Page 43 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I stand, ignoring the rest of her notes. “I’ll play along, but I’m not doing a sob story. No tears. No fake apologies.”
She nods, gathering her papers. “That’s fine. They’ll edit in what they need anyway.”
I head for the door, but she stops me with a last, soft warning. “Grey. If they do ask about Moretti, stick to the script. ‘We’re just colleagues. I respect her work.’ Don’t improvise.”
There’s enough room to read between the lines. She doesn’t want me giving ammunition to Talia, who will be on the look for cracks.
I don’t answer, just let the door swing shut behind me. The corridor outside is empty and too bright, and I walk it with my eyes half closed, counting the steps to the elevator, refusing to let any of the nerves reach my face.
In the glass of the elevator, I watch my reflection for a full floor’s descent. There’s nothing to see—no regret, no fear, just the same set jaw and cold eyes as always. But I can’t stop thinking about the way Sage’s hands shook this morning, the way she said we can’t do this again.
I wonder if Talia Prescott is the kind of person who enjoys breaking things just to see how they fall apart.
14
SAGE
It’s been a month, ninety hours, and seventy-two minutes since what happened at the retreat, but who’s counting. Between Finn’s haunted stares and Grey’s silent martyr routine, I’m starting to feel like the emotional grim reaper—just floating around the facility sucking the joy out of every room I enter. They’ve weaponized eye contact, and unfortunately for me, I’m not immune to guilt-flavored heartbreak. Pretending I don’t want to wrap both of them in a blanket and force-feed them emotional support carbs has been its own Olympic sport. And now, as a reward for my suffering, I get to put on real clothes and attend the team’s PR gala at the Met.
My arms itch under the cling of this black dress, the kind that costs more than my monthly rent. I arrive late on purpose, because the only thing worse than the Met at sunset is the Met at sunset with a thousand strangers in heels and cufflinks, all rehearsing their smiles and waiting to be told where to stand. The event staff at the door glance at my invite, barely register my face, then direct me toward a cluster of athletes near the massive marble staircase. I want to vanish into the shadows under the hanging Chihuly, but the lighting here is an act of aggression,every surface lit up like an autopsy table. I tug at the side seam of the dress, and it creaks in protest, reminding me that this, too, is not made to stretch.
I count the paces to the bar, scan for familiar faces. The players are in their best impression of adult formalwear: Finn’s suit is dark and narrow, cut so close it threatens to tear every time he exhales, the lapels sharp enough to draw blood, the sleeves just shy of reckless. He leans against the bar like he’s doing it a favor, jaw set in a scowl that only makes him more beautiful, the knot of his tie slightly undone, collarbone shadowed and inviting. Beau, next to him, looks like something pulled from a designer’s fever dream in a navy-blue suit, the kind that should belong behind glass, except it fits him too well to be untouched. He smiles with his eyes, and the slow drag of his fingers along the edge of his tumbler makes the fabric catch the light like it’s flirting. Grey stands just behind them, arms folded, expression unreadable, his shirt so white and starched it might as well be armor. It strains across his chest like it was never meant to contain a man who moves like violence in disguise. His cuffs are knife-edged, his hair still damp from whatever last-minute fight he had with the mirror, and somehow he makes restraint look like a threat.
They’re bunched together, all drinking the same top-shelf whiskey and pretending not to notice the circles of corporate donors orbiting closer and closer. I consider cutting straight through, but the gauntlet of photographers—official and otherwise—makes the back stairwell more appealing. My shoes, new and punishing, are already giving me blisters.
I make it as far as the Impressionist gallery before Talia finds me. She’s in a cream sheath dress, hair blown out, teeth so white they reflect the gallery lighting. She holds a flute of champagne, her pinky at the perfect angle.
“Sage!” she trills, as if we are old friends meeting at brunch. “I thought you’d try to slip in late.”
I feel the urge to check my breath, but I left the gum in my clutch. “Wasn’t sure if this was a standing event or a full dinner,” I say, faking a laugh. “Didn’t want to risk another nutritionist catastrophe.”
She leans in, the scent of high-end floral shampoo layered over the tang of gin. “You look stunning. Is that a new cut?” Her eyes flick up and down, cataloguing every thread. “You know, I was just telling the team PR that the women’s dresses this year are really next-level. So sharp.”
It’s not a compliment, but a warning:I see you. I know exactly where you bought that dress, and how much you spent to look like you belong.I say, “It’s a loaner,” as if that explains anything, then try to pivot. “Are you here for the whole event, or just the media session?”
“Oh, I’m in for the long haul,” she says. “They want some human-interest coverage—make sure everyone looks happy, healthy, above-board. Especially the staff.” She sips her champagne, eyes locked on me over the rim. “Just checking in. How are you holding up?”
I should sayfine, but I am not. I am holding myself together with caffeine and scotch tape and the desperate hope that no one asks me for a real answer. I try a smile. “All good. Just ready for the season to be over, honestly.”
Talia’s own smile widens, revealing the full set of bleached canines. “Of course. It’s so much work, isn’t it? Managing all those physical needs. Especially the men. I don’t know how you do it. I’d be exhausted.”
She lets it hang, lets me choose whether to acknowledge the jab or let it slide. My throat is dry, my palms clammy. I glance away, focus on the blur of some Monet across the hall, try toanchor my heartbeat to the static of the crowd instead of the sudden rush in my chest.
“Occupational hazard,” I say, careful not to let my voice wobble.
She watches me, waiting for a real answer, maybe a confession, maybe a crack. When none comes, she switches tactics: “You know, Beau Kingston has nothing but praise for you. He said you were a ‘miracle worker.’”
The way she says it, it’s not a compliment. It’s a test.Does Sage Moretti know how to play? Does she know which moves are allowed, and which are fatal?I count three slow breaths before replying.
“He’s easy to fix. Not a lot of moving parts upstairs.”
That lands, briefly. She laughs, a perfect note, and I feel the ice of her attention shift to someone else—another target, another rumor to surface. She’s doing the circuit, but I’m the one who’s already tired.
She tilts her head, inspects my face with surgical precision. “You should eat something. It’ll help with the nerves. I hear they’re serving actual food later; no kale or seed crackers, just real protein.” She gives my arm a featherlight touch, an almost sincere gesture, then drifts away into the next conversational melee. Her perfume lingers like a solvent.
For a moment, I just stand there, frozen in the center of the gallery. The paintings are suddenly too bright, too alive, the brushstrokes vibrating at a frequency that makes my teeth hurt. I walk to the nearest column and lean against it, press my forehead to the cool stone. My ribs ache under the clamp of the dress, and I wonder if the fabric will leave a mark that lingers days after this night ends.
From here, I can see Finn and Beau at the bar. Finn is deep in conversation with a man in a team jacket, gesturing with the energy of someone who prefers data to words. Beau scans theroom, lands his gaze on me, raises his glass in a lazy salute. He looks almost at ease, but I know better. It’s a mask, a perfect inversion of the panic that thrums in my own veins.
