Chapter Five

Harper POV

Marks 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 quess myself.

I do the only thing that I can, I tap the message icon on their profile. I see the small heart shaped wink symbol 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, him in a clean-cut navy suit, tie perfect, hair styled like 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 looks like 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 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 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?