[Sophie’s POV]

I know something is wrong the moment I step onto the floor and the energy feels off. It’s subtle at first, the way conversations pause half a second too late, the way eyes lift and drop when I pass, the way my name seems to hang in the air even when no one is saying it out loud.

Normally the publishing house hums with a steady, distracted kind of focus, editors buried in pages, assistants whispering deadlines like prayers, keyboards clacking in anxious harmony. Today, it feels like I walked into a room where my name has already been said too many times, rolled around mouths that were never meant to hold it.

I make it three steps toward my desk before Mara calls out from the copy desk, her voice too bright to be innocent. She leans back in her chair, pen twirling between her fingers like she’s rehearsed this moment in her head and decided to enjoy it.

“Hey, Sophie,” she says. “Can I ask you something?”

I stop because not stopping would look defensive, and I’m tired of being defensive before nine in the morning. I turn slowly, keeping my expression neutral even though my shoulders already feel tight.

“Sure,” I say.

She tilts her head, pretending this is casual, pretending she isn’t watching my face for cracks. “The man who was here yesterday,” she says, drawing out the sentence. “Is he… your boyfriend?”

The word lands heavier than it should. My stomach tightens, a reflex I don’t have time to control.

“Why?” I ask, keeping my tone flat.

Her smile widens, pleased with herself. “Just curious,” she says. “He was… memorable.”

Before I can decide how much of the truth to give, a voice from behind her cuts in, loud and unfiltered. “He’s not married, right?”

Heat creeps up my neck, fast and embarrassing. I turn toward the voice, forcing my spine straight even as irritation prickles under my skin.

“I don’t really discuss my personal life at work,” I say, measured and polite in the way that takes effort.

“That’s a yes to not married,” someone else adds, laughing like this is a group sport.

Jealousy hits me sharp and irrational, curling in my chest like something ugly and territorial. I don’t like that they’re dissecting him like a character instead of a person.

I don’t like that they’re imagining him outside of me, slotting him into fantasies that don’t belong to them. I don’t like that part of me wants to bare teeth instead of professionalism, and wants to mark ground instead of smile.

“He’s taken,” I say, my voice clipped before I can soften it.

Mara raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “By you?”

“Does it matter anyway?” I reply, and I don’t wait to see how that lands. I turn and walk away before I say something that would follow me into HR with a paper trail and a lecture about boundaries.

At my desk, I try to focus on my screen, on the manuscript waiting for edits, on anything that isn’t the low buzz of whispers rippling through the room like static. It’s impossible not to hear them.

Someone asks if he’s single again. Someone else speculates about his job, his age, his confidence, like confidence is a communal resource. Every word feels like fingers on something private, something that was never meant to be communal, and my jaw tightens until it aches.

By lunch, the rumors have grown legs and learned how to walk. I overhear my name paired with words like intense, lucky, secretive, as if I’m a puzzle they’re entitled to solve. I eat at my desk, sandwich untouched, jaw clenched, fury simmering beneath the surface in a way that makes my hands shake.

It’s not just embarrassment, I realize with a jolt that unsettles me. It’s possession, sharp and bright, and the realization startles me because I didn’t know it lived this close to my skin.

When my phone buzzes, I don’t even look at the name before answering. I step into the stairwell, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft echo.

“They’re talking about you,” I say the second the call connects, the words tumbling out before I can filter them.

On the other end, Adrian exhales slowly, a sound that feels measured and dangerous even through the phone. “I assumed they would.”

“You assumed?” I repeat, incredulous. “They’re asking if you’re single. They’re asking if you’re available.”

He steps closer, not touching yet, giving me space while still making his presence unmistakable—close enough that I feel his heat radiating against my chest. “And that made you feel… what?” he asks carefully.

“Claimed,” I admit, the word slipping out before I can soften it. “Threatened. Angry.”

Adrian’s hand comes to my chin, tilting my face up until I have to look at him, his thumb dragging slowly across my lower lip. His expression is intent, focused, like he’s listening to something underneath my words. “Good,” he says softly. “Say it.”

“I wanted you both,” I say, breath shaky but honest, thighs pressing together. “I wanted to remember who I belong with.”

Cassian nods, deliberate, like he’s sealing an agreement. “Then we do this right,” he says.

They don’t rush me, and that’s the rule they hold hardest tonight. Adrian tells me where to stand, his voice steady and commanding without being cruel, his hands stripping away my blouse with agonizing slowness. Cassian reminds me to breathe, his mouth hot against my shoulder, pulling me back when my thoughts scatter. Their voices overlap, not competing but aligning, one anchoring, one guiding, and the combination is overwhelming in a way that feels intentional.

“Look at me,” Adrian says, firm and focused, his fingers tracing fire down my spine.

“Stay present,” Cassian adds, teeth grazing my neck. “This is about choice.”

Their attention is consuming, not frantic, every touch deliberate, every instruction clear. It’s hunger contained by structure, desire sharpened by consent—hands mapping every curve, mouths claiming every gasp. When I finally sink between them, overwhelmed and shaking, it isn’t just physical. It’s an emotional release, pleasure crashing through me in waves, a quiet certainty settling into my bones, the reassurance of being held exactly where I chose to be.

Afterward, the room is quiet, not empty, the kind of silence that feels earned. Adrian sits beside me, his arm heavy and warm around my shoulders, anchoring me in place. Cassian hands me water, his fingers brushing mine briefly, intentionally, like punctuation instead of accident.

“This,” Adrian says, his voice rough but calm, “is why it works.”

“Because it’s intense?” I ask, my voice softer now, worn down to honesty.

“No,” Cassian replies, meeting my eyes. “Because it’s intentional.”