Three weeks into unconventional relationship territory, and I'm basically living in a rom-com directed by someone on really good drugs.
Monday nights belong to Julian. We cook elaborate meals in his pristine kitchen while debating whether Nietzsche was onto something or just spectacularly depressed.
Tonight he's explaining why existentialism pairs perfectly with carbonara, and I'm pretending my stomach isn't doing backflips that have nothing to do with his philosophical hot takes.
Wednesday evenings are Grayson's domain. Art galleries where I nod intelligently at paintings that look like someone sneezed on canvas, or his penthouse where we drink wine that costs more than my first car.
He treats every conversation like a chess match I'm winning, which does things to my confidence that therapy could never accomplish.
Saturday afternoons mean Leo and Milo adventures. Parks, museums, the zoo where Leo explains animal adaptations while Milo collects facts like precious gems.
Watching them together—Leo's patience, Milo's endless questions—makes my chest ache in ways I'm not ready to examine.
Then there's Sunday dinners.
All four of us. Together. Which should be a disaster of territorial male nonsense but somehow works. They've developed this weird détente where Julian critiques Grayson's wine choices, Leo makes self-deprecating jokes that land perfectly, and Milo referees like a tiny Switzerland.
Work has transformed too. I'm Senior Data Analyst now—promoted three days ago with a raise that makes my bank account weep with joy. I speak up in meetings. Challenge assumptions. Greg Mathews avoids me like I'm contagious with competence.
The office gossip peaked at "Corporate Love Square" and crashed when Karen from HR got caught having an affair with the vending machine guy. Priorities shifted. My unconventional relationship became old news.
Which brings me to tonight.
We're celebrating my promotion at some restaurant where the menu doesn't list prices because if you have to ask, you can't afford to exist here. The four of us sit in a corner booth—me sandwiched between Julian and Leo, Grayson across with his predatory CEO smile.
"Summer vacation," Julian says, cutting his steak with surgical precision. "I'm thinking somewhere Milo would enjoy. Maybe the Galápagos? Educational and exotic."
"The kid's five," Leo laughs. "He'd be just as thrilled with a water park and unlimited chicken nuggets."
"Why not both?" Grayson swirls his wine. "Water park in the morning, world-class dining at night. I know a place in Turks and Caicos—"
"We're not flying my son to the Caribbean just to eat fancy fish," I interrupt.
"It's not just fish—"
"Grayson. No."
He grins like I've played exactly into his hands. "Noted. Domestic water park it is."
The conversation flows easy—too easy for something this complicated. Julian mentions looking at bigger apartments near better schools.
Leo's been researching family-friendly neighborhoods.
Grayson drops pointed comments about "long-term investments" while his gray eyes hold mine with meaning I'm not ready to unpack.
The server approaches with the wine list. Three pairs of eyes turn expectantly.
My stomach lurches.
"I'm not feeling well," I manage, pushing away the offered glass. "Just water tonight."
Concern flickers across their faces—unified worry that should be touching but mostly makes me want to flee.
We finish dinner in warm conversation that feels like home despite having no blueprint for what we're building. Walking out together, laughing at something Leo said about origami gone wrong, I feel genuinely happy.
Then the cameras start flashing.
Paparazzi materialize like roaches when you flip the lights—clicking, shouting, blinding us with strobes. Questions assault from every angle.
"Rory! Who's the father?"
"Which one are you choosing?"
"Mr. Smith, comment on the relationship?"
Grayson's arm bands around me like steel. Julian blocks cameras with his body. Leo grabs my hand, pulling me toward the car.
We escape in Grayson's town car, breathing hard, adrenaline spiking.
"Well," Julian says into the silence. "That was inevitable."
The next morning, my phone has achieved sentience and decided to punish me for my life choices.
Headlines scream from every gossip site. "Corporate Love Square!" "CEO's Bizarre Relationship!" "Single Mom's Three Men!" The photos are everywhere—the four of us leaving the restaurant, laughing, touching, looking exactly like what we are.
Messages flood in. Interview requests. Judgment wrapped in concern. Some surprising support from people I didn't know existed.
Then, buried in the notifications, something makes my blood freeze.
Unknown number. Photo attached.
I open it with shaking hands.
It's me. Three days ago. Coming out of the pharmacy, small bag clutched to my chest. The angle is perfect—my face clear, the pharmacy logo visible, my expression haunted.
The text follows: "Congratulations on the pregnancy. I wonder if your three men know yet? Or which one is the father? $50,000 by Friday or the tabloids get everything. Imagine those headlines."
The phone slips from my fingers.
Someone followed me. Photographed me. Knows my secret before I could tell the fathers themselves.
I've been terrified to tell them—not because I think they'll reject me, but because how do I explain the paternity uncertainty? We just established our rhythm, our rules, our trust. Three weeks of figuring out something impossible, and now I have to drop this nuclear bomb.
The baby could be Julian's, Grayson's, or Leo's. No way to know until birth. Maybe not even then depending on genetics and my spectacularly bad timing.
I've been planning to tell them this weekend. Rehearsed the conversation a dozen times. But now someone else controls the narrative, and I have forty-eight hours before they sell my pregnancy to the highest bidder.
My hand moves protectively to my still-flat stomach.
I was going to tell them on my terms. In my time. With words I'd chosen carefully and love I'd built slowly.
Now the decision has been taken from me.
Friday. Two days. Fifty thousand dollars I don't have, or headlines that will destroy whatever fragile thing we've built.
I sink to the bathroom floor, phone clutched in one hand, other hand pressed to my abdomen where something impossibly small is growing.
Someone impossibly small who deserves better than this.
The pregnancy test sits in the trash—two pink lines that changed everything three days ago. I pull it out, staring at the evidence like it might offer answers.
It doesn't.
My phone buzzes. Group chat.
Julian: Dinner tonight? My place. We should talk about the photos.
Grayson: Agreed. Strategy meeting required.
Leo: I'll bring dessert. And moral support.
I stare at the messages, tears blurring the screen.
They want to talk about yesterday's paparazzi ambush. They have no idea today's bomb is so much worse.
Forty-eight hours.
I type with trembling fingers: Tonight works. My place instead? Need to tell you all something important.
Three typing indicators appear simultaneously.
Then three affirmatives.
Tonight I tell them about the baby. About the uncertainty. About the blackmail threatening to explode our carefully constructed happiness before we've barely started.
I sit on my bathroom floor, hand pressed to my stomach, and pray that what we've built is strong enough to survive what's coming.
Spoiler alert: I have absolutely no idea if it is.