Page 72 of Ruthless Daddies

“Jenna!” I hiss, my voice dropping even though I’m alone in the room.

“Well?” she demands, clearly enjoying herself.

I groan, feeling my face heat. “Yes,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

There’s a long silence on the other end before she speaks again, her tone more serious this time. “Okay, but…what’s the plan here? Like, who are you going to choose?”

“Choose?” I echo, blinking. “I’m not going to choose anyone.”

Jenna sighs, and I can practically hear her shaking her head. “Alice, that’s not realistic. You can’t have all three of them forever. It’s not sustainable.”

I swallow hard, her words hitting me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. “It’s not like I’m planning some big future with them,” I say, though the words sound hollow even to me. “We’re just…figuring things out.”

“Figuring things out,” she repeats, her tone skeptical. “Alice, this arrangement—whatever it is—it’s not normal. Are you their mistress or something? Because that’s what it sounds like.”

I bristle at her words, my grip tightening on the phone. “No,” I say firmly. “I’m not their mistress. It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” she asks softly.

I don’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense, anyway.

“Alice, I love you, and I just want you to be happy. But you have to ask yourself what you really want. Because this…it’s going to get messy.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I know,” I say quietly.

“Good,” she says, her tone softening. “Just…be careful, okay?”

“I will,” I promise, though I’m not sure how much weight those words carry anymore.

We say our goodbyes, and I set the phone down, staring at the notes in my lap. Jenna’s words echo in my mind, intertwining with my own doubts and fears.

Whatisthis?

And how long can it last before it all falls apart?

The kitchen is silent,save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors beneath my bare feet. The clock on the wall reads 2:47 AM, and most of the household is asleep.

Most.

But not me.

I can’t sleep. There’s this craving gnawing at me, something bizarre and specific that I can’t quite ignore. My taste buds are practically demanding something sweet and salty, with a hint of tang. So here I am, standing in the kitchen with an array of ingredients spread out before me—pickles, peanut butter, and a loaf of bread.

I hum softly as I work, spreading a generous layer of peanut butter on one slice of bread, carefully adding thinly sliced pickles on top. It’s not the most elegant creation, but I already know it’s going to hit the spot.

I don’t even have a name for the dish. My stomach growls in anticipation. This is exactly what I need.

I’m so lost in my thoughts—wondering if I should add honey to the concoction—that I don’t hear the sound of footsteps until it’s too late.

“You’re up late,” a low voice says from behind me.

I jump, nearly dropping the jar of pickles. Turning quickly, I find Sergei standing in the doorway, his large frame casting a shadow across the tiled floor.

My heart races, though I force myself to stay calm. “Could say the same about you,” I reply, trying to keep my voice light.

Sergei steps further into the kitchen, his dark eyes scanning the mess of ingredients on the counter. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says simply, though there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—intense and unreadable—that makes my skin crawl.

“Join the club,” I mutter, turning back to my sandwich. I focus on my task, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lingers, his presence heavy and unsettling.

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