One Night Stand With The Triplet Alpha's

The champagne bottle in Aria's hand trembled as she stood frozen in the doorway of her own apartment. Her keys clattered to the floor, the sound swallowed by the obscene moans echoing from her bedroom.

Their bedroom.

She'd left work early to surprise Marcus with dinner reservations at his favorite restaurant. Three years together deserved celebration, didn't it? Or so she'd thought.

The expensive bottle of Dom Pérignon she'd splurged on suddenly felt like dead weight. Her designer heels—the ones she'd bought specifically because Marcus mentioned he liked them, now felt like shackles as she forced her feet to move forward.

Each step down the hallway carved another piece from her chest.

The bedroom door stood ajar. Just enough to see Marcus's bare back, his muscles flexing as he thrust into someone under him. Enough to see familiar red-painted nails digging into his shoulders. Enough to recognize the platinum blonde hair splayed across her pillows.

Sophia.

Her best friend since college. Her maid of honor at the wedding that was supposed to happen next spring. The woman who'd held her hair back during grad school hangovers and helped her pick out the lingerie set currently stuffed in her drawer, unworn.

The champagne bottle slipped from Aria's fingers, exploding against the hardwood floor in a violent spray of glass and alcohol.

Marcus jerked up, his face contorting from pleasure to panic in a heartbeat. "Aria! Fuck!! This isn't…."

"Isn't what?" Her voice came out eerily calm, detached, like it belonged to someone else. Someone whose entire world wasn't imploding. "Isn't you fucking my best friend in our bed?"

Sophia had the audacity to scramble for the sheets, covering her surgically enhanced breasts with wide, doe eyes. "Aria, oh my God, we didn't mean for you to find out like this…"

"Find out?" Aria laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "How long?"

"Baby, listen…." Marcus stumbled out of bed, grabbing for his boxers.

"How. Long."

Sophia's silence spoke volumes. Marcus's inability to meet her eyes confirmed it.

"Six months," Sophia finally whispered.

Six months. Half a year of lies. Of girls' nights where Sophia probably laughed about it. Of Marcus kissing her with the same mouth that had been on her best friend.

Something cold and hard crystallized in Aria's chest, replacing the shattered pieces of her heart.

She walked into the room with deliberate calm, her heels crunching over champagne-soaked glass. Sophia flinched backward, clutching the sheet tighter.

The slap echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Sophia's head snapped to the side, her perfectly made-up face now sporting a vivid red handprint. Tears welled in her eyes, but Aria felt nothing. No satisfaction. No regret. Just... emptiness.

"Aria!" Marcus lunged forward, but she held up one finger, stopping him cold.

"Thank you, Sophia," Aria said, her smile razor-sharp and utterly devoid of warmth. "Thank you for picking up my trash. Saved me the trouble of taking it out myself."

She turned that same smile on Marcus, whose face had gone pale. "I hope you two are very happy together. Really, I do. You both deserve exactly what you're going to get."

"C'mon baby, don't say that " He tried to come forward but was stopped by Aria who raised her palm. 

"Bastard"

With that, she spun on her heel and walked out, head high, her shoulders back, every inch the successful corporate woman she'd fought to become.

Behind her, Sophia's voice rose in a screech. "This is your fault! You said she'd never find out!" The sharp crack of another slap, Sophia's hand meeting Marcus's face this time, followed Aria into the hallway.

"You just stood there! You didn't defend me at all!"

"Defend you? You just got us both…."

Aria closed the apartment door on their argument, cutting off the sound of her old life imploding.

She made it three steps down the hallway before her knees buckled.

---

Two hours later, Aria sat in her car outside Inferno, the city's most exclusive nightclub. She'd gone home—to her apartment which she shared with her girlfriend, the only place she could think of. She showered away the filth of betrayal, and changed into a dress that cost more than Marcus's monthly salary.

The black silk clung to every curve, the neckline plunging low enough to be dangerous, the slit high enough to be lethal. Her dark hair fell in waves down her back, and her makeup was flawless—smoky eyes, blood-red lips.

She looked like sin incarnate.

Good.

Her phone buzzed with the fourteenth message from Marcus. She deleted it without reading and tossed the phone into her purse. Tomorrow, she'd start the process of disentangling her life from his. Tonight, she was going to feel wanted. Desired and powerful. She was going to cross every line she hasn't dared to before.

Tonight, she was going to forget Marcus existed.

The bass pounded through the club's walls as she approached, the line wrapping around the building. She walked straight past it, ignoring the protests, and locked eyes with the mountain of a bouncer at the velvet rope.

"VIP," she said simply, holding up the black card her company had given her for client entertainment. She'd never used it before—too focused on her career, on being responsible, on being the perfect girlfriend.

Fuck responsibility.

The bouncer's eyes widened slightly as he scanned the card, then unhooked the rope. "Enjoy your evening, Ms. Chen."

The club interior hit her like a physical force. Strobing lights, writhing bodies, music that vibrated through her bones. The VIP section rose above the main floor, offering a perfect view of the controlled chaos below.

Aria claimed a corner booth, ordered the most expensive vodka on the menu, and let the music drown out the screaming in her head.

She was three drinks in when she felt the weight of a gaze. It was heavy, intense and predatory.

Her skin prickled with awareness as she scanned the crowd, searching for the source. Her eyes caught on three men in the opposite VIP section, and her breath hitched.

They were identical. Devastatingly handsome in a way that seemed almost unreal. Dark hair that fell to their shoulders in thick waves, sharp jawlines, bodies that spoke of power and control. They wore tailored suits that probably cost more than her car, exuding wealth and danger in equal measure.

And all three were staring directly at her.

The one on the left raised his glass in a slow, deliberate toast. The middle one's lips curved into a smile that promised sin. The third simply watched her with an intensity that made her feel naked.

Heat flooded Aria's body—whether from the alcohol or something far more dangerous, she couldn't tell.

The first man leaned over to whisper something to his brothers. All three sets of eyes remained locked on her, dark and hungry.

Her revenge plan had just walked into the club.

Or rather, she'd walked into theirs.

A server appeared at her booth, interrupting her thoughts. The woman wore the club's signature uniform, a black leather and crimson accents, and held a silver tray with a fresh martini.

"From the gentlemen across the way," the server said, setting down the glass. "They've requested your presence in their booth."

Aria's heart kicked against her ribs. Not an invitation. A request. The distinction wasn't lost on her.

She glanced back at the triplets. They hadn't moved, but somehow their attention felt even more focused, like predators who'd caught the scent of their prey.

Every instinct screamed at her to stay where she was. To play it safe.

But safe had gotten her a cheating boyfriend and a backstabbing best friend.

Aria picked up the martini, took a slow sip, and stood. The silk of her dress whispered against her thighs as she crossed the VIP section, every eye in the vicinity tracking her movement.

When she reached their booth, all three men rose as a gesture of courtesy that somehow felt like a threat.

Up close, they were even more devastating. Identical in almost every way, with their long dark hair framing sharp, masculine features. But she noticed the distinctions: the one on the left had a small scar through his right eyebrow. The one in the middle had a barely visible mole beneath his left eyelid. The third had no marks at all.

"Gentlemen," she said, her voice steady despite the electricity crackling in the air.

"Sit," the scarred one commanded softly.

It wasn't a request either.

And God help her, she obeyed.