A month into the Montgomery-Fenris partnership and my life has achieved that special level of chaos where everything looks fine from the outside while being spectacularly fucked underneath.
Days are endless integration meetings. Revenue projections that require three spreadsheets and a minor in psychology to interpret. Combining client lists without anyone noticing we're systematically absorbing their firm into ours—or possibly the other way around, jury's still out.
Caroline is terrifyingly competent during business hours. Sharp in ways that make opposing counsel reconsider their life choices. Strategic enough to outmaneuver senior partners twice her age. Occasionally ruthless in ways that remind me she's Robert Montgomery's daughter and inherited more than just his blonde hair and charm.
Watching her eviscerate a contract dispute makes my wolf sit up and pay attention in ways that are deeply inconvenient during professional settings.
But nights belong to something else entirely.
We fall into pattern without discussing it because apparently we're both allergic to having actual conversations about what we're doing. At her place twice a week—she cooks surprisingly well for someone who looks like she was born in Lululemon. Staying over more often than not because her bed is better than mine and also she's in it.
Morning coffee where she steals my shirts and I pretend not to notice how criminally good she looks wearing them. How her legs go on forever when that's all she's wearing. How she hums while making breakfast and it does stupid things to my chest.
I'm careful not to leave traces. No photos together on social media because that's asking for disaster. No public displays beyond professional courtesy. Keeping our relationship completely separate from the partnership.
It works until it doesn't.
Weekends I spend with Claire. Not dating exactly—but she's still part of my life in ways that matter. Saturday morning coffee, Sunday going outs that feel domestic anyway, living life like a stable family without the actual commitment.
She notices the changes, Claire's too observant not to catalog every shift in my behavior, every distraction, every time my phone buzzes and I smile without meaning to.
"You're different lately," she says it during a late-night work session, both of us drowning in discovery documents for the Brennan case. "Lighter and distracted in a good way."
"Just busy with the integration," the deflection is automatic, practiced.
"Right," she doesn't look up from her laptop but her tone could cut glass. "Nothing to do with Caroline Montgomery texting you dozens of times during today's board meeting?"
My stomach drops into my shoes. I should deny it, maintain the fiction that Caroline and I are purely professional, that the texts are about contract amendments and client concerns.
"You know it’s… complicated," damn, I say it again instead, because apparently I've given up on self-preservation.
Something shutters in her expression, going from carefully controlled to completely closed off.
"When is it not with you?" The question lands with weight. "You and Thalia—complicated, you and me—complicated, you and your feelings—so complicated you need a fucking flowchart to navigate them."
"Claire—"
"Don't." She's gathering her things with the kind of controlled efficiency that means she's one wrong word away from shattering. "You don't owe me explanations. We're not together anymore, as I broke up with you, remember? You can sleep with whoever you want."
The casual way she says it—like it doesn't matter, like we don't matter—makes my chest tight.
"That's not what this is—"
"Isn't it?" She finally looks at me fully and her eyes are blazing. "You're sleeping with Caroline Montgomery, your business partner, whose father is methodically taking control of your company while you're too distracted by how she looks in your shirts to notice."
The accuracy of that statement is devastating.
"But it's fine because you have feelings for her." She's packing her laptop with sharp, angry movements. "Real feelings, the kind you couldn't manage to have for me even when I was right there asking for them."
"That's not—"
"Fair?" Her laugh is sharp, broken. "I gave you months, Lysander, months of being understanding while you processed your Thalia feelings, being patient while you figured yourself out. Being the safe option while you decided whether I was actually worth choosing."
She's at the door now, hand on the frame, and I can see her fighting for control.
"I know you still have feelings for me too," her voice drops, goes quieter and somehow that's worse. "I feel it every time you look at me, every time your hand lingers when we're working late, every time you text asking if I want coffee like it means something more than caffeine."
My throat closes.
"You're too scared to choose," she meets my eyes directly. "So you're trying to have both of us, thinking you can balance both without casualties, without someone getting hurt."
"I never meant—"
"You never mean to hurt anyone, and that's your whole problem." She pulls open the door. "You're so busy trying not to choose wrong that you're choosing nothing. And you're going to end up with neither of us because eventually we'll both get tired of being your maybe."
"Wait—"
Her voice cracks slightly and that crack destroys me. "Figure out whom you love, not what's safe or convenient or less complicated. And when you do, maybe I'll still be around to hear it, but don't count on it."
She leaves. The door clicks shut with finality that echoes in my suddenly too-empty office. I sit there surrounded by discovery documents and the ghost of her perfume, and I know Claire's right about everything.
I'm trying to have both. Weeknight Caroline who makes me feel alive, weekend Claire who makes me feel grounded, splitting myself between two women who both deserve better than half my attention and all my confusion.
The worst part? I don't even know which one I'd choose if someone forced my hand. Caroline makes my wolf howl with want, and Claire makes my chest hurt in ways that feel important.
Different doesn't mean one's better. Just means I'm spectacularly fucking up two relationships instead of one.
I stare at Caroline’s message, where she asks if she did anything wrong because I was “weird and quiet,” then at the door Claire just walked through. She's right that I'm going to end up with neither of them. But knowing that doesn't make choosing any easier.