Chapter Fifteen Strategic Gay Chaos
Rhys
( A Room of Requirement intervention )
Rhys hadn’t invited his sisters over.
Which meant, of course, that they showed up thirty minutes after sunset, bearing sushi, judgment, and a spreadsheet titled: “How to Keep Linda Without Admitting You're in Love Like a Normal Person.”
Darcy dropped the takeout bag on his kitchen counter with the flair of someone about to conduct an emotional autopsy. Liv followed behind her, already unfurling a tiny laminated vision board like it was a sacred scroll .
“Okay,” Darcy said, removing her sunglasses indoors. “Let’s recap. You fake-dated her so she’d feel safe enough to fall for you. Bold move. You escalated to constant weekend dates, then met her parents, then lied to Mom and Dad that it wasn’t serious yet. And now? You’re panicking like a romantic hamster in a wheel made of denial.”
Rhys leaned on the counter, clutching a mug of tea like it might spiritually save him. “I didn’t mean for it to get this far. She… called herself my beard in front of her parents. What was I supposed to do?”
Liv didn’t even blink. “I don’t know. Maybe kiss her? Tell her she’s your soulmate? Communicate like a human man instead of whatever cardigan-souled disaster you’re currently embodying?”
He groaned.
Darcy slid open the sushi box and began assembling a tray like a general laying out a battlefield. “Rhys. You leaned. Then you leaned harder. And now? Now it’s time to steamroll. ”
He took a cautious sip of tea. “What does steamrolling entail, exactly?”
Liv looked up with terrifying glee and tapped the corner of her laminated sheet. “Simple. Escalate. Escalate again. Jealous ex. Fake engagement. Possibly fake marriage. If necessary.”
He choked on his tea. “You want me to what?! ”
“No one’s proposing today,” Darcy said, but her voice held the tone of someone who wouldn’t be mad about a save-the-date. “But she’s got a point.”
Liv continued, flipping to a second sheet titled Narrative Control: Turning Panic Into Power . “Here’s the thing: she thinks you’re emotionally unavailable, probably gay, maybe imaginary. You’re halfway to being a Taylor Swift track.”
Rhys rubbed at his temples.
“You need a spark,” Liv said. “A plot device. A moment of jealous clarity. A latte with tension.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot, who had been dozing near the bookshelf, lifted his head and sneezed—once, sharply, like a tiny general approving the mission.
Liv pointed at him. “See? He gets it.”
Rhys looked between the two of them—his sisters and their war map of emotional manipulation. “You people terrify me.”
“Good,” Darcy said. “Now call Micah.”
Rhys blinked. “You want me to hire Micah?”
“Not hire,” Liv said. “Activate.”
Darcy grinned, already thumbing through her contacts. “Let the barista chaos commence.”
Rhys sighed and stared into the middle distance like a man on the edge of battle. He didn’t know if he was the hero, the fool, or just collateral damage in a slow-burn war he’d accidentally declared on himself.
But he pulled out his phone anyway.
Because if losing Linda meant telling the truth, he’d rather lie a little longer.
Just until he figured out how to say, I love you.
Without ruining everything.