Chapter 203 Callum
callum
We didn’t invite the world into our bubble. We invited the only people reckless enough to stand inside it with us and promise not to pop it. –Aurélie
The knock hit the villa like a goddamn gavel.
For half a second, I considered ignoring it.
Aurélie stood in that black romper I’d picked from her side of the closet—bare legs, bare feet, tan lines crisp across her back, ring glittering on her finger. Her lips were kiss-drunk, eyes soft, shoulders finally loose instead of strangled with tension.
Behind us, pasta sauce simmered, wine was open, and sea air drifted through the open doors.
Everything in me said, leave it. Let them stand on the doorstep and wonder. Let the world wait another hour.
But this was the deal.
So I kissed her, slow and sure in the kitchen light, because if I was going to open the door to the chaos, I wanted that taste in my mouth.
Now we’re ready, I’d told her.
It was a lie. I was never going to be ready to share her again. But she steadied under my hands, and that was enough.
Another knock, louder this time.
“Right,” I muttered, squeezing her fingers once before I let go. “Showtime.”
The foyer felt smaller than it had any right to.
I could hear them before I saw them—Marco’s too-loud commentary, Ivy hissing something that sounded like a threat, Kimi’s low reply, a higher voice I hadn’t heard in person yet but recognized instantly from press clips and the late-night late-season interviews Aurélie had watched like study tapes.
Lucy. Also known as Harper Rose, a virgin pop princess with a Grammy nomination and a massive, deranged fanbase.
Great. “Gathered the whole goddamn zoo, did they?” I grumbled.
Aurélie snickered. “Sounds like it.”
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw, rolled my shoulders back, and opened the door.
They were all there on the step, framed by the last light of day and the warm spill from the entryway behind me.
Ivy in black leggings and a fitted black tank top, hair yanked into a no-nonsense knot, eyes already sharp and assessing like she was scanning for threats.
Marco stood beside her with a duffel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses still pushed up on his head in full Italian peacock mode, grin wide enough to be trouble.
Kimi was off to the side, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around the handle of a designer suitcase he looked mildly irritated to be holding.
And Lucy.
She was smaller in person than she looked onstage, all big blue eyes and glossy brown hair in a messy ponytail, wearing an oversized pale-pink HARPER ROSE WORLD TOUR hoodie, jeans, and scuffed white boots—the kind of outfit I’d expect on a girl queuing outside a Harper Rose concert.
Her gaze flicked over my shoulder into the villa, quick and eager, like she was trying very hard not to be overtly excited about this.
“Fraser,” Marco crowed, arms already opening.
“Stop right there,” I said, holding up a hand.
He froze mid-lunge, arms suspended like he’d been caught in a flash freeze.
I probably should’ve been more diplomatic. Eased into it with a hug, a joke, a crack about flights and airplane food. But Aurélie was a warm presence at my back, and the second I’d opened the door, every instinct I had turned territorial.
They’d shown up to our sex island. They were getting a briefing.
Marco blinked. “Wow. Cold reception. I thought the Greeks were known for their hospitality.”
“They are,” I said. “I’m Scottish.” I let my accent roughen as I went on.
“We’ve got this thing about folk crossing a threshold and no’ minding the house rules.
Old stories say if you come into a Scot’s home and don’t show respect, theCailleach comes down off the hill to make your next year a living hell.
” I let that hang for a beat, watching all of them blink at me like they weren’t sure whether I was joking.
Then I shrugged, mouth tipping in a smile that wasn’t entirely friendly.
“Point is, you’re in our space now. So listen. ”
Kimi huffed a quiet laugh. Ivy’s mouth twitched.
Lucy glanced between us, uncertain, then slowly raised her hand. “Um. Sorry, I’m new here. What’s a Cailleach?”
Aurélie giggled. “He’s got lots of Scottish lore you’ll learn about. Beautiful culture, if you ask me. I could listen to him talk about it all day in that accent.”
I shot her a look over my shoulder. She winked at me.
All of our friends pressed their lips together to keep from reacting.
“Should we… come back another time?” Lucy asked hesitantly.
Aurélie stepped up to my side, her small shoulder bumping my arm. I didn’t have to look to know she’d pasted on that cool, bright smile she used when the world was watching. Except the air around her was different now. Softer at the edges. Like the ring on her finger was humming.
“Take your shoes off before coming any further, s’il te pla?t,” she said sweetly.
“In France we say, on dit qu’on laisse les chaussures et les soucis à la porte—we leave our shoes and our worries at the door.
Same rule applies here. And according to his Cailleach story, if you disrespect a Scottish threshold she steals your luck for a year.
I’m studying his folklore now, and I am not risking a curse, so shoes off, no bad vibes.
” She rocked back on her heels, and she looked almost militant with the way she clasped her hands behind her back. “Oh, and welcome to our sex island.”
Relief loosened something in my chest. There she was. My chaos co-pilot.
Marco wheezed. “I knew it. This is a retreat, not a holiday. You two are sick. I’m proud.”
I stepped back, keeping my hand at the small of her back to guide us both out of the doorway. “Inside,” I said. “Shoes off by the door. Bags there.” I nodded at the wall.
They filed in, the noise level rising with every inch they crossed into our space.
Gravel crunch faded into the soft slap of bare feet on cool tile.
The scents of airport and plane and unfamiliar perfumes tinted the air that had, for the last few days, been nothing but sea salt and the vanilla candle she refused to blow out properly.
It was like watching sand get kicked into our bubble.
No, it’s not getting kicked in.
We were controlling the collateral.
I kept my hand on Aurélie, felt the quick rise and fall of her breath as they moved past us, lining shoes up against the wall, dropping bags, and stretching.
For a moment, the scene looked almost normal—friends arriving for a holiday, food on the stove, sunset outside, and laughter echoing in the entry.
But every time one of them glanced at her, my brain helpfully supplied: mine. Like I was some neanderthal that didn’t want anyone near his territory.
When their shoes were off and the bags were down, I gave Aurélie a look. She met it, eyes glinting.
I raised my eyebrows, silently asking, Now?
She nodded once in agreement and straightened.
We stepped back together, blocking the hallway that led deeper into the villa. Side by side, hands behind our backs like we were about to conduct a very polite firing squad.
Four sets of eyes landed on us.
Marco’s grin went wary. Ivy narrowed her gaze like she was trying to figure out what we were about to pull. Kimi looked resigned, which was fair. Lucy’s brows knitted, confusion sliding into curiosity.
“You crashed our sexcation,” I said, voice mild. “So there are rules.”
Lucy, on the other hand, went as red as a tomato, eyes flying wide. Oh, she was going to have fun with this group.
Marco clutched at his chest. “You called it a sexcation?” He looked at the group with a smug smirk. “It’s catching on, guys.”
“It’s not,” Ivy muttered and rolled her eyes.
“That is heavily censored compared to what we call it in private,” Aurélie said serenely. “We’re being gracious hosts.”
Ivy’s mouth twitched again. “Oh, this should be good.”
“Rule one,” I said, over the low chatter.
“You are guests in our home. That means you respect the house and the people in it. No filming, no accidental Lives, no Story posts with location tags, no sneaky off-the-cuff pictures that somehow end up in group chats you can’t control.
If you want to take a photo, you ask us first. If you want to post something while you’re still on the island, you run it by Ivy and Lucy, and if they veto it, you accept that like adults. ”
Ivy lifted her hand. “Co-signed,” she said. “And if you argue with me about it, I will arrange mandatory press tours.”
Marco shuddered. “She’s not bluffing.”
Lucy looked between us, eyes wide. “Wait, do you really…” She cut herself off, cheeks flushing. “Actually, never mind.”
“Rule two,” I said, drawing attention back to me before Aurélie could spiral about the press.
“Bedrooms and bathrooms are not communal spaces. If a door is closed, you knock. You wait. If you don’t hear a very clear ‘come in’ that includes the words ‘we are dressed,’ you assume we’re indecent and walk away. ”
Kimi gave us a shit-eating grin. “Is that not standard practice?”
“You’d think so,” I said. “You’d be wrong. Marco.”
Marco threw his hands up. “I walked in on one blowjob, everyone loses their minds—”
“Two,” Ivy corrected crisply. “That I know of.”
“We weren’t supposed to tell them about the second,” he hissed.
“You are the one who couldn’t keep your temper in check while I was on a date.”
Christ. Those two were going to kill each other.
Lucy’s blush crept all the way to her ears. “I’m just going to… never open a closed door,” she said faintly. “Ever.”
Kimi patted her shoulder sympathetically. “It’ll be okay, Luc. You’ll get to used it.”
“Excellent start,” I said.