Page 224 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

SOPHIA

A week goes by, and then another. For some strange reason, I continue to track my ovulation. I buy a kit from the Internet, and every day, first thing in the morning, I pee on a wand. It’s a little complicated when I stay over at Damien’s or Julian’s, but I manage.

The three of us spend a lot of time with each other.

By now, all my siblings know something is going on.

My oldest brother Ben has always known, I’ve asked Aurora for advice, and Simon’s working on Julian’s house.

I haven’t discussed Julian and Damien with Andre, but he’s not completely oblivious.

He’s bound to notice something when I'm not sleeping in my bed more than three nights a week.

But two weeks in, and I still haven’t discussed children with them.

“What is wrong with me?” I ask Ben one Sunday afternoon as I drive back from Damien’s place. “Why am I not telling them? What the hell is holding me back, Ben?”

My brother doesn’t reply right away.

“It's a real relationship; I know it is,” I continue. “So why am I not telling them that I'm thirty-five, I'm on a timeline, and I want children? Why am I avoiding having this conversation with them?”

“Well, it's only been a few weeks,” my ever-practical brother points out. “It’s quite soon.”

“They told me they wanted to be in a relationship with me. They didn't have any trouble expressing their feelings. Why am I struggling with this?”

“They didn't have our childhood. When things get intense, I run, and so do you.” He hesitates for a moment. “Don’t tell Papa and Dad because I don’t want to hurt their feelings.

But I've been seeing a therapist. About never feeling safe because Denise could take us away at any moment. Talking it out helps; it really does.”

“Ben, I can't afford a therapist, not with the fertility treatments.”

His voice sharpens. “You aren't still thinking about going the sperm donor route, are you? Shouldn’t you at least have a conversation with the men you’re dating first?”

He's absolutely right. I don't know why I spent three hours on the sperm donor site last week. I don't know why I've narrowed it down to two candidates. I don't know why I’m peeing on a wand every morning. It’s as if I’m stuck on a path I can’t deviate from, which makes no sense whatsoever. I don't understand my brain.

My silence speaks volumes. “You don't trust them,” Ben says.

“No, that’s not it. I do trust them.” We went to Club M again last night.

Julian and Damien found out about my trapeze fantasies, so they suspended me from the ceiling in a sex swing-like contraption in a private room.

They blindfolded me and spun me between them.

Unable to see, I couldn’t tell if I was going to swallow cock, get fucked in my pussy, or in my ass.

(Spoiler alert: I did all three.) It was the hottest thing I’ve ever done, and I could only do it because I trusted them completely.

Right?

“Is it still about them getting you fired?”

“No,” I reply instantly. Is it? “Damien told me he had nothing to do with it, and I believe him.”

But I’ve never found out how Mrs. Caldwell knew that we’d slept together.

“It was ten years ago, Ben.”

“I know that. The real question is, do you? Because something’s bothering you, whether you want to admit it or not. If you tell me they haven’t done anything to erode your trust in the present, then it has to be about the past. You still have unresolved issues.”

Could he be right? But that's insane. Yes, getting fired changed my life, but it turned out to be a good thing in the end. I have a job I truly enjoy, working in a field where I can make a difference. Our community health center does so much good. Patricia is someone I can look up to. I have a beautiful home, good relationships with my family, and now, an amazing sex life. Surely I can’t still be hung up about something that happened ten years ago.

I’m never going to learn how Mrs. Caldwell found out about us. I haven’t kept in touch with anyone from the hospital; I’m never going to get closure on this. I'm never going to learn the answers.

And it doesn’t matter.

I can’t let the past stand in the way of my future.

On Monday, Patricia corners me in the kitchen. “Sophia,” she says as she heats her lunch in the microwave. “I want to talk to you about two things.”

My heart beats faster. After Julian brought me flowers, I expected Patricia to ask me about it, but she hasn't. Maybe she's just been biding her time.

“Of course.” My grip tightens on my coffee mug. “Shall we head to your office?”

She looks puzzled. “If you want, but these are quick things. First, dinner with Damien Cardenas. You were supposed to schedule that?”

Oh, right. Patricia wanted to take Damien out to dinner to thank him for his million-dollar donation. “I completely forgot about it,” I tell her honestly. “I’ll set it up.”

“Perfect. You have access to my calendar.” The microwave beeps, and she takes out her bowl of soup.

“The second thing. Finding Donna's replacement. It's been challenging, but I think I’ve finally found someone who might work. She has a lot of relevant experience, and she’s coming in this afternoon. If you have time, I’d like you to interview her. ”

I cannot keep the surprise off my face. Historically, Patricia conducts all our interviews. “Me?”

She smiles. “Yes, you. I turn fifty-two in February. As much as I’d like to pretend I’m still as young as I was ten or twenty years ago, it’s made me realize I need to think about succession plans.

A lot of nonprofits are held together by the founder, and when she retires, the organization falls apart.

I don't want that to be the case with us, which means I need to train my successor.” She takes in my dazed expression. “That's you.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. For a second, I really thought she was going to fire me. “I'm beginning to understand that.”

“So, can you do it?”

She’s talking about the interview. “Yes, of course.”

The candidate Patricia has chosen is Arlene Webb.

I didn’t have time to look at her resume before the interview, so it’s not until she's in the lobby that I realize with a start that she looks extremely familiar.

I am trying to figure out where I know her from when her face breaks out into a smile.

“Sophia,” she exclaims. “What a delightful surprise.

We worked together at Harrisburg General Hospital, remember?

I was Florence Caldwell's administrative assistant.”

My body goes cold. “Of course,” I choke out. “Please come in.”

I conduct the interview on autopilot. “I retired last year,” Mrs. Webb tells me.

“For the first few months, I was delighted. I spent time gardening, baking, and making clothes for my grandchildren.” She smiles ruefully.

“And now I'm bored. This job is temporary, but it will keep me busy, and it'll keep my mind active.” She looks up at me. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Will what be a problem?”

“Well, I'm sixty-seven, dear.”

It's not as if we have hundreds of candidates beating down our door. Even if we did, it wouldn’t matter. I remember Mrs. Webb. The hospital was a miserable place to work in, and Mrs. Caldwell had been a terrible administrator. But Arlene Webb was always calm, always composed. She was an oasis.

Patricia told me I was in charge of this decision. “No, it’s definitely not a problem. If you want the job, it's yours.”

Pleasure fills her face. “Thank you,” she says. “When would you like me to start?”

“Tomorrow?” I ask hopefully. “I can get you the paperwork right away. I'm not going to lie; we’re more than a little desperate.”

She laughs. “How about Wednesday?”

I print out an offer letter, and she signs it. She gets up to leave, and she hesitates at my door. “I might be out of line,” she says. “But I'm so happy to see you thriving, Sophia. What George and Florence did to you was so very unfair.”

“George?”

“You wouldn't know, would you? Well, it's been ten years, so there’s no harm in telling you. George Turner came into the office to talk to Florence, and I overheard their conversation.” Her expression turns disapproving. “He made some disgusting insinuations about you, and Florence believed him.”

George Turner, the guy on my team? “What did he say?”

“I don’t feel right repeating it,” she replies primly. “It wasn’t decent.”

My heart is beating faster. “Please, Mrs. Webb. It's important to me.”

“He said that you were with more than one man.” She shakes her head. “It was obvious that he was out to cause trouble. Florence should have sent him away at once, but instead, she fired you. She was always ready to believe the worst of you.”

“Because I have two fathers,” I reply on autopilot. My brain is working overtime. George Turner didn’t accuse me of sleeping with Damien; it was more specific than that. He evidently told Mrs. Caldwell I had a threesome.

But how did he know? We’d been at Club M. Xavier Leforte prides himself on discretion. How did George Turner find out?

“Even so, it was a vicious lie and?—”

I could let her believe that, but something inside me rebels at the idea. I'm not going to hide who I am anymore. I'm not going to hide Damien and Julian. “It wasn't a lie,” I interrupt. “It was true.” I hold her gaze. “If that changes your mind about working here, then I understand.”

Her mouth falls open. She blinks. For a long moment, she struggles for words but seems to reach a decision.

“Your personal life is your business, my dear. I cannot judge you. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” She gets up and holds out her hand to me with a small smile.

“I’m looking forward to working here, Sophia. I'll see you on Wednesday.”

After Mrs. Webb leaves, I text Damien about Patricia’s dinner invitation, and we pick a date in two weeks. He said he was only here in Highfield for four weeks, but the dinner date we pick is past when he’s supposed to leave. I want to ask him about it, but I don’t.

I try to focus on my work, but concentration is impossible.

Over and over, I keep circling around the same thing.

How did George Turner find out about my night at Club M?

Was he there? I can't see it. Club M’s members have always been part of the billionaire class.

George was like me: neither of us belonged to that world.

I barely remember him. He was on my team, he wasn't too bright, and Karina, my boss, didn't like him. He had a bad habit of taking credit for other people's work. Especially the work of the women on his team.

But there is a vast difference between being a somewhat slimy coworker and getting me fired.

I tell myself to let it go, but I can't. Ten years ago, getting fired was the most awful thing that ever happened to me. It made me believe the worst of Damien, and it killed the prospect of a relationship between the three of us. Even now, I find myself hesitating to trust them completely. Yes, I let them tie me up, but I can’t put my future in their hands.

Something is holding me back. Maybe it’s this? Maybe George Turner is at the root of it all?

I have to talk to him. I have to find out what really happened.

But how? I turn to my computer and search for him. It doesn’t take me long to find his profile on a professional networking site. He's currently looking for a job. The site lists his phone number and his email address.

I could get in contact with him. He has his address listed, and the town he lives in is eighty-five miles away. I could be there in an hour and a half.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I make myself dial his number.