POV Mira "He did what?!" Amber screeches so loud my window rattles. "Shhh!" I fling a pillow at her. "My dad is downstairs." Amber flops beside me, steals the other pillow, and stares. "Okay, start from the top. I brought snacks and zero judgment." "You never bring judgment." "I outsource it to your inner critic. Go." I take a breath. "He- Leo, he's... confusing." "Define confusing. Confetti confusing? Or tax-audit confusing?" "Both," I say miserably. "He was so focused on me during dinner... Like I was a problem he wanted to solve." "Oh, so we're doing math now. What's two plus you?" "Amber." I choke on a laugh, then hide my face. "It's too much. He's my boss. He's older. He's... my dad's business partner." "And he's hot," she says, like we are listing food groups. "Very," I admit into the pillow. "And he knows it. And he keeps-" I clamp my lips shut. "He keeps what?" "Getting under my skin." I drag my nails over the seam of the duvet, palms slick. "He talks and I forget my name. He stands near me and my brain turns into static. I like it, but I hate that I like it, and I hate that I hate it." Amber's grin softens into something sisterly. "Okay. So you're turned on and terrified." I moan. "Don't say it out loud." "Sweetheart," she says, sweeping my hair behind my ear, "if you can't say it in here, how are you going to say anything out there?" I exhale. The words tumble. "He... pushes. But he watches. Like he's waiting for me to say stop. Sometimes he's so gentle it hurts, and sometimes he's-" Heat spikes and I break eye contact. "He changes. That's the worst part. It's like he has seasons: soft, cold, burning. I never know which one I'm walking into." "You've been beige all of your life. Now you're... colorful ." She squeezes my hand. "You don't owe him anything. But don't play dead to stay safe." "Even if he's my boss?" "Especially because he's your boss." Amber holds up a finger. "Boundaries. Consent. A safeword if things get weird. You set the rules of your own body. End of discussion." "Amber, I..." My throat tightens as I begin my embarrassing confession. "I like what he does to me." She grins. "Say it with your chest." "I like what he does to me," I say, barely above a whisper, and the room vibrates with the truth of it. "There she is." Amber bumps my shoulder. "We can't fix him. But we can fortify you. You tell him what you won't do. You pick a safeword-" "Amber-" "Pick. One." "Fine! 'Amber .'" "An honor." She beams and then wiggles her fingers. "Now, take a breath. And for the love of lip gloss, stop apologizing for wanting things." Footsteps creak on the stairs. We freeze for a moment, waiting for my dad to burst in, but then the footsteps fade away down the hallway. We exhale in unison and Amber stands, smooths her skirt. "Text me anytime. If he tries anything shady, you use my holy name." "Yes, Pope Amber." * * * The office clock struck six, and Leo-softer today, warmer-leaned against my desk with that casual elegance that made my concentration scatter. "Let me drive you home," he said, rolling his sleeves to his forearms. "I can manage an Uber." "I insist." His tone brooked no argument, though his smile remained gentle. "Besides, I need to stop by my place first. Quick detour." Twenty minutes later, we pulled through iron gates into a neighborhood that made my stomach flip-Amber's neighborhood. As we pass, I glimpse her roofline and feel a childish urge to wave like a flare. Leo's house rose before us, all glass and shadow, modern lines cutting against the sunset. He leads me in with a light hand at my lower back that burns long after it lifts. "Wine?" he asks. "I... Sure." He pours something ruby into two thin glasses. We sit opposite each other on a low slate-colored sofa, the city framed behind him like a painting. "One minute," he says when he stands, voice even. "Don't go anywhere." He's gone down the hall long enough for my thoughts to lap the room twice. When he returns, the air shifts. The softness in his gaze is gone, replaced by something still and cool that makes the hairs on my arms rise. "Stand up," he commanded. I blink. "What?" "Stand. Up. Mira." Each word dropped like ice into water. I stand because my body beats my brain to the choice. "You're... different ." Leo studies me for three careful seconds, as if he's checking a measurement. He circled me slowly, predatory, then gestured to the sofa's edge. "Sit back. Hands on your knees." I swallow. "Leo, what-" "Quiet." He placed items on the coffee table with military precision: black silk, soft rope. My pulse hammered and I heard Amber in my skull: You set the rules. You call the shots on your body. "I didn't agree to-" "You'll speak when asked," he says, slow enough to be gentle and sharp enough to cut. He lifts the silk and holds it up. "Eyes." "That's..." My breath trips. "That's a blindfold, what-" "Safeword," he interrupted. "Choose one." Everything crystallized. "Amber." "Good." His voice lowers a degree. "Say it if you want everything to stop. If you do, it stops. If you don't, you follow my voice." My pulse is a drumline now. "Okay." "Okay what?" "Okay... sir." It slips out uninvited and scorches my cheeks. Something pleased flickers at the corner of his mouth. "Eyes closed." The silk slipped over my vision, cool and absolute. Darkness engulfed me. "Hands." His hands worked efficiently, binding my wrists with rope-not tight, not careless or painful, but undeniably restrictive-just enough to make me aware of where I end and where his decisions begin. "Perfect," he murmured, but his voice came from the wrong direction. "Leo..." I whisper, half question, half confession. "Quiet," he murmurs, and there it is again. That voice that slides under thought and tells my body what to do without asking my permission first. His fingers find my shoulders, press down, and I exhale. Then he moves-and the touch changes. Warmer. Softer. The drift of knuckles becomes the careful cup of a palm. I go still. "Leo?" My voice cracks. Silence. Then another touch, different again-firmer, a steadier anchor. My breath hitches. The hairs rise on the back of my neck. "There are-" I stop. "What is happening?" No answer. Hands map me like I am a coastline: one precise, one tender, one clinical. Heat shoots through my belly; cold water follows. My mind scrambles for logic and finds none. My wrists flex against silk. "Safeword?" a new voice asks softly, near my ear. Not the same timbre. Lower. Rougher. Familiar in a way that shocks me. "I-I'm okay," I stammer. "I think. I-" Three distinct touches. Three different energies. Impossible. "Take it off," I say suddenly, lungs burning. "I want to see." The silk fell away and light assaulted my eyes. Three men stood before me. Three Leos. No. Not three Leos. Three identical faces. Same sharp jawline, same dark hair, same intense eyes. But their stances, their energy-completely different. One stood rigid and controlled, storm clouds barely contained. One leaned with casual grace, poetry in human form. And one watched with surgical precision, a blade wrapped in sophisticated clothing. My voice is dust. "What... are you?" "I'm Leo," the storm said, stepping forward. "The real Leo." "Milo," the graceful one added, that warm smile I'd seen today playing on his lips. "Victor," the precise one stated, cold eyes never leaving mine. My stomach flips, my brain refuses the math and accepts it anyway. "There were always three of you," I whisper, the floor shifting under words as old scenes reassemble into new answers. Garden party, office, dinner. Soft, cold, burning. "You're... triplets ?" The words felt impossible even as evidence stood before me. "Identical," Leo confirmed, his presence commanding the room. "We've been switching since day one." "The contract-" My voice shook. "My father... does he know?" "Your father knows Leo Stern," Victor said clinically. "One successful businessman. What he doesn't know won't concern him." Victor's is the line that follows. "We want you to choose." Leo's is the door that locks. "Or don't," he says, and his eyes drag over my mouth like a vow. "But understand this, Mira: you were never playing in a one-man story." I inhale. The room tastes like wine and thunder. "What do you want from me?" I ask, and it is not a plea; it is a blade I offer hilt-first, daring them to take it. Leo smiles-slow, inevitable. "Everything ."