All Chapters of Banged Three Daddies To Hurt My Ex: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

ISABELMonday evenings become mine and Ares's.Not fancy restaurants or carefully planned dates. Just us, doing whatever spontaneous thing Ares has decided will make me laugh that week and he always makes me laugh.The first Monday, he takes me to an arcade bar in Chelsea, the kind of place with old school games lining the walls and craft beer on tap."You're serious," I say, looking around at the flashing lights and vintage machines."Dead serious." He grabs my hand, pulling me toward a vintage Pac-Man machine. "I should warn you, I'm devastatingly good at this.""You're a billionaire who plays Pac-Man.""Everyone has layers." He grins. "Now put your quarter in and prepare to be humiliated."He's not lying. He's devastatingly good.I'm terrible, and I haven't laughed this hard in years.We work through every machine in the bar, Ares competitive and triumphant, me hopeless and delighted. He wins every game but celebrates like I've given him the best night of his life.That's what he d

ISABEL Fridays belong to Harvey and Fridays are nothing like the rest of my week. No loud arcade bars or underground boxing matches. No carefully planned restaurants or spontaneous adventures. Just Harvey. Quiet, dark and intensely present. Our evenings always start slowly like Harvey needs time to shed the ice he wears to the world before he can be real with me. The first Friday, he picks me up at seven and drives without telling me where we're going. We end up at a small jazz bar in the Village—dimly lit, and intimate, the kind of place that feels removed from time. We don't talk much. Just sit side by side, listening to the music, Harvey's hand covering mine on the table but the silence between us isn't empty. It's full. Full of everything we don't need to say because we understand each other without words. Halfway through the second set, Harvey turns to look at me. "I used to come here alone," he says quietly. "After Mrs. Harmony died. When the penthouse felt too empty.

ISABELMonday morning arrives with the particular cruelty of all Monday mornings.I walk into Queens Enterprises at eight AM looking every inch the acting CEO, navy suit, heels, hair pinned back, and professional armor fully assembled.Nobody looking at me would guess I spent Sunday evening tangled on a penthouse floor with three men, eating sushi and falling asleep to the sound of Ares's quiet breathing. That's the skill I've developed over the past weeks. Compartmentalization, that is personal Isabel and professional Isabel in completely separate boxes and it works mostly.The quarterly board presentation is at ten AM. I've prepared for weeks, financial projections, operational improvements, strategic initiatives, and growth metrics. Everything is polished to perfection.The boardroom fills with faces I've known my entire life. Men who watched me grow up, who doubted my return, and who are only now beginning to accept that I belong here.My father sits at the head of the table, his

ISABELWednesday dinner is at Marco's penthouse.He cooks again, some elaborate Italian dish that requires three pans and precise timing. I sit at the kitchen counter watching him move through the space with his usual controlled efficiency, but something's off tonight.The precision feels tighter than normal. More rigid. He's quiet in a way that's different from his usual thoughtful silence.This is the silence of someone containing something.We ate at the dining table, the food excellent as always, but Marco's jaw is set throughout. His responses to my attempts at conversation clipped and minimal, like he's holding himself together with concentrated effort.Halfway through the meal I set down my fork."What's wrong?""Nothing." His reply is mmediate and automatic."Marco."He continues eating."Marco. Talk to me."He sets his fork down with careful, controlled precision, and look at me across the table with grey eyes that are doing their best to be unreadable and failing."I'm fine.

ISABELFriday check-ins have become sacred.Whatever else happens during the week, the jealousy flares, the control struggles, the walls and the cracks in them. Friday evenings at my apartment are where we put everything on the table.All four of us. Wine, honesty, and no armor allowed.I've tidied up, ordered food that's sitting warm in the kitchen, opened a good bottle of red.They arrive together tonight which still feels slightly surreal, these three men who share a penthouse and a business and now share me, arriving at my door as a unit.Ares carries the wine he insists on bringing every week despite my protests that I already have some.Marco carries nothing, but he pauses at the door to kiss me with quiet intensity before moving inside.Harvey's hand finds the back of my neck briefly as he passes, his version of a greeting, warm and possessive and entirely his.We settle into our usual positions.Ares on the couch beside me, close enough that our knees touch. Marco in the chair