My phone vibrates where I left it on the bedside table. The screen flashes: 7:14 PM, and a message from an unknown number. But the number is familiar, burned into my memory from every call sheet, every partnership memo, every day at the firm.
Brent: The offer stands, but you seem to be having second thoughts, sweetheart. Are you?
The air in the apartment thickens. I set the phone face down and stare at the plaster above my bed, where a hairline crack draws a jagged X from wall to ceiling. I think about the way he said “sweetheart,” the way he held my wrists behind my back like I was a prize he’d earned fair and square. I think about the way I didn’t want to say no.
A minute later, another message arrives. James, this time. The tone is different—cooler, but somehow warmer too.
Baby girl,the text reads,your father deserved better. But take the path that makes sense to you. No judgment.
I read it three times.No judgment.
I trace the words on the screen, wondering how someone can be that ruthless in the office and that gentle during the off-hours. There’s a comfort in it I didn’t expect, a sense of being seen, if only as a curiosity.
I toss the phone onto the bed and flop backward, arms out, legs tangled in the blankets. I stare up at the X on the ceiling, imagining it as a crossroads. One way leads to the evidence, the other to a night I’ll never be able to forget. Maybe both.
My body aches from wanting. My brain aches from wanting, too.
But for the first time in days, I don’t feel like I’m about to break. If anything, I feel steadier, like the world is narrowing to just two choices, and I’m the lucky girl who gets to pick.
I’ve never understoodpeople who say their kitchens are “the heart of the home.” Mine is a galley barely wider than my wingspan, strung together with peeling Formica and a fridge that howls at night like a dying wolf. The floor is always sticky, no matter how many times I mop. There’s no heart here, just a lot of pacing and the residue of midnight panic attacks.
Tonight, I pace the linoleum like a caged cat, phone pressed tight to my ear. I’ve dialed Eliza three times already and hung up before the first ring, but this time I force myself to let it connect. She picks up on the second try, her voice tinny and warm, “Hey, Marnie. Everything good?”
I blurt, “I have to tell you something,” before I can change my mind.
My pal laughs, like she’s not already halfway into a bottle of white wine. “Spill it. Is this about the partners? Please say it’s about the partners.”
I grip the phone until my knuckles ache, turn a slow lap around the counter. “It’s… Yeah, it’s them. Both of them. Brent and James. They—they made me an offer.”
Eliza’s quiet, not even a breath.
“What is it? You can tell me, Marns.”
I take a deep breath.
“They want me to—to spend a night with them. Both. At once.” I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the shame blossom across my cheeks. “They said I’d get the files. Everything I need, if I just—” I break off, unable to say the rest out loud.
When I stop talking, the silence is thick enough to spoon.
Eliza finally sighs. “Marnie, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest. Would you be doing this just for the information? For your dad, I mean? Or is there part of you that wants to be used? Because it’s okay, you know. It’s okay to want to be with two men. It’s okay to want to be degraded, even.”
I halt mid-stride, one palm pressed flat to the counter, the phone slick with sweat against my ear. My pulse is so loud I barely hear her.Used. Degraded. The words pin me in place.
I try to speak but nothing comes out but a muffled gargle.
“Marn?” Eliza’s voice is gentle, but unfailing. “You don’t have to answer. I just want you to know I’m not judging. Not ever.”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see it. I feel heat climb my neck, pooling at the roots of my hair.
She waits, patient as a saint.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s all of it.”
“That’s fine,” Eliza says in a soothing tone, like it really is. “That’s human. That’s called being alive. Just promise me you’re doing it for yourself, too—not just for your dad.”
The glass above the sink throws my reflection back at me: hair wild, face pink, eyes huge and scared and shining. I look like a stranger.
“I promise,” I say. “On my honor.”
