Page 19 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)
SAGE
I t’s been a month, ninety hours, and seventy-two minutes since what happened at the retreat, but who’s counting.
Between Finn’s haunted stares and Grey’s silent martyr routine, I’m starting to feel like the emotional grim reaper—just floating around the facility sucking the joy out of every room I enter.
They’ve weaponized eye contact, and unfortunately for me, I’m not immune to guilt-flavored heartbreak.
Pretending I don’t want to wrap both of them in a blanket and force-feed them emotional support carbs has been its own Olympic sport.
And now, as a reward for my suffering, I get to put on real clothes and attend the team’s PR gala at the Met.
My arms itch under the cling of this black dress, the kind that costs more than my monthly rent.
I arrive late on purpose, because the only thing worse than the Met at sunset is the Met at sunset with a thousand strangers in heels and cufflinks, all rehearsing their smiles and waiting to be told where to stand.
The event staff at the door glance at my invite, barely register my face, then direct me toward a cluster of athletes near the massive marble staircase.
I want to vanish into the shadows under the hanging Chihuly, but the lighting here is an act of aggression, every surface lit up like an autopsy table.
I tug at the side seam of the dress, and it creaks in protest, reminding me that this, too, is not made to stretch.
I count the paces to the bar, scan for familiar faces.
The players are in their best impression of adult formalwear: Finn’s suit is dark and narrow, cut so close it threatens to tear every time he exhales, the lapels sharp enough to draw blood, the sleeves just shy of reckless.
He leans against the bar like he’s doing it a favor, jaw set in a scowl that only makes him more beautiful, the knot of his tie slightly undone, collarbone shadowed and inviting.
Beau, next to him, looks like something pulled from a designer’s fever dream in a navy-blue suit, the kind that should belong behind glass, except it fits him too well to be untouched.
He smiles with his eyes, and the slow drag of his fingers along the edge of his tumbler makes the fabric catch the light like it’s flirting.
Grey stands just behind them, arms folded, expression unreadable, his shirt so white and starched it might as well be armor.
It strains across his chest like it was never meant to contain a man who moves like violence in disguise.
His cuffs are knife-edged, his hair still damp from whatever last-minute fight he had with the mirror, and somehow he makes restraint look like a threat.
They’re bunched together, all drinking the same top-shelf whiskey and pretending not to notice the circles of corporate donors orbiting closer and closer.
I consider cutting straight through, but the gauntlet of photographers—official and otherwise—makes the back stairwell more appealing.
My shoes, new and punishing, are already giving me blisters.
I make it as far as the Impressionist gallery before Talia finds me. She’s in a cream sheath dress, hair blown out, teeth so white they reflect the gallery lighting. She holds a flute of champagne, her pinky at the perfect angle.
“Sage!” she trills, as if we are old friends meeting at brunch. “I thought you’d try to slip in late.”
I feel the urge to check my breath, but I left the gum in my clutch. “Wasn’t sure if this was a standing event or a full dinner,” I say, faking a laugh. “Didn’t want to risk another nutritionist catastrophe.”
She leans in, the scent of high-end floral shampoo layered over the tang of gin. “You look stunning. Is that a new cut?” Her eyes flick up and down, cataloguing every thread. “You know, I was just telling the team PR that the women’s dresses this year are really next-level. So sharp.”
It’s not a compliment, but a warning: I see you. I know exactly where you bought that dress, and how much you spent to look like you belong. I say, “It’s a loaner,” as if that explains anything, then try to pivot. “Are you here for the whole event, or just the media session?”
“Oh, I’m in for the long haul,” she says. “They want some human-interest coverage—make sure everyone looks happy, healthy, above-board. Especially the staff.” She sips her champagne, eyes locked on me over the rim. “Just checking in. How are you holding up?”
I should say fine , but I am not. I am holding myself together with caffeine and scotch tape and the desperate hope that no one asks me for a real answer. I try a smile. “All good. Just ready for the season to be over, honestly.”
Talia’s own smile widens, revealing the full set of bleached canines. “Of course. It’s so much work, isn’t it? Managing all those physical needs. Especially the men. I don’t know how you do it. I’d be exhausted.”
She lets it hang, lets me choose whether to acknowledge the jab or let it slide. My throat is dry, my palms clammy. I glance away, focus on the blur of some Monet across the hall, try to anchor my heartbeat to the static of the crowd instead of the sudden rush in my chest.
“Occupational hazard,” I say, careful not to let my voice wobble.
She watches me, waiting for a real answer, maybe a confession, maybe a crack. When none comes, she switches tactics: “You know, Beau Kingston has nothing but praise for you. He said you were a ‘miracle worker.’”
The way she says it, it’s not a compliment. It’s a test. Does Sage Moretti know how to play? Does she know which moves are allowed, and which are fatal? I count three slow breaths before replying.
“He’s easy to fix. Not a lot of moving parts upstairs.”
That lands, briefly. She laughs, a perfect note, and I feel the ice of her attention shift to someone else—another target, another rumor to surface. She’s doing the circuit, but I’m the one who’s already tired.
She tilts her head, inspects my face with surgical precision.
“You should eat something. It’ll help with the nerves.
I hear they’re serving actual food later; no kale or seed crackers, just real protein.
” She gives my arm a featherlight touch, an almost sincere gesture, then drifts away into the next conversational melee. Her perfume lingers like a solvent.
For a moment, I just stand there, frozen in the center of the gallery.
The paintings are suddenly too bright, too alive, the brushstrokes vibrating at a frequency that makes my teeth hurt.
I walk to the nearest column and lean against it, press my forehead to the cool stone.
My ribs ache under the clamp of the dress, and I wonder if the fabric will leave a mark that lingers days after this night ends.
From here, I can see Finn and Beau at the bar.
Finn is deep in conversation with a man in a team jacket, gesturing with the energy of someone who prefers data to words.
Beau scans the room, lands his gaze on me, raises his glass in a lazy salute.
He looks almost at ease, but I know better.
It’s a mask, a perfect inversion of the panic that thrums in my own veins.
I check my phone, pretend I have somewhere else to be, then slip into the restroom to regroup.
The hallway is empty, echoing with the distant clatter of forks and champagne stems. Inside, the mirrors are spotless, the lighting more forgiving than the main hall.
I splash water on my wrists, breathe through my nose, try to remember how to slow my pulse.
The makeup is still in place, the hair still tight, but my eyes look like someone else’s—a stranger who wandered in off the street and decided to stay just long enough to ruin the party.
When I exit, the room is even more crowded, bodies pressing together in clusters of forced laughter and clinking glasses.
The event staff start circulating with trays of canapés, and someone I vaguely recognize from the PR team hands me a tiny plate with a cube of smoked fish and a blob of something green.
I stare at it, realize I haven’t eaten since morning, and force it down, the salt and fat coating my tongue like a dare.
Talia is nowhere in sight, but her presence is a fog that trails after me, sticky and sweet and hard to shake.
I drift toward the windows, the city spread out below in a wash of blue and orange.
The lights blur together, turn to streaks against the glass, and for a moment, it’s almost beautiful.
I let my head fall back, close my eyes, and imagine the world on mute; every voice, every look, every question just evaporating into nothing.
But the world doesn’t stop. The press of bodies closes in, and soon I’m back in the current, swept along toward the dinner seating.
Beau and Finn have already claimed a table, and Grey is a silent anchor at the far end, arms folded, eyes scanning the exits.
I take the chair nearest the wall, as far from the head table as I can manage, and try to make myself small.
Someone pours wine. Someone else gives a toast, and the crowd erupts in polite applause.
I pretend to listen, but every cell in my body is buzzing, every nerve ending raw.
The food arrives in a sequence of miniature courses, each more elaborate than the last, but all I taste is the acid in my throat and the rising certainty that I will never feel at home in rooms like this, no matter how many times I walk through the door.
Talia passes behind me once, maybe twice, always just at the edge of my vision. I don’t turn. I just focus on the plate, the glass, the pulse in my own wrist.
When the desserts come, I push mine aside and excuse myself, this time not even pretending to need the restroom. I find the exit at the end of the corridor, step into the cold night air, and let the chill bite into my bare arms.