Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Beckett Harrington
Weeks of domesticated bliss flew by.
Every day of the week served a purpose, and we fell into an easy routine: classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, video shoots on Wednesdays and Saturdays, takeout night on Fridays, cooking lessons on Sundays where Asher taught us to make real food that wasn’t cereal or boxed macaroni, and falling asleep against each other during whatever movie we’d picked that night.
On Tuesdays, I met up with my brother in the middle of the afternoon, while he took a break between his classes. We’d grab coffee or a slice of pizza and talk about life.
Over coffee, I finally opened up to my brother about what was happening with Theo and Asher.
I confessed something I hadn’t even told them—that my feelings had grown beyond friendship for both guys.
He just nodded, stirring his drink thoughtfully before saying that relationships don’t have to follow anyone else’s rules.
“If the three of you want something together,” he said, “the only real obstacle is your own hesitation.”
My brother’s words gave me permission to stop fighting what was happening. For once, I let myself fall without calculating where I might land.
And the fans…they loved seeing Asher and me together, the way our chemistry transferred onto the screen. Our first video together garnered more tips than any previous one, and gained us each dozens of followers. Which meant more filming together, bringing us closer, both physically and emotionally.
September vanished in a blink, and somehow I’d slipped into a life I never saw coming.
No more stumbling home from frat parties at 3 AM.
No more collecting girls’ numbers just to feel something.
Instead, my calendar filled with plans that weren’t mine alone—movie nights, cooking lessons, video shoots—all revolving around two people who had become the center of my universe.
I still hadn’t gone all the way with Theo, knowing it would change everything between us.
Once we crossed that line, I couldn’t pretend my feelings were just physical anymore.
Instead, Theo and I took turns being fucked by Asher.
And once a week we chose to stick to something like blowjobs, handjobs, or frotting instead.
My sexual vocabulary had expanded considerably in just a few weeks.
When Theo’s new bed arrived, we celebrated with a marathon session that left him breathless and begging, secured to his new headboard while Asher and I took turns pleasuring him from different angles.
The footage ran so long we had to edit it down significantly for our audience.
Even in our line of work, there was such a thing as too much of a good thing.
The video was a hit. Our subscribers showered us with tips—more than we’d ever received—but the comment section buzzed with theories about why Theo and I hadn’t gone all the way yet. Most viewers assumed we both preferred to receive rather than give, which wasn’t true for me.
Still, their speculation made me question if Theo thought that might be my only preference after all.
we need to talk
The text from Theo sat heavy in my stomach all morning.
I kept rehearsing what to say about us, about what we hadn’t done yet.
Every time I thought about crossing that final line with him, my chest tightened with a mix of want and worry.
Would he still look at me the same way afterward?
Would I measure up to what he had with Asher?
Our Halloween video concept depended on Theo and me having already been together that way. But I couldn’t bear the thought of our first real connection happening on camera, performed for strangers who’d dissect every moment. He deserved better than that. We both did.
This morning, I slipped out without explaining my plans to either of them. I told Theo we’d talk at five, before we were set to record, and I hadn’t seen Asher yet. He was gone when I woke up, but I didn’t ask where he was.
I met my brother for breakfast at the diner near campus that we liked before starting our twenty-five-minute drive to the southern part of Mercer Island, where we grew up.
The guilt of not visiting sooner flickered briefly, then died. My mother hadn’t exactly worn out my phone with invitations. Just one call in all this time—not to check on me, but to request I make the trek to see Father behind bulletproof glass.
I couldn’t bring myself to visit him, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her outright. “I’ll think about it,” I said instead, knowing I wouldn’t.
Weeks passed without a word from her. Not that I expected a different outcome—Mom had always treated conversation like a luxury she couldn’t afford. These days, she poured all her energy into legal strategies to spring Father from his cell. A waste of time.
Lucas had made sure of that.
Before leaving for New York, my oldest brother had handed prosecutors enough evidence to bury Father for years.
He’d have to fly back to testify if the case went to trial, which seemed inevitable given Father’s stubborn refusal to consider a plea.
The irony was exquisite—Father still believed Lucas was the loyal son, never suspecting he’d been the architect of his downfall.
I loved knowing that.
I would’ve done the same in his position.
Our father’s fortune couldn’t purchase what he never understood: that devotion grows from something deeper than a bank account. Maybe if he’d bothered to show up for birthdays instead of sending expensive gifts, we wouldn’t have turned out so willing to watch him fall.
“Want to bet?” Ian glances at me, a wry smile playing on his lips. “First mention of Dad triggers the waterworks. Not real ones, obviously.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter, remembering whose money bought this car. At least Father’s dirty cash paid it off completely before everything fell apart. My name on the title—his attempt to shield assets, no doubt—means the feds can’t touch it now. One small victory in this mess.
At least he couldn’t just stroll out of his cell and demand the keys back. I’d fight him for it anyway.
“I’d take that bet if I wasn’t already imagining her crocodile tears flowing,” I said, focusing on the road ahead.
We fell quiet after that, but it wasn’t the strained silence I remembered from our childhood dinners. This was different—comfortable, like we’d finally found our footing as brothers instead of competitors.
Returning to the estate felt like stepping into a time capsule. My fingerprints still unlocked the gate, and as we drove up the circular driveway, the fountain’s constant roar seemed to acknowledge our arrival with cold indifference.
I punched in the same door code I’d used since high school. The foyer greeted us with its usual marble gleam, but the typical bustle of household staff was conspicuously absent. Every surface sparkled with that particular emptiness of spaces maintained but not lived in—like a museum after hours.
Ian’s eyes swept the silent grandeur. “Where is she?” he asked.
She knew we were coming, but that didn’t mean much.
“Let’s check out back,” I suggested.
The back of the house was Mom’s sanctuary.
From the infinity pool that seemed to spill into Lake Washington to the pristine tennis court nestled below, every inch of the outdoor space had been designed to her specifications.
Father had written the checks without hesitation—his version of affection delivered in square footage and landscaping.
We expected to find her there, posing with perfect posture against that million-dollar view.
Instead, she sat alone in the family room, fingers wrapped around a glass of red wine.
The sight stopped me cold. Mom drinking alone wasn’t the problem—it was Mom drinking alone before sunset, without an audience to appreciate her sophisticated taste in Cabernet.
My mother looked up, her eyes glassy. She rose from the couch with an unsteady grace I’d never seen before and wrapped her arms around us both, her perfume mingling with the sharp tang of wine.
“There you are,” she murmured, her voice warm in a way that made my skin prickle with suspicion. “I’ve missed you.”
The words hung in the air between us like something fragile and foreign. In eighteen years, I’d never once heard her say she missed anyone, nor had she hugged us like this.
I felt a pang of guilt at leaving her alone like this for a month, not questioning how she was doing in Father’s absence.
She carried her empty wineglass to the kitchen, filling it to the brim. “And where’s your brother these days?” she asked, as if Lucas were simply running late.
Ian and I shared a look.
Lucas had warned us both—he’d told her about New York, but not about his new employer.
“Mom,” Ian said carefully, “Lucas moved to New York last month. You know that.”
She swirled her wine, staring into it. “Did he?”
She settled back onto the couch with her refilled wine, clicking on a reality show where diamond-draped women hurled insults at each other over cocktails.
The same type of show she’d always dismissed with a curl of her lip, saying that “real society women” handled their disputes through calculated whispers at charity galas, not screaming matches for the cameras.
The irony wasn’t lost on me as she stared, transfixed, at their mascara-streaked confrontations.
I lowered myself onto the couch beside her, the leather cool against my palms. Ian settled into the adjacent loveseat, his posture stiff.
“But he has classes,” she said, her gaze darting between us, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. “And don’t you two have classes today, too?”
“It’s the weekend, Mom,” I said, the words coming out flatter than intended. “And Lucas isn’t a student anymore. He’s working now.”