[Sophie’s POV]

I don’t tell Cleo right away.

I wait until we’re sitting across from each other at her tiny kitchen table, plates half-eaten, candles burning low because she likes the atmosphere even when she’s about to emotionally interrogate someone. She watches me the way she always does when she knows something is wrong, eyes sharp, fork paused mid-air, patience thin.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says finally, not accusing, just stating a fact. “Three canceled dinners. Two ignored calls. One very vague text that said you were ‘busy emotionally,’ which is not a thing people say unless something is on fire.”

I swallow, my chest already tight. “I wasn’t avoiding you. I was just… overwhelmed.”

“With work?” she asks. “Or with men? Because historically, it’s the men.”

I let out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in my lungs for days. “It’s complicated.”

Cleo leans back in her chair, sets her fork down carefully, and gives me her full attention. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Then explain it to me like I’m your best friend and not your HR department.”

I stare at my plate, at the pasta I barely touched, and then force myself to look up at her. “I’m seeing both of them.”

She blinks once. Then twice. “Both of them,” she repeats. “Like… Adrian and.. Cassian?”

“Yes.”

“At the same time? Again?”

“Yes.”

Her eyebrows lift, but her voice stays calm. “And.. Do you think this is gonna work with them?”

“I–,” I say quickly. “I don’t know.”

“Are you aware this is insane?” she asks, but there’s concern threaded through it now. “Sophie, this isn’t a phase. This is your real life.”

“I know,” I say, my voice cracking despite my effort to keep it steady. “That’s why I didn’t tell you right away.”

Cleo exhales, rubbing her temple. “Okay. Start from the beginning. Because right now my brain is doing gymnastics.”

I tell her.

Not every detail, not every heat-soaked memory, but enough. I tell her about Adrian’s intensity, Cassian’s precision, the rules we set, the communication, the way it somehow feels more honest than anything I’ve ever done before. I tell her about the calendar, the check-ins, the constant emotional labor that comes with making sure no one feels erased.

When I finish, the room feels heavier.

Cleo sits quietly for a moment, then asks, “And you really think this is sustainable?”

The word lands like a punch.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “That’s the truth. I don’t know if it’s sustainable, but I know it’s real.”

“Sophie,” she says gently, “real doesn’t always mean healthy.”

“I’m not being reckless,” I say, sharper than I intend. “We have boundaries. We communicate. We’re not sneaking around.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she replies. “I mean emotionally. You’re holding two very powerful men in balance, and you’re the center point. That’s a lot of pressure.”

I nod because she’s not wrong. “I’m exhausted,” I admit. “All the time. Not because they’re cruel or careless, but because feelings don’t take turns.”

Cleo reaches across the table, touching my hand. “Then why are you still doing it?”

I hesitate, searching for the right words. “Because when it works, it feels like I’m finally choosing myself. Not shrinking to fit one person’s needs. Not pretending I only want one thing when I don’t.”

Her grip tightens slightly. “And what happens when one of them decides they want more than this?”

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