Harper's POV

Mark's eyes are still on me, his gaze is fixed and impatient. I can feel the heat of it burning into my skin. I don't need to look to know it's a glare. He's waiting for me to obey like he expects me to fight. My fingers start to move instantly before I get a chance to second-guess myself.

I do the only thing that I can: I tap the message icon on their profile. I see the small heart-shaped wink icon beside the text box and click it. I don't know what to say to them. How do you start a conversation with three guys? What am I supposed to say to three strangers who want to spoil me and use me all night?

The screen flashes once, then confirms the message has gone through.

That’s it, I've done what he wanted. I look back at the profile, there's no pricing list anywhere, just a row of golden dollar signs, six to be exact.

What the hell does that even mean? Is it a tier? A ranking? A warning?

“Next one,” Mark says, already leaning in.

I suppress the sigh building in my chest and nod instead. I click out of the profile and scroll until another catches my eye. The man is maybe thirty, give or take. His profile picture is sharp and polished, with him in a clean-cut navy suit, tie perfectly tied, hair styled as if he just stepped out of a boardroom. It looks more like a professional networking photo than a Kink app profile.

I open it anyway.

He’s listed that he’s searching for a dinner date and “fun after,” whatever that’s supposed to mean. He hasn’t included any pricing details either, just two faint money symbols under his name. Less than the last one, much less. What does that mean? Is he broke? Is two the equivalent of low pay? A warning that he expects more for less?

I stare at it, confused and slightly irritated. None of this makes sense. There’s no legend, no explanation. Just symbols and vague offers.

I keep scrolling.

The next profile is different. The photo isn’t flashy; it’s a mirror selfie taken in what appears to be a gym locker room. The man is shirtless, sweat-slicked, and well-muscled, but not in an obnoxious way. His expression is relaxed. Not smiling, but not severe either. There’s a confidence in it that feels real, not performed.

His age is listed as thirty-two. His bio is short and to the point:

Looking for a casual submissive to wine, dine, and worship for one night. I prefer softness with a little attitude. Show up as you are. I’ll take care of the rest.

There are four money symbols on his profile. Not two. Not six. Somewhere in the middle.

For some reason, that feels safer. Or at least manageable.

I hesitate only a moment before I send him a quick message.

Hi. Your profile stood out to me. I’m interested in hearing more about what you’re looking for.

No wink this time. Just words. Real, uncertain words.

And then I wait.

Mark doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The message has been sent, and that’s enough for now.

I glance down at the phone still warm in my hand, then let it fall lightly into my lap. My chest feels tight. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if any of this will end in safety or disaster or something in between.

But I’m already in it now.

One message sent. Two eyes are still watching me.

And nowhere left to go but forward.

Mark leans in again, peering at the screen as if I’ve been slacking the whole time.

“When they message back,” he says, “talk to them like it’s your idea. Like you’re choosing it.”

He stands up and stretches, cracking his neck with that slow, deliberate motion that always makes me flinch internally. Then he walks off, muttering something under his breath that I don’t bother to catch. The door to the hallway closes behind him with a dull click, and I’m left alone on the couch with the faint hum of the fridge and the low buzz of silence.

I sink deeper into the cushions and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My body softens. My shoulders relax. It’s the first moment of quiet I’ve had all day. I pull the blanket over my legs, tucking it around myself like it’s armor.

Then I reopen their profile, the three men.

The Triumvirate.

The photos are exactly as I remember. C*cky, confident, perfectly calculated to appeal. I study each face this time, slower. The one with the lazy smirk and green eyes, tattoos across his forearms, he looks like he enjoys being in control, but knows how to make it feel like a game. The second, broader, that little bottle of beer halfway to his lips, the way his eyes track the camera, not smiling, but watching. And the third, the one with the beard and the leather chair, the shadows catching on the edge of his mouth, as if daring someone to look away first.

I scroll down again, reading their bio word for word. I let each sentence sink into my skin. Spoiled. The center of our universe. One night only. Only what I’m willing to give.

I run my fingers down my arm absently, tracing over a faint scar from a kitchen burn, a reminder that I’ve been too tired too many nights to remember the oven’s still hot.

What would I be willing to give?

Would it be worth the money?

I glance down at myself, bare feet, old leggings stretched at the knees, a hoodie with a frayed cuff. My hair’s pulled back in a lazy knot, and I haven’t touched mascara in two days. I look like someone clinging to the edge of survival, not someone meant to be worshipped by three strangers with tailored suits and perfect teeth.

I’m not pretty enough for this.

Not soft enough. Not confident enough. Not enough, full stop.

But that voice, the cruel one in my head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Mark, gets pushed back. I shove it down, past the doubt, past the ache in my chest.

Because I need the money.

That part isn’t up for debate.

“Damn,” a voice says behind me, sharp and amused. “Didn’t think anyone would actually open that one.”

I jump, twisting around. Lesley’s standing behind the couch, one hand on her hip, the other holding a half-empty mug of tea. She leans over to peer at the screen and lets out a low whistle.

“What are you doing?” I ask, pulling the blanket higher, embarrassed even though she’s probably seen worse.

She doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she grins at me sideways. “You’re brave. That profile? It’s been up for months. Maybe even years. You know how the app works, right? Once a girl agrees to sell her services, the listing goes offline for a minimum of 48 hours. Theirs? Hasn’t gone dark once. No one’s been brave enough.”

I blink at her. That detail hadn’t even crossed my mind. “Really?”

Lesley nods, still grinning. “Mmhmm. That’s some serious kink right there. Intense, coordinated... expensive.”

I shrug, trying to keep my voice even. “I need the money.”

She barks out a laugh and raises her cup. “Yeah, don’t we all. But for five figures?” She whistles again, low and slow. “I might consider it. Might.”

Then she laughs again and shakes her head. “Never mind. No, I wouldn’t. Not my style. But hey, if it happens? Enjoy the cash, sweetheart.”

My heart stutters in my chest. I stare back at the screen. “Wait... five figures?”

Lesley just winks. “Why else would no one touch it? That level of control? That much attention? That kind of money?” She takes a slow sip of her tea. “That’s not casual fun. That’s buy-your-silence kind of compensation.”

I stare at the screen. The bio. The photos. The money symbols.

Five figures.

Could that really be what they’re offering?

Could I really be worth that for one night?

The morning light slips through the slats of the blinds like thin silver knives, cutting across the worn floorboards and the cheap throw rug I once thought would make the apartment feel warmer. I don’t move. Not at first. The blanket still clings to my legs, and the phone is exactly where I left it last night, tucked under the edge of a cushion like a secret I can’t decide whether to bury or confess.

I hear Mark in the kitchen. His movements are deliberate today, not the impatient clatter of yesterday’s fury. The kettle hums instead of screams, and when he speaks, it’s with a softness that instantly sets every nerve in my body on edge.

“Coffee’s ready, babe,” he calls, his voice touched with forced brightness. “I made the one you like. The hazelnut.”

I blink slowly at the ceiling and tell myself to breathe before I answer.

“Thanks,” I murmur, quiet enough that he might not even hear it, though I know he will. He always hears everything.

When I step into the kitchen, he’s leaning against the counter in a worn T-shirt and the sweatpants he only wears on days when he’s playing the part of the doting boyfriend. The coffee mug he hands me has a little chip on the handle. He holds it like it’s a gift, like he’s done something extraordinary, and for a heartbeat, I hate how my hands take it automatically.

He smiles at me then, that particular kind of smile that looks warm but feels like a performance. “You were quiet last night,” he says, conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather. “I figured I’d give you space. Let you process everything.”

I take a sip and nod. I’m not sure what to say. My stomach is still tight from the messages I sent, the profiles I scrolled through, the image of those three men laughing beneath city lights still echoing somewhere behind my eyes. I haven’t heard back from anyone yet. Or if I have, I haven’t dared check.

Mark steps closer, brushing a piece of hair off my shoulder. His fingers linger a moment too long.

“I know it’s a lot,” he murmurs, “but you’re doing well. Really good. I’m proud of you.”

There it is. The sweetness. The praise that feels like honey poured over broken glass. I try to smile, but I can already feel it slipping.

“You think they’ll message back?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even, as though it doesn’t matter either way.

He shrugs, reaching past me to grab a spoon from the drawer. His hand grazes my waist deliberately, as if to remind me he can. “If they know what they’re looking at, they will.”

That should sound flattering. It should. But the way he says it makes me feel like a product on a shelf, like something polished and positioned under perfect lighting just to catch a buyer’s eye.