97 Champagne problems

97 Champagne problems
Date = 13 August
Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)

POV - Aria

I’m mid-sip of champagne when Sky squints at the envelope on the table. Her eyes narrow. Her head tilts. Then she looks at me like she’s just uncovered classified government secrets.

I bite my lip.

Inside that envelope — creamy white, thick and expensive, SPORT written across the front in big, ridiculous curly letters — is the new ‘contract’ Enrique made me sign.

Which I did. Freely, knowingly, and in love.

Because I have read every clause — even the fine print. I agree with every word. No amendments are required, and no escape clause is desired.

Signed. Sealed. And tomorrow, I will personally deliver it into his hands like the obedient lovesick menace I apparently am.

“Why,” Sky asks slowly, dangerously, “do you call him Sport?”

Not exactly the question I expected.

Mel perks up immediately. “Yeah, I also want to know.”

I cough. Hard. Champagne burns its way up my nose. “It’s nothing.”

“That,” Mel says with delight, “is a lie. You’re blushing.” She swings her champagne flute — filled with a berry juice and milk mix — through the air.

Sky leans closer, eyes bright. “You do not nickname men without meaning.”

“It is —” I try.

“Explain,” Mel interrupts, grinning. “Immediately.”

I groan and cover my face. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to judge me.” I glare at Sky. “I mean, you call yours Murkles …”

Sky crosses her heart. “Yeah, there’s that.” She grins. “But I swear it definitely has meaning … so I am absolutely allowed to judge you.” Sometimes I think I liked her more as a boy. “However … I’ll listen first.”

I sigh, peeking through my fingers. “Okay. When Enrique video-called me for the very first time — before everything went insane, before kidnappings and murders and weddings, before I’d even met him in person — I didn’t know what to make of him.”

“That tracks,” Mel says. “He bullied you into a contract.”

I wince. There was no bullying. And I’m still uncomfortable with them knowing everything … but … I’m also relieved it’s all out in the open.

“He surprised me,” I continue. “Out of nowhere. Middle of my skincare routine. No warning. Just — beautiful face. Sexy voice. Broad shoulders.”

Sky smirks. “Oh no.”

“And my brain,” I say, tapping my temple, “checked out. Like lipstick on dry lips.”

Mel’s eyes light up. “I already love this.”

“So I started … categorizing him,” I admit.

“Wrote it down,” I add quickly. “Like a teenager.”

Sky snorts. “Oh hell.”

I drop my hands and confess, “It spelled — S. P. O. R. T.”

They stare at me. I’m getting my thoughts together.

“Well?” Mel prompts. Like any Blackburn, patience is not her virtue.

“My first impressions,” I say defensively. “Sexy.” That one needs no explanation.

Sky nods solemnly. “Obviously.”

Of course, she thinks that — her roommate has the exact same dangerous cheekbones.

“Perfect,” I continue. “Because he was annoyingly calm and … symmetrical.”

Mel snorts. “That bastard.”

“Obnoxious,” I say. “Because he knew he was hot and didn’t apologize for it.”

Sky laughs. “Checks out.”

“R is Robot,” I add. “Because he seemed like he didn’t have a heart.”

“It was buried,” Mel says gently, tilting her head. “But you found it.”

My chest tightens. Yes, I did.

“And lastly,” I finish, bracing myself, “Toyboy.”

They both nearly choke.

“ARIA.”

“I panicked!” I cry. “He was doing things with his eyes, flirting like a pro, and I was spiraling. Completely malfunctioning like trying to blend foundation with a dirty sponge.”

Mel wipes tears from her eyes. “You named your future husband based on an acronym you made during a horny existential crisis.”

“Yes,” I say flatly. “But I didn’t know he was my future husband. And now it’s stuck.”

Sky leans back, laughing freely. “That is the stupidest, most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard. I love it.”

Mel grins wickedly. “Okay. Our turn.” She winks at Sky.

“Oh no,” I mutter.

“If we had to acronym our men,” Mel says thoughtfully, not looking at me, “what would it be?”

Sky taps her lip. A slow, delighted smile spreads across her flawless face. “Jackson could be S.H.A.R.K.”

We lean in eagerly.

“Sulky. Hotheaded. Arrogant. Roguish. Kind-of-cute.”

We lose it.

“He could also be …” Sky continues, wicked now, “D.E.V.I.L.”

I arch a brow. “That feels on the nose.”

She shrugs. “Dangerous. Emotionally damaged. Violent. Indisputable. Loyal.”

“Maybe I’ll use it,” she smiles.

Mel adds with a giggle, “He’ll probably figure it out in like two seconds.”

“But he looks good in black,” she adds.

Sky’s smile softens. “Always.”

Mel rests her hands over her stomach. “Damion’s would be C.A.L.M.”

I scoff. “That’s like calling Jackson an angel.”

“I love you, but that’s … impressively bad,” Sky chuckles. “Or brilliantly poetic.”

“It’s genius,” Mel continues. “Calculated. Adrenaline junkie. Loveable. Mine.”

I wrinkle my nose. “That last one isn’t an adjective.”

She smiles, unapologetic. “It is to me.”

We dissolve into laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls — light, loud, and desperately needed — until it feels like the room itself is breathing with us.

For a moment, everything is easy.

And hell, I’m clinging to that.

I hesitate, the champagne flute hovering midair like it’s waiting for legal counsel, then clear my throat.

“Okay,” I say. “Since we’re confessing.”

Sky’s yellow eyes narrow instantly. Predator focus. “What did you do?”

“I might have gotten a tattoo.”

The room freezes.

Mel stops breathing. Fully. Like someone hit pause on her lungs. “Tattoo?”

Sky gasps so dramatically, I swear the chandelier flinches. “You?” Yeah, I know, it’s out of character.

“It’s small,” I rush out. “And hidden.”

“Where,” Sky asks very slowly, in the tone doctors use right before delivering terrible news, “is it hidden?”

I swallow. “My butt.”

Mel screams.

Not a gasp. Not a laugh. A full, banshee-level scream that ricochets off the walls and probably scares wildlife three streets over. It definitely put Mathias and his two companions on full alert.

She slaps a hand over her mouth. “You did not.”

“I did,” I whisper. “Yesterday.”

Sky collapses backward against the couch, cackling. “You are getting married in two days, and you got a butt tattoo?” Yeah, clearly didn’t think that one through. But to my defense … it’s my first body art.

And most likely my last.

I swivel, already regretting telling them, and lift the hem of my robe just enough to reveal it.

“It’s a —” Sky squints, laughter stalling mid-snort, “— peach?”

“Yes,” I say defensively. “It’s a peach. A cute heart-shaped one.”

Silence drops like a dropped fork in a fancy restaurant.

Mel blinks once. Twice. “A … peach.”

“Yes.”

Another beat.

“Because,” I add, “Enrique has one.”

“I just want to confirm,” Mel murmurs, staring into the middle distance, “that you’re saying my brother voluntarily chose fruit-based ass art?”

I nod.

“Of course he does,” Mel sighs. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Somewhere,” Sky says, closing her eyes, “my soul just sat down.”

She shoots me a look. “Why?”

“Because it’s our thing,” I say, shrugging like this is completely normal behavior and not unhinged soulmate madness.

“Ohhh,” Sky drawls, eyes lighting up as she looks at Mel. “That’s why the wedding is … aggressively citrus.” Then she adds, smirk blooming — “The color scheme isn’t romantic — it’s anatomical.” Now I’m sure I liked her more as a male.

“I swear Lee was less bitchy,” I snap.

“Oh, he was,” she grins, sticking out her tongue.

Mel stares at me with awe and a little fear. “You’re unhinged.” And I feel like I need to explain.

“I wanted to surprise him,” I say more softly. “Something just for us. Something that says … we’re the same. We choose each other.”

Sky’s laughter melts into something warmer. “He’s going to lose his damn mind.”

“I hope so,” I admit.

Mel’s smile turns soft, eyes glowing. “He’s lucky.”

Then — because she’s Mel — her expression flips naughty. “Maybe I’ll get one for my wedding too.”

Sky grins. “Let’s make it a pact. Secret sexy tattoos before our weddings. Something that absolutely destroys them.”

“It’s a pact,” Mel says, and we shake on it solemnly, like idiots making sacred vows. “And we document their reactions.”

That does it. My nerves snap like overstretched elastic, and I start laughing — the uncontrollable kind. The kind that hurts your stomach and steals your breath and leaks out of your eyes, whether you approve or not. Sky joins in immediately. Mel follows half a second later.

We sound like an audience at a Jeff Dunham show — feral, wheezing, entirely inappropriate.

Mel snorts, then suddenly winces, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Okay. Laugh softer. This child is already aggressive.”

I lean forward immediately. “Kick?”

“More like a warning punch,” she mutters. “He’s his father’s son.”

And just like that, the air shifts. Not silence — thinking.

Sky’s gaze flicks from me to Mel and back again, already ten steps ahead. I’m still on step two.

Then Mel’s brows lift a fraction. Not surprise. Recognition.

I’m still smiling, feeling it before I understand it.

They always figure stuff out before me. Sky sees it first, in the cracks between the shadows. Then Mel feels it in her bones. But at least I get there eventually. That’s progress.

Sky’s eyes have gone distant. Mel’s thumb stills against her stomach. And I can tell — we’ve all arrived at the same thought right now, without agreeing to go there.

Because ‘his father’s son’ is not a simple phrase. Devils, after all, have fathers too.

None of us says it. But it’s there. Hanging between us — who is the man who seeded the twins?

I break first. “Do you ever think about it?”

They don’t ask what I mean. They know.

“Oh, I’m constantly thinking about it,” Sky says, staring out the dark window. “And it’s driving my curious little goblin side focking insane.” She’s using the same sloppy swearwords she’s always used as Lee. A beat. “But Jackson is not spilling.”

“So Jackson really knows who he is,” I say. The sentence sits between us, heavy and bitter. “And Enrique doesn’t,” I add. That’s the betrayal. The one Enrique hasn’t forgiven yet. Brooding about it ever since that day in the kitchen.

I press my lips together. Enrique doesn’t do well with secrets. Not ones kept for him. Not ones kept from him. And Jackson — damn him — has made more than one call without asking.

Sky winces. Hesitates. “True.”

“Do you think he’s right?” Mel asks quietly. “To keep it from him? From everyone?”

I don’t. But she’s not asking me.

Sky finally looks at us. “Trust me … I’m frickin itching to know … but better the monster you know under the bed than the one in the closet, Mom always says. So I think … maybe Jackson’s is keeping the closet door closed for a reason.”

“Well,” Mel snaps, “That one’s never been great at sharing … or feelings. But he’s fiercely protective. I think he came out of the womb all broody and domineering.”

I huff out a breath. That would explain so much. But nobody is born like that.

“He did,” Mel snubs, trying to convince us. Or herself. We both look at her.

“I mean it,” she says, shaking her glass around. “Want proof?”

Sky nods. “Always.”

Mel pauses, as if searching for the right place to start. “Ilkay told me this story … the twins were in kindergarten. There was this day, Enrique got into a fight with a much older boy during recess. Got a split lip and a broken ego.”

She swallows. Sky’s eyes narrow as if she already knows where this is going. “Jackson went looking for the boy who did it. Beat him up like that was his job.”

My mouth parts slightly. “Kindergarten?”

“Kindergarten,” Mel confirms.

Sky exhales slowly. “Holy shit.”

“And at four, he bit a grown man,” Mel goes on.

I choke. “I’m sorry — what?”

“The dude was touching my pram,” Mel continues. “No warning. Just — chomp.”

Sky covers her mouth. I’m not sure if she’s in shock or trying not to laugh.

“He didn’t explain himself,” Mel says. “Just stood there like, problem solved.”

“And there are many more incidents,” she finishes, “just like that.”

“So cute,” Sky snarks as we all take a thoughtful breath, taking it all in.

Yeah … not. But I’m not that surprised. I can absolutely see the little toddler version of Jackson going rogue.

Then Mel suddenly asks: “Have I ever told you why I’m afraid of guns?”

The question drops into the room like a glass slipping off a table — not loud, just sharp enough to make us all still.

I shake my head slowly. “Darren.” She’s told me that much before.

“Yes … he increased the fear … but the phobia started way before that.” She exhales, long and careful, like she’s bracing herself. “I was four. Maybe five. Somewhere in the age range where you think the world is mostly a playground and consequences are optional.”

Sky shifts closer — the way we instinctively lean in when a story is about to hurt.

“I saw Jackson,” Mel continues. “And I followed him.”

My stomach tightens.

She gives a small, almost embarrassed shrug, like she can’t quite justify it even now. “Because he was dirty. Or maybe because I was bored, nosy, and stupid, and he was my favorite brother.” Her mouth quirks faintly. “At least that day he was.”

Sky’s breath catches … as if she’s right there.

I can see it too as Mel speaks — little feet padding after him, curiosity louder than common sense.

“I really don’t remember why I followed him,” she admits. “I just remember thinking he looked … wrong. Interesting. His clothes were a mess. Muddy. Bloody. Like he’d crawled out of something he shouldn’t have survived.”

The room goes very still.

“He went straight toward our grandfather’s house,” she continues, “stood at the door for a moment like he was deciding whether to knock — or burst right in.” She exhales. “Then he turned around. Just … stumbled away.”

Sky’s fingers tighten around her glass.

“I followed him into the broodmare paddock,” Mel says. Her voice softens. “He sat between the mares and foals, screaming.”

“Not words. Just sound. Like something tearing out of him.” She swallows. “And a gun fell out of his hand.”

The room feels smaller. My chest aches, so I put my hand on my heart.

“I remember picking it up. Thought it was one of those BB toy guns they always played with.”

“I aimed, told him to put his hands in the air.”

“His head snapped up,” Mel says. “He looked … shocked.” Her throat works. She takes a breath.

She winces, half-smiling. “I laughed and pulled the trigger.”

Sky lets out a faint, horrified sound.

“The sound … was loud,” she says softly. “As if it split the sky in half.” She rubs her temples. “It was not a toy.”

“My ears were ringing, and the horses lost their minds,” Mel says, words tumbling over each other. “Sixty horses panicked at once, and the world became hooves and screams and shaking earth — and in the middle of it, I was just a frozen little girl waiting to be stepped on.”

She exhales shakily. “I curled in on myself and waited to be crushed.”

Her voice wobbles. She closes her eyes. I can almost hear it — the thunder of hooves, the smell of dirt and sweat, the way fear makes the world shrink to breath and heartbeat.

“But Jackson —,” she says. “He tackled me. Even with a bullet in his shoulder. Threw himself over me, covering me like a shield.” Her laugh is breathless, broken. She opens her eyes.

“He got stomped,” Mel says. “Not badly — but enough. Enough that it should’ve broken him.” She presses a hand to her sternum. “There was so much blood.”

“He told me to run. Told me to get out before anyone came. He said he’d fix it.”

Sky whispers, “Of course he did.”

“Till today, no one even knew I was there,” Mel whispers. “The gunshot. The horses. All of it — he took the blame.” She sighs deeply, regret and guilt shining in her eyes.

Another secret Enrique doesn’t know about — shocking absolutely no one at this point. He told me the story once — but in his version Jackson pulled the trigger.

Enrique couldn’t wrap his head around it — why Jackson would do something so reckless, so stupid.

Now I can see it clearly.

Jackson didn’t fire a gun. Jackson stepped into a nightmare. Automatically. Like it was never even a choice.

God. He was just a boy.

“He disappeared for two days. The boys said hospital.” She wipes her eyes.

“But when he came back,” Mel adds softly, “he looked worse than when he left. Though it was only recently that I understood —” her jaw tightens “Alexander punished him. For what I did.”

Her hands shake. She opens her robe and shows us her knee — a thin white scar, barely there. “This is all I got. A bloody knee and a fear of guns.”

Mel gives a shaky smile. “He took everything else.”

And for the first time, I understand it in my bones. Jackson didn’t learn to be a protector. He was born one. But he wasn’t born a devil — that was forced upon him.

By Alexander.

My hands curl into fists before I even realize I’m doing it. Nails biting into skin. Heat climbing my spine. “That man was a monster.”

Mel nods slowly. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just … certain. “Yeah. He really was.” She pauses, choosing her words like they’re sharp objects she doesn’t want to drop. “But the part I can’t get past is why Alexander was so afraid of the twins’ real father that he needed such an elaborate plan just to get leverage over him.”

Sky lifts her glass, squints thoughtfully. “Maybe not afraid,” she says gently. “Maybe he was just cautious. Keeping an ace in his sleeve should he need it.”

That somehow feels worse.

Alexander — strategist, tyrant, professional puppet master — like I’ve been told — didn’t go to war because he preferred to win before the battle started. He was a man who collected people like assets and broke them like habits.

And there he was, cautious around someone else.

That means power. That means teeth. That means maybe Jackson might have a point in not sharing the information he has. Because finding that man might open the wrong door. One you can never close again.

“The man has to be powerful,” Mel says. “Not just wealthy. Not just dangerous. Powerful in a way that makes monsters pause.”

“Monsters are only afraid of bigger monsters,” Sky sneers.

“Or devils,” I murmur before I can stop myself. Silence.

Sky flinches — not like someone offended, but like someone who recognizes a truth she’s been actively ignoring. Her jaw tightens. “And Jackson is his son.”

So is Enrique. But I’m not going there. Rosa did say that Enrique is more like his mom. I’m sticking to that.

“I see it sometimes,” she admits. “In the way Jackson moves through rooms. Like he knows the world will make space for him … or burn if it doesn’t.” Yeah, Jackson moves as if he fears nothing. Not death, not hell, not the devil … nothing.

I think of Enrique then. Of his steadiness. His refusal to dominate. His quiet morality. The way he anchors instead of conquers.

“How can two men from the same blood, with the exact same DNA, be so different?” I ask, staring at the floor like it might confess something if I glare hard enough.

Mel answers instantly, voice smooth, almost gentle. “Maybe one learned exactly what not to become.”

Sky doesn’t speak right away. She never does when something matters. Instead, she watches — me, Mel, the way the champagne bottle is sweating onto the marble table like it’s nervous. Then her eyes lift to mine, sharp and unsettlingly calm.

“Or,” she says quietly, “the secrets protected him while molding the other.”

That one doesn’t land. It sinks. Right into my chest. Right where all the things I don’t want to know already live.

Mel exhales slowly and controlled through her nose, tapping one perfectly manicured nail against her glass.

Click. Click.

Like she’s counting down to a bad decision. “Either way, all we can do is gossip.”

“I hate that,” I say.

“I know, right …” Mel replies cheerfully. “The curiosity is actively poisoning me.”

Sky nods solemnly. “Same. I hate it. And it makes my skin itch.” She taps her temple. “Like an allergic reaction.”

“Maybe,” Mel says, flexing her fingers with unsettling enthusiasm, as if she’s about to summon a demon. “— we dig.”

Sky’s eyes light up. Not excited. Focused. Like a raccoon that’s just spotted an unlocked trash can. “I already have a ton of theories.”

I sit up straighter. This is heading for disaster. I have to stop them.

Or at least slow them down. “No! You two are prone to end up causing shit.” It’s true. I love them, but they are.

“That’s not fair,” Sky says, frowning, her perfect lips in a serious pout. “Sometimes the shit finds us.”

Yeah … not so much.

“I swear you two are my curse,” I stutter.

“Oh,” Mel says cheerfully, “just lean into it.”

I laugh despite myself — short, sharp, necessary. But the sound fades, settling into that familiar ache behind my ribs, what grief calls home. The one fear rents space in.

“Do you ever feel like we’re tempting fate?” I ask quietly.

Both of them go still.

I didn’t mean to say it out loud. It just slipped — like fear always does when you’re distracted. Sneaky. Uninvited. Wearing your voice.

“Yes,” Mel says instantly.

“Constantly,” Sky agrees.

My throat tightens. “Because I keep thinking … what if this is just the calm before something worse?”

Sky scoots closer, her knee pressing against mine. Solid. Real. “Aria. We survived hell.”

“Did we?” I ask.

Mel’s voice is low, steady. “We survived Graham.”

The name lands like a dropped plate — sharp, loud, impossible to ignore.

“Please,” I whisper, “let all of it have been him.”

Sky’s voice cracks. “I need it to be him.”

Mel reaches for both of us then, grabbing our hands like she is anchoring us to the present. “It was him,” she says firmly. “We’re allowed to believe that.”

I want to believe her. God, I want to. Because if it wasn’t Graham, then none of us are safe. Not really. And we are so tired of being afraid.

“I don’t want to look over my shoulder anymore,” I say. “I want to walk down the aisle without wondering if someone’s watching.”

“You will,” Mel says firmly.

“But what if it was not Graham? And Cindy is still out there … so is Chloe,” I start.

The room chills, like someone cracked a window open to the dark. Outside, the night stays still — no footsteps, no watchers, no sign of the thing that has hunted us for so long.

But fear is sneaky. It lingers. But I’m not going to let it in. Not this time.

I lean back, forcing a breath. “You know girls … Graham, Cindy … whoever they are … dead or alive … deranged or delusional … they don’t get to take my wedding from me.”

Mel smiles faintly. “Or the baby from me.”

Sky lifts her chin, steel flashing in her eyes. “Or Jackson from me.”

She looks wild. Savage. The one thing Jackson might just fear.

But it’s good. Because we … sisters — new, fierce, unyielding sisters — don’t back down from shadows anymore. Not when we’ve already survived the dark.

I look at them — these women, this strange, untamed sisterhood — and feel something settle inside me.

Maybe happiness isn’t tempting fate. Maybe it is daring the darkness to try again. Only this time, we won’t be standing alone.