I feel like I’m at everyone’s beck and call but my own. I’m sitting in another lavish, private dining room, trying to keep up a civil conversation with the woman who I’m supposed to be representing, while at the same time secretly banging her three stepsons behind her back.

I don’t think there’s a word in the English language to describe just how out of the world stupid this whole situation is.

And what’s worse, I’m not even sure if I want to, or if I’m ready to get out of it.

“How was the flight?” I ask Milan, who is scooping some salad on Candice’s plate.

“Long,” she says with an exasperated sigh.

“Arduous,” Mallory adds, and I nod at that.

I focus on my plate of food and take a big sip of the bottomless Mimosa that keeps on getting filled as if on its own volition. Though, actually it’s of course the overzealous servants. I wonder who I should talk about to make sure they don’t get me drunk and ready to spill all my secrets.

“So tell me again, what happened with Robert,” Milan asks, turning her attention to me.

I almost spit out my drink from how nervous I am.

I keep thinking that she must be able to read it off my face what I’ve been doing lately. Or more like who I’ve been doing.

I still feel them, Austin, Callum and Troy, as if they’re here with me. My skin still burns from their touch and my pussy aches for them. I might have not slept a wink last night because of how wound up I was. Not only from the sex but what Austin told me as well.

About how it might not have to be the end.

And how stupid, irresponsible and crazy it is.

I can’t be the toy for three men who have nothing better to do than mess with a woman’s mind! I’ve been with someone who used me before and as much as I don’t want to believe that the Stephensons could be the same, I can’t bring myself to trust them so easily.

Or at least that’s what my rational mind keeps telling me.

The rest of me? Well, let’s just say that it took a whole lot of fucking willpower to keep from running into Austin’s bungalow last night and asking to sleep in his bed because I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be without at least one of the men who makes my heart beat so fast in my chest that I think it’s about to stop and pop out at the same time.

“Well, he sat down with me very late in the evening,” I start, bringing my focus back to Milan’s question. “We talked in short about the contract. I know it has been in the making for months and I was under the impression that you had it all ironed out, that he just needed coaxing to get it signed, but he flat-out refused.”

The corners of Milan’s mouth twitch. I can tell that she’s subsequently not surprised and entirely pissed.

“He then said that he would only talk about it if you came here with Candice. After that, I relayed the message to you. He’s been nothing but cordial to me since, including me in all the pre-wedding events and generally being nice to me.”

I shrug, uncertain about what I should make of it. I am absolutely certain that there’s something, or a whole lot of somethings, that I’m not being told about. Either by Mallory or by Milan, or more likely by both of them. I also realize there’s very little I can do about it.

I’ve been asking around about Milan and Robert’s marriage. It lasted a long while, but the consensus seems to be that they mostly stayed together over the last few years for Candice’s sake. The twins told me that they got a feeling about Milan from the start that she wouldn’t be a keeper, but they were old enough when she came into their lives that they wouldn’t have to worry about her long.

The twins were out of the house within a couple of years of Milan’s arrival in Robert’s life and Austin was out even before that. They’re all cordial with her, but clearly love Candice, being the prime examples of overprotective older brothers.

I shudder at the thought of what her future boyfriend will have to go through. Big brothers are formidable obstacles for a teenage boy to begin with, but two ex-NFL players? Forget about it.

Milan’s squeezing her fork hard, looking gloomy. She grabs for her Mimosa and drowns it with one gulp, glaring a hole through the closest servant when he doesn’t immediately jump to refill her glass.

“He’s been doing this for years,” she hisses.

If Candice wasn’t in the room, I’m sure there would be a whole lot more expletives in that statement.

“Doing what exactly?” I ask, careful to keep my voice level and non-confrontational.

You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to make someone fly off the handle who is under as much stress as a high-profile divorce brings with it. Hell, I’m barely in a relationship at all and the thought of ending it sends me into a nervous panic. One of the first things I learned in Mallory’s employment was when to use kid gloves with my clients.

“Dragging this out, making it impossible to move on,” Milan sighs, and for a moment I think I see a more human side of her.

Underneath all the expensive jewelry and the perfectly maintained visage of timeless beauty, there’s a tired woman. Or if there isn’t, she’s one hell of an actress.

The moment passes as quickly as it presented itself and Milan is back to her poised self, sitting ramrod straight and delicately sipping her drink. She looks gloomy and throws a glance at Candice that doesn’t exactly scream of motherly affection.

“It’s fine. We’re giving him what he wants. He will sign the papers and we can finally be out of here,” Milan says, making Candice look up.

“We can’t stay for the party?” she asks, wearing a frown that reminds me a lot of Robert’s and Austin’s.

“No, baby, we won’t be staying for the party,” Milan says with some exasperation.

“Why not?!” Candice argues, her expression fierce.

“Because we won’t,” Milan presses through her teeth. “Now eat your damn breakfast.”

Candice doesn’t look any more convinced, but she picks up her fork again and jabs listlessly at the salad. Milan rolls her eyes and when I glance at Mallory, she seems like she’d much rather exit this scene. I share the sentiment.

Sometimes you don’t get to work for the people you would want to, but you still have to do right by them. I might not find Milan to be the best mother or the easiest person to get along with, but I’m still going to do my damndest to get her what she wants.

“May I be excused?” Candice asks after a couple of minutes, which Milan and Mallory had filled with discussing whether the beaches on the island are any good.

“Sure,” Milan says curtly, waving the blonde-haired little girl off.

Candice grabs her phone and bolts from the room, leaving the three of us alone. I almost want to run out with her because she was my one buffer against Milan’s mounting foul mood.

I’m not a child and I can handle whatever’s thrown at me, I remind myself, and then squelch the urge to roll my eyes.

I sound like a motivational booklet and I shouldn’t have to. But it’s a habit I’ve gotten into – reaffirming mundane things that I should already be well aware of – since Jacob.

“Sometimes, I wish I’d never gotten involved with him,” Milan says, sipping on her drink.

“Robert, you mean?” Mallory asks, arching a brow.

“No, my damn personal shopper. Yes, Robert. You know what they say, once a cheater, always a cheater.”

“He cheated on you?” I ask, rummaging through my memory on the case.

I haven’t seen anything about his infidelity in the case notes. And I think I’d remember something like that.

A sinking feeling enters my gut. I’m not sure why, but that particular piece of information feels like it’s a lot more damning than I would like to think it is.

And something’s telling me that my feelings on the matter have very little to do with Robert Stephenson, and everything to do with his three sons.

“Well, I don’t have any proof,” Milan says dramatically, slamming her glass down and pushing the plate away from herself. “But a woman knows, you know? How else could he have met that Amy chick of his?”

“Andrea,” I correct.

“Whatever.”

I nod blankly and pop another forkful of my breakfast in my mouth. It tastes like ash.

Unwittingly, Milan has made me think about the one thing I’ve been trying to avoid in regards to the Stephensons. I didn’t need any more proof, circumstantial or not, to trust them less.

Like father, like son, after all.