Izzy leaned forward. “Of course we knew. Why do you think we pushed so hard for Gwen to come on this trip?”
Maggie held a hand to her chest. Heat surged inside her — anger, humiliation, betrayal, grief, longing, and something sharper she didn’t want to name. It crashed in waves, hot and disorienting. Part of her wanted to scream, part of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity, and part of her wanted to crumple into tears. “You… meddled? Forme?” Despite all of the turmoil, there was still a part of her filled with genuine delight to know that her friends had set up a Meddling Maggie-level scheme.
“Gwen thinks the sun shines out of your ass, babe,” Pete said, all elegance.
Danica rolled her eyes. “And we knew you were still in love with her. So yes, we meddled.” She lifted her chin, soft but firm. “We want you happy, Mags. And because Gwen is more than her job, whether she sees it yet or not. We weren’t going to sit by and watch you two let it die without a fight.”
Izzy crossed her arms, blunt as ever. “You think we didn’t notice? The way you look at each other? The way you clearly still love each other? Come on. You’ve both been miserable for months, and you’re too stubborn to admit it. Somebody had to push.”
“So, does the sex mean you’re back together?” Kiera asked, a gentle hand on Maggie’s arm.
Maggie shook her head. “I mean, I thought maybe. But you don’t get it. Gwen always chooses work. Always. I’m just the thing she squeezes in around deadlines. And I won’t do it anymore.”
Danica looked sympathetic, but Izzy was already crossing her arms, looking ready to play devil’s advocate.
The suite door opened, and Gwen stepped inside.
Her hair was damp from a shower, her shirt crisp, her phone clutched loosely in one hand. She looked impossibly composed, as if the night before hadn’t happened at all.
The air thickened. Everyone froze.
Maggie crossed her arms, pulse hammering. “They know about us,” she said to Gwen. “They’ve all known.”
Gwen’s gaze softened but stayed steady. “Oh.”
The silence that followed was unbearable — everyone holding their breath, Gwen’s eyes locked on hers, Maggie vibrating with fury and shame.
And then, a knock at the door.
“Room service,” a cheerful voice called. Gwen stepped to open the door.
Three attendants wheeled in carts laden with silver domes and enough carbs to quell a riot. The smell hit first — maple syrup, butter, coffee strong enough to file down teeth. The attendants did a practiced ballet around the island, setting down plates: pancakes the size of steering wheels, an architectural stack of waffles, a glistening mound of bacon, an omelet that looked like it had ambitions beyond breakfast.
“Bless you and your tiny cloches,” Pete told the nearest server, deadly serious.
Danica was already organizing like a field marshal. “Plates first. Then proteins. Syrup last. Coffee… oh my god, that’srealcream. Hand it over.” She hugged the stainless carafe to her chest.
Izzy constructed a mimosa pyramid with the single-minded focus of a person who had not yet suffered consequences.
Kiera slid the pyramid a crucial inch back from the edge. “We would like to keep the deposit.”
“Deposit is a social construct,” Izzy said, topping her glass.
Maggie looked around the room, at everyone’s desperation to tame the tension in the air. She grabbed a plate and started with pancakes. The ritual of it worked like a reset button: butter, syrup, a reckless scoop of berries. Her hands finally had something to do besides shake.
Pete tried to swipe Danica’s bacon with the subtlety of a raccoon. Danica smacked her knuckles without looking. “Get your own.”
“I was just testing the crispness for your safety,” Pete lied, already chewing.
“Uh-huh,” Danica said, guarding the bacon like crown jewels.
The group’s noise rose and fell in waves. Someone found hot sauce, someone else found jam. Pete attempted to explain the idea behind “tooth butter” or “butter so thick that when you bite into it, you can see your teeth marks.” Danica moved through them like a benevolent hurricane, refilling coffee, preventing small disasters, issuing tiny, efficient kisses to Pete’s shoulder as she passed.
Gwen stayed at the periphery, at the counter by the sink, taking orders. “Black? Cream? Sugar?” She poured without spilling, without asking for thanks.
Maggie didn’t look at her. Not directly. She let Gwen exist in the blur of the room — competent hands, quiet voice, the familiar rhythm of her moving through domestic chaos as if it were a puzzle she could solve with steadiness alone.
“Who ordered eggs?” Gwen asked, and three hands shot up at once.
