a foursome with Manhattan's most eligible bachelor, an Oscar-nominated actor, and a chef who could make Gordon Ramsay cry. This is... this is like finding out your anxious house cat secretly runs a fight club."
I can't help it and laugh. It's slightly hysterical, but it's been forty-eight hours since That Night, and I've been carrying this secret like a bomb in my chest.
"Start from the beginning," she demands, leaning forward. "And I swear to God, if you leave out a single detail, I will never forgive you. How did we go from 'I'm nobody to them' to 'they're taking turns making me see God'?"
So take a deep breath and I tell her. Everything.
Armand's proposition that made me want to shower in holy water. The lingerie that looked like something from Virgin Sacrifice Depot.
Kobe seeing the message and apparently assembling the Avengers of Sexual Intervention.
Finding them in that hotel room looking ready to commit murder on my behalf.
"They're funding Elsie's surgery," I finished, my voice catching on the words. "All of it. No strings attached, no repayment required. They made that clear before anything physical happened."
"Holy mother of all that is sacred and profane." Scarlett presses her palm against her forehead like she's checking for a fever. "I was joking when I said you should bang all three of them. It was hyperbole! Comedic exaggeration! Not an actual suggestion!"
"Yeah, well, your comedy apparently spoke to the universe."
I bury my face in my hands.
"When Maxwell kissed me, something just... broke. Like a dam made of sexual frustration and self-doubt. And then Jared was there, and Kobe, and suddenly I'm making decisions with body parts that have no business making decisions."
"The vagina wants what it wants," she says solemnly, then cracks. "But seriously, Rae. How does this even work? Do they take turns? Is there a schedule? Do they have a group chat called 'Operation Rail Raegan'?"
"Scarlett!"
"What? These are legitimate questions!" She grabs my hands across the table, her grip almost painful. "What happens when you walk into that kitchen tonight? When Maxwell's giving you orders and all you can think about is how he—"
"We established rules," I interrupt before she can finish that sentence. "Absolute secrecy at work. No favoritism that anyone could notice. If someone suspects something, we deny everything and act like the accusation is absurd."
"That sounds remarkably well-organized for a situation that is fundamentally insane."
"Jared's good at logistics."
"I bet he is." Scarlett's lips twitch despite her concerned expression. "But here's the question nobody wants to ask, honey. What happens when someone does find out? Because someone always does. That's just how huge secrets work."
The question lands in my chest like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples of anxiety spread outward, touching every corner of my newly complicated existence.
"I don't know," I admit, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. "I genuinely have no idea what happens then."
"Rae." She tightens her grip on my hand, blue eyes searching my face. "I love you more than wine, and that's saying something. I'm going to support you through whatever chaos unfolds from this deliciously insane arrangement. But I need you to understand what you're risking here."
"I know what I'm risking."
"Do you? Because this isn't just about your job or your reputation. This is about your heart."
She pauses, letting the words sink in.
"You fell for three men who could destroy your career when they wake up tomorrow and decide this was a fun diversion that's run its course. They exist in a world so far above ours that gravity works differently up there."
"They wouldn't do that."
The defense rises automatically, but even I can hear the uncertainty threading through it.
"You should have seen their faces when they found out about Armand. That wasn't entertainment for them, Letty."
"Maybe not." She releases my hand and sits back, crossing her arms. "But feelings change. Power dynamics shift. And secrets this size always surface eventually, no matter how carefully you bury them."
"So what am I supposed to do? Walk away from the first people who've ever made me feel like I matter?"
"No." She sighs, squeezing my hands. "You're supposed to protect yourself. Keep something in reserve. Don't give them everything all at once, because baby, you can't get it back once it's gone."
"It might already be too late for that," I admit quietly.
"Yeah," she says, studying my face. "I can see that. You're already in love with all of them, aren't you?"
"Is that insane?"
"Completely." She grins despite herself. "But also very on-brand for you. Go big or go home, right?"
She reaches for her coffee, finally taking the sip that's been waiting for five minutes.
"Now tell me which one of them was the best kisser, because I need at least some vicarious thrill from this conversation."
I laugh despite the knot of anxiety still lodged in my throat, and for the next twenty minutes, I give her what details I can bear to share.
By the time I leave for my shift, the weight in my chest has redistributed into something almost manageable.
The walk-in cooler door groans as I reach for the handle, my mind still cycling through Scarlett's warnings.
I need to focus. The dinner service demands my full attention, and I cannot afford another mistake after the Dover sole disaster.
"Well, well, well." Adrian's voice slithers down my spine before I can step inside.
I turn to find him leaning against the steel prep table, arms crossed, eyes crawling over my body with the leisure of someone who knows they're making you uncomfortable and enjoys it.
"You're glowing, Delacroix." His mouth curls into something that might be a smile if smiles could draw blood. "Finally let someone between those legs?"
My blood turns to slush.
Does he know? Can he tell? Is there a sign on my forehead that says 'Recently Deflowered by Three Men'?
"That's none of your fucking business," I manage, proud that my voice doesn't crack. "Move. I need to check the produce order."
He's fishing. He has to be fishing. There's no way he could know.
Right?
"The whole kitchen thinks you're frigid." He pushes off the table, moving closer. "Untouchable Raegan, too pure for us mere mortals”
"The only thing that's changed is my tolerance for your bullshit." I push past him toward the cooler. "Which has gone from minimal to non-existent."
"Defensive." He chuckles, and it sounds like a threat. "That's new too. Usually you just ignore me. Must've been some night, whoever finally thawed you out."
I force myself not to react, to keep walking, to act like his words aren't burrowing under my skin like parasites.
The cooler door closes behind me with a definitive thud, but I can still feel his eyes through the steel.
If Adrian's noticing changes, if he's already suspicious...
How long before everyone knows?