Chapter 5

Harper's POV

A familiar sickness stirs in my stomach, not the sharp edge of fear I've grown used to, but something deeper, more hollow. I want to lean into this conversation, to let myself get caught up in curiosity, in wondering who they are and how they might speak to me if they weren't separated by screens and usernames. I want to explore it like I would a new book, something I haven't read yet but might love. But with Mark hovering nearby, checking my phone every time it buzzes, every word I write feels like it has to pass through his approval first.

Eventually, I set the phone down and walked away from it, forcing myself not to look back. He'll be leaving soon, off to whatever job he's convinced me is too important to talk about, and until then, I need space to breathe.

"I'm going to finish stitching that dress," I say quietly, moving through the apartment toward the corner where I've carved out a space just for myself. It's not much, only a small desk, a sewing machine, and two mannequins, but it's mine. In a life where almost nothing belongs to me, this small sanctuary does.

It's one of the few things that still brings me peace. I don't know if I'd call it a dream exactly, but I know it makes me feel better. Some days, it feels like the only thing that does. I've always thought that if I could just get good enough, if I could just give it enough time, maybe I could sell my designs, maybe I could turn it into something that matters.

But Mark doesn't see it that way. He never has.

He doesn't like that a dress might take weeks to make when the money it brings in wouldn't pay for more than a night or two of groceries. He sees effort as wasted if it doesn't immediately translate into cash.

I stand in front of the two mannequins, eyeing the pieces I've assembled so far. The bodice is nearly finished, delicate and soft, hand-stitched with small, careful patterns I mapped out in my notebook weeks ago. The skirt, draped across the second form, still feels wrong to me. I've redone it twice, and now I'm wondering if I should have tried a completely different fabric.

Behind me, I hear the floor creak.

"It's been two months," Mark says, his voice light but already lined with judgment. He perches on the edge of the desk, arms crossed. "How much are you going to sell this one for?"

I don't want to answer, not really, but I make myself speak. "I don't know. Five or six hundred, maybe."

He raises his eyebrows like I've just suggested selling lint wrapped in ribbon. "For two months of work?"

I chew my lip and try not to flinch. "It's not like I worked on it full-time. Maybe an hour or two a day. That's around sixty hours, give or take."

"Sixty hours wasted," he says, his tone sharper now, "when you could've been doing something that earns money."

My eyes drift back to the dress. "I enjoy it," I whisper, not because I expect it to change his mind, but because it's the truth and saying it aloud makes it real.

He sports, not laughing, just mocking. "Yeah, but you're not good enough to charge much. Come on, Harper, let's be honest. You're not Coco Chanel or whoever makes the fancy runway stuff. Your clothes look like rags, some kid glued together at arts and crafts."

I open my mouth to speak, to defend myself, to ask for more time, more space, more belief, but he cuts me off.

"If you had more time," he says, his voice dripping with dismissal, "you'd just waste more of it. No amount of time can fix this mess."

He waves a hand toward the dress like it's something offensive, and then he's gone, walking out without waiting for a response.

I stand there for a moment, breathing in the silence he leaves behind. The room feels smaller now, tighter, like the air itself is pushing in against my skin. I force myself to turn away from the mannequins, grabbing a coffee from the counter before curling up on the couch.

From this distance, the dress looks different. The colors no longer feel bold or creative; they clash, uncomfortably loud against each other. The stitching that once seemed intricate now appears sloppy, rushed, uneven.

I lower my head, pressing my forehead into my palm as the doubts rush in, heavy and fast. Maybe it would be better to rip it apart and start again. Or maybe I should just quit altogether and accept that I was never meant to make anything beautiful.

"Hey, babe."

Mark's voice is suddenly soft again, warm like melted butter. I look up to find him beside me, slipping an arm around my shoulders like nothing just happened.

"How do you feel about a few days away?" he asks, leaning close, his lips brushing my cheek. "No work. Just us."

I blink at him, confused by the shift, unsure how to respond.

"What?"

He chuckles like I'm being ridiculous. "We've been working a lot. You've been doing so much. I thought maybe it's time I treat you. Pick somewhere nice. Somewhere quiet. Let me take care of you."

I search his face, looking for the catch, but all I find is that carefully constructed smile, the one he uses when he wants something, or when he's already taken it and needs me to thank him for the privilege.

"Really?" I ask, cautious but unable to hide the small curl of hope rising in my chest.

"Of course," he says, pressing a kiss to my cheek before snatching up his keys. "Let me know what you pick."

Then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the silence to swell in his absence.

A few days away.

No work and no stress. It sounds like everything I've been begging for.

But somehow, even now, I can't bring myself to believe it's real.

Now that Mark is gone, I can finally breathe like the air in the apartment belongs to me again. It's a small thing. But it matters. I move toward the couch and grab my phone from where I left it, already half-expecting to see nothing, already bracing for disappointment. But new messages are waiting. My stomach tightens, then flips as I draw in a deep breath and open the chat.

The Triumvirate: It's nice to speak to you, BruisedLace. Nerves are perfectly acceptable and understood, but try not to let them get to you. Always see them as a good sign; it means you're taking a step you've never taken before.

The Triumvirate: In regards to teaching you to be a good girl, we can do that. We're not the kind to groan or complain over those who aren't experienced. I do have a question for you, though.

The Triumvirate: Would we be your first Daddies? Have you done something similar to this? I understand you said it's new to you, but is that the app, or the world?

I sink into the cushions, curling my legs up beneath me, pulling the blanket across my lap like it's armor. There's a surprising calm in me as I reread their words. I don't know them, not truly, and they don't know me, but something in the tone of their messages loosens the tension in my shoulders. They feel patient. Not calculating. Not urgent. Not circling like vultures.

Is it strange that I'm already beginning to feel safe here? Not safe in the way of knowing someone, trusting them entirely, but safe in the way I feel when I'm sewing, when the world goes quiet and all that matters is what my hands are doing.

They aren't pushing me. They aren't rushing toward anything. There's something strangely respectful in the way they're approaching this, and I don't know what to make of it.

But I do know I have to be honest.

Maybe they're looking for someone with experience. Someone who knows the language of this world already and doesn't need to ask what every word means. I hesitate for a second, then type.

BruisedLace: No, this is my first time. I've never had a Daddy, or done anything like this before. I understand if that's an issue and you want someone more experienced.

I stare at the message after it sends, chewing my bottom lip as I debate whether to leave it there. But I need to ask them something too, something that's been circling my thoughts since their last message.

BruisedLace: What about you? Have you ever shared something before?

They said it was rare, but rare could mean anything. It could mean once a year. It could mean once in a lifetime. Was it casual? Was it something fleeting, or was it with someone who knew how to belong in that world? I don't know why I care, but I do.

I don't close the chat. I watch the little icon shift to read, and then the typing bubble appears. They're still here. Still responding. And I can't lie, part of me is grateful for that.

The other part of me, the one buried deep, is scared to admit just how much I want this. I want it for a reason I can't tell Mark. I want it for reasons I can barely explain to myself.

Part of me still believes if I do this, if I go through with it, Mark might let go of the debt he keeps hanging around my neck like a noose. Maybe he'll stop reminding me of what I owe him. Maybe things will go back to how they used to be.

But the other part, the one Mark can't reach, the one that's mine, wants this for entirely different reasons. That part is quiet but real. That part craves it.

The Triumvirate: Don't worry about your experience, or lack of it. Your past isn't an issue for us; it's a concern, yes, but not an obstacle. As for your question, we have shared before. Not often, and never with someone who truly fit. By the end, it always felt like something was missing. We can each find someone individually, but together? That's harder.

Their honesty makes something shift in me. But one word keeps repeating itself. Concer

Why is it a concern?

BruisedLace: Why would my lack of experience be a concern?

I don't wait long. Their answer comes quickly, and with it, another unexpected heat spreads through my chest, not fear this time, not shame. Something else.

The Triumvirate: Because most people start with one Daddy, and those relationships tend to be soft, slow, and carefully guided. When someone's new, they're gently introduced to the world. You're jumping into the deep end. Three of us, one of you. That's not small. We're concerned for your well-being; that's our priority right now.

I blink down at the screen, not sure why those words stir something warm in me, but they do.

They're concerned for me.

Not the money. Not the logistics. Not what I can give.

Me.

Most men I've known don't care if I'm overwhelmed or scared. They don't ask. They don't check. They take what they want and leave me with the silence after, as if I was never meant to feel anything at all.

But these three? They're asking.

Mark's voice echoes in the back of my head again, filled with contempt and certainty. They've probably faked. They won't go through with it. You're wasting time.

Maybe he's right. Maybe they're too kind, too patient, too perfect to be real.

But maybe this world really is different.

I don't want to doubt them, but I don't want to make excuses either. Not for myself. Not for them. I shift, adjusting the blanket, and spill what's left of my coffee across my thigh. I jump, startled by the sudden wet warmth, then curse softly and tug off the damp fabric.

I toss the trousers aside, pull on a pair of shorts, and return to my phone, still open in my palm. I don't give myself time to hesitate. I type what needs to be said.

BruisedLace: Your concern for me is sweet, but not needed. While I've never done anything like this before, I'm not new to sex. I'm not a virgin, and I'm not untouched. I've experienced all kinds of men, some decent, most not. But I've always been drawn to this lifestyle, and I never knew how to start exploring it until now.

I pause briefly, then continue.

BruisedLace: I'm doing this for me. My nerves don't come from the fact that there are three of you. They come from the fear of disappointing you, of getting something wrong, of not living up to what you're expecting.

Even as I write it, I know it's only half the truth. But it's the half I'm willing to share.

BruisedLace: Your concern, as I said, is appreciated. But I'm here. I'm willing. If you're struggling to trust that I know what I want, then maybe this isn't a good fit after all. And that's okay. One of the biggest rules în this lifestyle is trust, right? If you don't feel it, then just tell me, and I'll thank you for your time and walk away.

The message feels sharp in my hands, but I don't take it back. I send it and watch the screen, the message turning to "read" almost immediately.

But then there's nothing.

No typing bubble. No response.

Just silence.

I stare at the screen, and every second of silence stretches wider, deeper, until it starts to feel like an answer in itself.

Maybe Mark was right.

Maybe it was never going to happen.

I close the chat with a quiet breath and move on to the next notification.

A message from the first man.

SilverFox: Hello, BruisedLace. I hope you're well. Would you like to know more about what I want?

His message is polite, measured, but something about it doesn't sit right. I can't quite explain why, not yet.

BruisedLace: Thank you for the reply. I'm good, how are you? What does a date with public affection include?

I already asked this once, but he didn't answer. I scroll back and confirm it, watching the old message sit untouched.

SilverFox: I'm good. It's great to hear you're well. Dinner with public affection is exactly what it says.

That tells me nothing.

BruisedLace: I understand what it means in theory. But I'm asking what your public affection includes. Everyone defines that differently.

There's a pause, then his answer appears.

SilverFox: How about we meet for a coffee and discuss it?

I stare at the message, blinking.

He wants to meet to discuss what the dinner date would look like.

It feels like a stall tactic. Like a baited book, not a genuine invitation.

I set the phone aside without replying.

There's something about him that feels off. Not aggressive, not inappropriate, just evasive. Like the list on his profile isn't real, like he's not offering anything except empty language dressed in polite conversation.

He was the only one who said the price upfront as well, was that to draw in people

And I don't have time for games.