Chapter 173
Emily's POV
The days after my father's re-arrest settled into something I'd never experienced before—peace that didn't feel temporary. No waiting for the other shoe to drop. No scanning every room for exits. Just four people learning how to exist together without the weight of crisis forcing us into formation.
Life found its rhythm quickly, though not in the way I'd expected. Ethan's competition schedule meant he was gone three or four days a week, flying to different cities for games and training camps. Alex disappeared into back-to-back business trips—board meetings in New York, acquisition negotiations in Chicago, site visits to properties I couldn't keep track of. Mason stayed constant, his presence in the apartment as reliable as the sunrise, always there when I came home from work with dinner started or laundry folded or just himself, solid and steady on the couch.
Monday morning I woke up alone but found a note from Ethan on the nightstand—Seattle until Thursday, miss you already—and Alex's cologne still faint on the pillow beside me. Mason was in the kitchen when I stumbled out in search of coffee, already dressed and he handed me a travel mug without being asked.
"Ethan texted me to make sure you actually ate breakfast," he said, sliding a plate of toast toward me. "So I'm watching you consume at least half of that before you leave."
I ate the toast. Texted Ethan a photo of the empty plate with a middle finger emoji that made him send back three laugh-crying faces and a heart. Drove to work with the radio loud and the windows cracked, and realized somewhere between the restaurant and the office that I felt safe. Actually, genuinely safe in a way that didn't depend on having all three of them within arm's reach.
Tuesday Alex called from his hotel in Manhattan at midnight my time, three AM his, voice rough with exhaustion but insistent that he needed to hear me talk about something boring to help him sleep. I read him supplier invoices until his breathing evened out, then stayed on the line another twenty minutes just listening to the sound of him unconscious and three thousand miles away, and felt my chest go warm with something I didn't have words for.
Wednesday Mason and I fell asleep on the couch mid-movie, his arm around my shoulders and my head tucked against his chest, and when I woke up at two AM he'd covered us both with a blanket and stayed exactly where I'd left him. I extracted myself carefully and went to bed alone, but it didn't feel lonely—just like the naturalebb and flow of people who had their own lives and routines that happened to orbit around each other.
Thursday Ethan came home with his duffel slung over one shoulder and exhaustion written into every line of his body, and I met him at the door with the kind of kiss that made him drop the bag and back me against the wall, his hands already working under my shirt. Mason ordered pizza and pretended not to notice when we disappeared into the bedroom for an hour, and by the time we reemerged Ethan was loose and smiling and more himself than he'd been in the two minutes he'd been back.
Friday Alex returned from Chicago with expensive chocolate and a new tablet for Mason because he'd noticed the old one had a cracked screen, and we spent the evening sprawled across the living room furniture like teenagers while Alex gave a play-by-play of the acquisition meeting that apparently involved someone'sEx-wife showing up drunk to the negotiation. Mason laughed so hard he fell off the couch. Ethan threw popcorn at Alex until he threatened to make us all sleep on the floor.
By the second week I'd stopped tracking who was where and when, trusting that they'd come back because they always did. Stopped mentally preparing for the conversation where one of them realized this was too complicated and walked away. Started believing that this thing we'd built was strong enough to handle distance and schedules and all the normal pressures that broke normal relationships.
At first the doubt lingered in quiet moments—when I was alone in the apartment at night, or sitting in my office between meetings, or driving home from the restaurant with nothing but my own thoughts for company. The voice in my head that had been trained by years of survival would whisper its familiar questions: How do you deserve this? What did you do to earn three men who fit together like puzzle pieces designed specifically for you?
An athlete boyfriend who knew how to make my body sing and treated physical affection like a language he'd been born fluent in. A CEO who challenged me intellectually and matched my ambition with the kind of ruthless competence that made me feel seen instead of threatened. A caretaker who noticed when I was tired before I did and filled the spaces between with warmth and steadiness and unconditional acceptance.
It was everything. Every fantasy I'd never let myself articulate about what a partner could be, what a relationship could look like—condensed into three separate people who somehow coexisted without destroying each other or me in the process.
You don't deserve them, the voice would insist. You're a murderer's daughter. A girl who manipulated her own father into getting killed. Someone fundamentally broken who's going to ruin this.
But somewhere around the third week, the voice started to fade. Not because I'd found answers to its questions or proof that I deserved what I had—but because I'd stopped asking. Stopped interrogating my own worthiness like it was something that needed to be earned through perfect behavior or strategic self-improvement.
I just... accepted it. Accepted that Ethan loved me enough to share me with a second man, then a third, without letting jealousy or possessiveness destroy what we were building. Accepted that Alex looked at me like I was the most fascinating problem he'd ever tried to solve, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life working on the equation. Accepted that Mason's face lit up when I walked into a room, like my presence was a gift instead of an obligation.
And instead of questioning why, instead of waiting for the inevitable moment when they'd realize their mistake—I just felt grateful. Grateful in a way that was quiet and constant and didn't require grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Grateful for Ethan's notes on the nightstand and Alex's midnight phone calls and Mason's steadiness. Grateful for the way they'd taken my sharp edges and jagged history and somehow found a way to love me anyway, not despite who I was but because of it.
I stopped wondering if I deserved them and started focusing on making sure they never regretted choosing me.
A Saturday morning Ethan woke me up with coffee and a smile that had too much mischief in it to be innocent.
"Get dressed," he said, settling on the edge of the bed in a way that dipped the mattress toward him. "We're going somewhere."
I blinked at him over the rim of the mug, brain still fuzzy with sleep. "Where?"
"It's a surprise." He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering against my jaw. "Trust me?"