"Not bacon grease," she finished.
She unzipped the bag. Inside was a slip dress of liquid silver silk. It looked like moonlight woven into fabric.
"I picked this up in Manchester," she admitted. "Just in case the 'Option B' scenario evolved into 'Option Forever'."
My throat went tight. "Rowan."
"Go on," she shooed me toward the small bathroom. "Put it on. Fix your hair. If you're going to be the Queen of Riot Theory, look the part."
When I walked out of the bathroom, the silence in the collab house loft was profound.
The silver silk flowed over my skin like cool water, a stark contrast to the bruised, swollen feeling of my body underneath. I felt raw and regal all at once.
Rowan led me up the spiral stairs to the main studio floor.
They had moved.
The guys were standing in the center of the room, near the grand piano. They had cleaned up. Gone were the sweatpants and hoodies.
Alfie was wearing a fitted black suit with a sheer shirt underneath, his hair tamed into artful chaos. Euan was in a sharp charcoal waistcoat and trousers, sleeves rolled to the elbows, precise and devastating. Kit wore black combat trousers and a black button-down, unbuttoned enough to show the ink creeping up his chest.
And there were flowers.
Everywhere. Not a florist's arrangement, but a chaotic explosion of wildflowers, dandelions, ivy, overgrown roses, strewn across the piano, the floor, the mixing desk.
"Where did you get these?" I asked, stepping into the room.
Alfie looked up. His scent spiked, burnt sugar flaring into caramel. He looked like he was about to drop to his knees.
"Garden," Kit rumbled, shifting his weight. "Ran down. Hopped the fence. Might have upset a neighbor."
"Use the legal fund," Rowan murmured from behind me, moving to the side where Cal stood.
Cal was guarding the heavy steel door, arms crossed, a fresh pot of tea on a tray next to him. He nodded to me, solemn and steady. The witness. The gatekeeper.
I walked into the circle. The air pressure dropped. The world narrowed down to the three of them.
"We need words," I said. The Producer voice was back, but it was soft. Intimate. "We need to set the parameters."
"We have them," Euan said. He took a step forward. "We drafted the verbal contract while you were changing."
"Say them?" I asked.
Alfie stepped in. He took my left hand.
"Consent is ongoing," he whispered, his thumb rubbing over my knuckles. "Today, tomorrow, ten years from now. You own the 'yes'."
Euan took my right hand.
"Your 'no' outranks my biology," he stated, his grey eyes fierce and clear. "Logic dictates you lead. Instinct follows."
Kit moved behind me, his chest pressing against my back, his hands resting on my hips, heavy and claiming.
"We are pack on our terms," he growled into my ear. "Not the industry's. Ours. The bubble holds."
I closed my eyes. The vow resonated in my chest, a perfect, resolving chord.
"Okay," I breathed. "Sequence is active."
