Chapter 1
Vega
SEVEN YEARS LATER
Walking into the locker room, I paused to inspect myself in the full-length mirror by the sink.
I had a smear of something dark on my cheek and forehead.
I honestly couldn’t remember if it was dirt, blood, or…
not dirt or blood. I was too nose blind after a mayhem-fueled shift to smell myself.
My scrubs were a murky green with dark streaks across my chest, belly, and when I turned—yep, right across my ass as well.
Being an ER nurse at the city’s busiest trauma center was not for the weak.
Weekends were always—fucking always—a nightmare, and this particular Saturday shift had been no different.
Lack of beds. Triage patients seen, diagnosed, and treated in the waiting room while ambulances lined up in the parking lot.
Multiple MVAs had resulted in a patient with a crushed sternum, another with a severe compound leg fracture, and then a head injury that needed an immediate decompressive craniectomy right there in the exam room before they could be safely transported up to surgery.
That was followed by two overdoses, leaving one on life support until next of kin could be contacted.
And then there was the anaphylactic four-year-old, whose father was not only heavily intoxicated and had track marks on both arms, but had zero medical history knowledge to offer regarding his child, not even what his daughter was allergic to.
Spoiler alert—it was peanuts, and he was the one who had given her a freaking Reese’s.
No one was surprised when a hysterical mother had shown up, ranting about custodial rights and yelling about the many, many reasons why a judge should have mandated supervised visits only.
Hard agree, sister.
Bless our social worker angels who worked tirelessly for our patients and had immediately stepped in.
I wasn’t sure what had happened with the four-year-old after that because I was swamped with other patients.
Fuck, I didn’t get paid enough for the fecal matter the sundowner patient had swiped on me as I was putting in another IV after she’d ripped the last one out.
At least I didn’t have a black eye from the elbow she’d thrown while I was cleaning her up so she could maintain a little dignity when her son and daughter-in-law finally arrived before my shift was over.
It was one of the milder assaults I’d been subjected to by a patient.
The last time I’d taken a hit, it had been from a belligerent drunk who’d outweighed me by at least two hundred pounds.
That incident had left me with a concussion, a fractured nose, and two black eyes.
Unlike many of my coworkers, I didn’t mind working weekends.
They were high-energy shifts that were so busy that the time flew by.
I had a set schedule, working twelve-hour shifts Thursday through Saturday every week, and I didn’t turn down an extra half shift whenever my team needed me.
It wasn’t like I had any plans on those days anyway.
Ryder and Kane always worked over the weekends, so when I’d first been hired, I’d requested to work those particular days as well.
Typically, the rest of their week was open, and I would get them every night from Sunday to Wednesday.
Although some days, I only got one of them.
Sundays were usually Ryder’s night, Mondays were Kane’s.
Every Tuesday was always dedicated to the three of us.
Normally, I’d make dinner or we’d order in, watch a movie or the latest episode of our favorite shows. And then we’d make love all night.
Wednesdays were hit or miss, though. Sometimes I had one, sometimes I had the other, and sometimes I got both of them for an extra night.
Neither of them ever offered to take me out, but I wouldn’t want to go if they had.
I cherished every moment we got together.
And if I was honest, I was greedy for all their attention.
Our time was spent in my apartment, never either of theirs. Neither of them had shown me their places, but that had never bothered me in the past. My apartment was our safe space, where we could be us without anyone judging our relationship.
Ryder and Kane had never introduced me to their parents either.
Ryder’s reasoning was understandable. He hated his father.
No—hate was too tame a word. Ryder loathed Cullum.
I didn’t want to meet the man who had let his own child live in the foster care system so he didn’t have to be bothered with his well-being.
Although, maybe I should have been thankful for that.
Otherwise, I might not have met Ryder and, by extension, Kane.
The Brennan family was an enigma to me since Kane hadn’t introduced me to his parents either.
He’d told me a few things about them, details that gave me a tiny glimpse into his childhood.
When I mentioned us spending Christmas Day with them one year, he’d gotten a look on his face that unsettled me.
I should have questioned everything then and there.
If I had, then I wouldn’t have felt like I was unraveling now.
Ryder and Kane were alphaholes when it came to me.
Always wanting to pay for things, buy me pretty clothes, jewelry.
The sky was the limit, as they would always say with their signature panty-melting smiles.
Yet they didn’t protest for a single moment when I told them I’d be finding my own apartment, paying my own rent and bills. They didn’t grumble or visit any of the listings the agent had given me to set up times to tour each option.
It was my place and mine alone. No one else would have a say in where I laid my head to sleep each night.
My fridge was continuously stocked with food I paid for, in the home that my salary covered.
I didn’t care how much money they had. We were together because we were in love, not for what they could buy me.
At the time, I was so happy that neither of them had thrown their weight around.
Independence was important to me after growing up in a system where I was nothing but a case number.
Now, however, I saw it for what it was. If they had insisted on a different place, paid for it, and lived there with me full time, too many people would know who I was to them.
And that would have ruined everything for them. Parading their side piece so blatantly in front of their fiancées would have been a slap in the face for the Bianchi family.
Instead of answering my questions about Kane’s family, he and Ryder would distract me with drugging kisses that quickly turned into something more.
I didn’t remember Kane’s silence on the subject of Christmas Day that year until several days later, and by then, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know why his dark eyes had flashed with what might have been guilt.
Looking back, it was easy to see that I’d buried my head in the sand countless times when it came to my men.
If I’d asked questions, or done a name search on either of them, I would have gotten plenty of answers.
All those red flags that I’d ignored would have made sense, and I would have cut ties then.
Losing either of my men wasn’t something I wanted to face.
Not then, and not even now that I knew the truth.
But they’d violated my trust. My heart wasn’t just breaking—it was fucking shattered, and each beat ground the stupid organ into dust a little more.
Kane and Ryder might love me, but they sure as hell didn’t respect me. They never had. Not that it mattered at this point. Their wedding announcements were all I needed to know they weren’t ever coming home to me again.
And if they tried, they wouldn’t find me waiting like the faithful dog they’d trained me to be. Yipping and wagging her tail, eager and begging for any scrap of affection they would indulgently shower on me.
Our work schedules being aligned wasn’t kismet.
They’d manipulated every last detail. They’d steered me into positions that made me think they loved me, that everything had a reason, and that reason was our love.
Even the guilt that had lingered in the back of my mind from not choosing one man over the other was something they had used to their advantage.
All those days they couldn’t be with me, because of work or any other bullshit excuses they collaborated on to feed me, weren’t due to business obligations.
It was spent with their families—their motherfucking fiancées.
Playing happy couples in public, looking adoringly at the gorgeous women on their arms. Flashing their smuggest smiles for the cameras.
I knew all of that now. One overheard conversation on my way home from work, someone talking about the Bianchi sisters on the bus in a voice a little too loud to be considered sober.
Something about the sisters having a double wedding and how extravagant the dresses were reportedly going to be.
Societal nonsense about people I would never meet.
I’d tuned them out until I heard a name that caught my attention.
Kane Brennan.
Snorting a laugh, I’d shaken my head, convinced the gossiping woman was reading too much fake news.
Only…
I couldn’t help wondering, wanting to prove that the woman on the bus was too drunk to understand what she was even talking about. There was no connection. Kane’s name said in the same sentence as a Bianchi sister? It would have been hilarious if my stomach had been in knots.
No, I must have missed something while ignoring the obnoxious woman. They were probably talking about someone else, not my Kane Brennan. I shoved the thought aside, ignoring the nausea and the itch at the back of my mind that whispered with doubt.
How many other Kane Brennans were there in this city? Probably a handful at least. Hundreds, if not thousands, in the world itself. It wasn’t my Kane. It couldn’t be.
But my nausea wouldn’t settle, my mind wouldn’t stop wondering. I knew if I didn’t at least look, I’d be a distracted mess at work, which meant lives would be on the line.
So, I did a name search—a little guilty for breaking my promise to never search either of my men online—expecting to find a dozen other men pop up on my screen.
Men with different middle names, birthdates, and residency appeared.
Below the first few social media links for some of them were pictures.
One was of my Kane.
With Raffaella Bianchi.
It took everything inside me not to puke then and there on that bus, all over the drunk woman who had inadvertently upended my world. With shaking fingers, I’d clicked the first picture and was redirected to an article. And another. That article had a great picture waiting for me at the bottom.
Kane stood beside Raffaella, who was beside her sister, the two women beaming at the camera, showing off their glittering, almost identical rings. With Ryder right beside Amadea, his hand at her waist.
While the article itself was newer, the date under the photo indicated it was several years old.
From there, it was impossible not to continue searching.
And goddamn them, I’d gotten plenty of intel with just a few swipes of my fingers on my phone screen.
Photos of date nights, some separate with just Ryder and Amadea, or just Kane and Raffaella.
Others with the four of them. Out to dinner on Friday nights.
Almost every fucking Friday. Upper-class events nearly every Saturday.
Galas, charity fundraisers, where everyone wore suits and dresses worth ten thousand dollars at a minimum.
Photos of Ryder with his arm around Amadea’s waist, or Kane leaning in close to Raffaella, brushing a sweet kiss over her forehead or cheek before guiding her through a crowd. Always with those damn smiles on their faces, the ones I thought were mine alone.
Another lie.
One site after another had taken me down a never-ending rabbit hole, dating back to mere days after Ryder had aged out of the group home. I tracked the dates on each article I discovered, lining them up to the Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays that my guys were never available.
“I’m sorry, little star. We have to work this weekend,” Ryder would tell me with his blue eyes full of regret and longing. They were always so busy on the weekends, they couldn’t spend the night with me.
And I was the fool who believed him without a moment of hesitation, zero doubt that he and Kane were staying faithful.
Those Sundays that were just Ryder and me, Kane was normally out with his parents and Raffaella. All those Mondays that Ryder was supposedly taking meetings, giving me one-on-one time with Kane, he would be at some country club thing with Amadea and her father.
Tuesdays were reserved for the three of us. No matter what, they were snuggled in bed with me before midnight.
But those Wednesday nights they would cancel on me, they were both with them—their fiancées. Planning their motherfucking wedding.
What a blind, besotted, na?ve fool I’d been.
Fuck those assholes.