Book Club Night #3
"Rochelle!" Cadence threw a napkin at her. "It's not like that. He's. . .actually very sweet, once I get over the fact that he looks like he kills people. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he brings his niece to Storytime now. She sits on his huge lap and he does all the voices for the characters."
My heart melted. "Cadence, you should go to coffee with him."
"Don't," she warned. "I'm not ready to talk about it.
He's. . .complicated. But when he smiles at his niece. . .God, Tey. He transforms. This big scary man becomes so gentle. And he keeps asking me for book recommendations. Last week he checked out Where the Wild Things Are and The Giving Tree. Those are my favorite kids’ books. "
"That's husband behavior," Ro said sagely. "A man who reads to children? Lock that down."
"I barely know him!"
"But you want to." I said it gently, watching the way Cadence's fingers twisted around her glass stem. "Don't you?"
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, so soft I almost missed it: "Yes. But it's terrifying. He's in a motorcycle club. He has a past. And I'm a librarian who color-codes her bookshelves."
"And Diego was a pool boy who seduced a divorced mom," I pointed out. "Life is messy, Cadence. That doesn't mean it's wrong."
We sat with that—three women at different points on the same journey, learning what it meant to want something again after thinking want was dangerous.
"Pool Boy," Ro tapped the book. "That's what this whole book is about.
Not the sex—though the sex is chef's kiss—but about remembering you're allowed to say fuck society’s judgement and want things at any age.
Allowed to be wanted. Allowed to take up space, be messy, and say yes to something just because it feels good. "
Cadence nodded slowly. "Simone spent so long being appropriate that she forgot how to be herself. Diego didn't fix her. He just. . .reminded her she was still there."
I looked at both of them—my sister-friends, my lifelines, my chosen family. "Is that what we're doing? Reminding each other we're still here?"
"Every damn month," Ro said fiercely. "And we're going to keep doing it until we're ninety and arguing about whether the nursing home book club is kinky enough or not."
We raised our glasses one more time.
"To MILFs," I said.
"To Pool Boys," Cadence added.
"To big dicks and bigger dreams," Ro finished.
The glasses clinked, and our laughter echoed through the mansion—through rooms that used to hold Dominic's grief, through halls that were learning to hold joy again.
We talked more about the book as Matilda brough out the other courses.
After it was all over, Ro whispered, "Jesus Christ, I'm moving in."
"There's twelve bedrooms." I shrugged. "Pick one."
"The one with the sex swing."
Cadence shrieked. "There's a sex swing?"
Heat rushed to my face. "Dominic and I have a. . .special room. Behind a painting in the west wing hallway. You need a code to get in."
Ro practically levitated out of her chair. "You have a hidden sex dungeon?”
"It's not a dungeon!" I protested. "It's just. . .a private space. With some. . .equipment."
Cadence had gone completely red. "Equipment?"
"The swing. Some other things. Dominic's very. . .creative, but honestly. . .the room is for when he is a Naughty Boy."
"At this rate," Ro leaned back with a knowing smile, "you're going to be pregnant by spring."
My hand instinctively went to my stomach before I could stop it.
The movement was tiny—barely a flutter—but Ro's eyes tracked it like a hawk. "Tey. . .Hold up. Why aren't you drinking real champagne?"
"What?" My voice came out too high. "I am drinking champagne."
"No." Ro pointed at my glass. "That's sparkling something, but it's not alcoholic. I can tell from the bubbles. They're different."
Cadence's eyes went wider. "Tey. . ."
I looked between them—my best friends, my sisters, the women who'd held me through everything.
And I couldn't lie.
Not to them.
"We're waiting to be sure," I whispered. "The first appointment isn't until next week. But. . .yeah. I’m pregnant."
Silence.
Then Ro launched herself across the table, nearly knocking over all three desserts. "You're having Dominic's baby?"
"Shh!" I hissed and my eyes watered. "The kids don't know yet. Nobody knows. Just Matilda, me, and Dominic and now you two."
Cadence's eyes were shining. "Oh, Tey. Oh my God."
"I know it's fast, I know we just got married and Scott's only been gone for three months and I'm about to start law school and everything is already insane—"
"Stop." Ro grabbed both my hands. "This is beautiful. This is perfect. This is you getting everything you deserve after years of that asshole making you feel small."
"But what if—"
"No what-ifs," Cadence interrupted. "Just joy. Just this moment. Just us celebrating you."
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
Damn hormones.
"I'm scared."
"Of course you are," Ro said softly. "But you're also brave. And you're not alone. You've got Dominic. You've got the kids. You've got a whole mansion and a butler who makes themed cocktails. And you've got us."
"Always us," Cadence whispered.
We sat there, hands linked across the table, desserts forgotten, and I felt it—that rush of being completely seen and absolutely loved.
Sisterhood.
"Okay," Ro wiped her eyes. "I'm not crying anymore. We're celebrating. Tour time. Show me this sex room. I need to know if rich people fuck differently."
"Oh my God," I groaned, but I was already standing, already laughing.
We moved through the house, and I pointed out rooms as we went—the library that made Cadence gasp, the gym that made Ro whistle, the kitchen Dominic and I had christened on our second night in the mansion.
When we reached the theater room, I peeked in quietly.
Dominic sat in the middle of the massive sectional, J on his left, Oliver on his right, all three of them completely absorbed in whatever superhero was currently saving the world on the hundred-inch screen.
Dominic's big arm was around Oliver's shoulders.
J's head rested against his side.
My heart squeezed so tight I almost couldn't breathe.
This man.
This beautiful, complicated, obsessive man who'd walked into my life as a tenant. . .had become my everything.
As if he felt my gaze, Dominic looked over.
Our eyes met.
He smiled—that private filthy smile that was just for me—and mouthed: I love you.
I love you too, I mouthed back.
Then I blew him a kiss and gestured that I'd be with my girls.
He nodded, understanding and returning his attention to the movie. But not before his gaze dropped briefly to my stomach with a possessive look.
I closed the door softly and turned to find Ro and Cadence watching me with matching smirks.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," Ro sang. "Just watching you look at your husband like he hung the moon."
"He kind of did," I admitted.
We continued down the hall, and I stopped in front of a large painting—a reproduction of Klimt's The Kiss in a heavy gilded frame.
"This is it?" Cadence asked.
"This is it." I punched in the code—my birthday—and the painting swung open like something from a movie.
Behind it was a door.
Behind the door was. . .well.
"Holy shit," Ro breathed.
The room was decadence incarnate—dark, gleaming, and impossibly beautiful.
The walls were draped in deep burgundy silk that shimmered like spilled wine under low amber lighting. Gold sconces shaped like climbing vines cast a honeyed glow over the polished black floor.
The leather swing was suspended from hand-forged beams in the center.
There was a mirrored ceiling.
A marble pedestal held a sculptural chaise upholstered in cream velvet. It was the kind of piece one would expect in a Parisian museum, not hidden behind a secret door.
A glass cabinet stood nearby, its contents gleaming like a private art collection. Inside were polished gold restraints resting beside silk ropes.
Crystal plugs and leather paddles.
Jeweled nipple clamps and silver dildos.
"This is not a sex room," Cadence whispered. "This is a sex palace."
I cleared my throat. "Dominic takes his hobbies seriously."
Ro walked in and stopped in front of the swing. "Girl. If you're not using this thing twice a week, you're wasting it."
I blushed. "We've been very. . .thorough in our usage."
"Nasty asses!" Ro cackled.
Cadence stepped closer to the wall near the chaise. “You know what this side needs?”
“What?” Ro arched an eyebrow. “More sex toys? Maybe a stripper pole that descends from the ceiling?”
“No way.” Cadence pointed. “This wall needs a bookshelf.”
“A bookshelf?” I repeated, laughing.
She nodded, deadly serious. “Not just any bookshelf—a dark wood built-in, maybe ebony or walnut, with soft blue backlighting. Filled with vintage erotica and classic literary smut. Ana?s Nin, Colette, D.H. Lawrence, the good stuff. None of that cheesy mass-market nonsense.”
Her voice dropped to a low purr. “And above it, framed black-and-white erotic photography. Tasteful. Sensual. Bodies in silhouette, mouths just barely touching. The kind of art that makes your genitals ache a little.”
“Oh.” I imagined that and had to admit that I was digging it.
Ro’s jaw dropped. “Cadence. You’re giving design porn.”
“Oh, I’m not finished.” Cadence’s eyes sparkled now, her voice growing bolder, silkier.
“In front of the bookshelf, you put a low chaise. Something decadent—maybe emerald velvet or cream leather. And then—” she paused for drama “—you sit there naked with Dominic, and you both take turns reading aloud to each other. Slowly. One steamy hot paragraph at a time.”
“Oh. My. God.” Ro clutched her chest like she’d been personally blessed by the goddess of filth. “Who are you and what have you done with my sweet prudish little librarian friend?”
I was blushing, but my mind was already painting the scene—the quiet rustle of pages, Dominic’s deep voice in the low light, his fingers brushing my skin as he read something too beautiful, too dirty to exist outside that room.
“That,” I murmured, half-dazed, “might actually be the sexist idea anyone has ever had.”
Ro pointed dramatically at Cadence. “You win. You officially win book club forever.”
Cadence’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Reading is fundamental.”
We all screamed laughing after that—but the image lingered, warm and dangerous.
We stayed there for a while—three women in a secret room, laughing about sex, life, and the beautiful chaos of it all.
And when we finally made our way back to the dining room for more drinks, I looked around at my life and thought:
This.
This is what happy endings look like.
Not perfect.
Not simple.
Not anything like the fairy tales promised.
But real.
Messy.
Beautiful.
Mine.
“Next month’s book?” Cadence asked, scrolling through her phone. “Maybe something quieter? Emotional depth? Healing?”
Ro snorted. “Absolutely not. We’re reading the one about the mechanic and the Southern belle. There’s oil. There’s filth. There’s a wrench going deep into the heroine’s vagina.”
Cadence groaned. “You and your hardware erotica.”
“Don’t knock it till you torque it,” Ro said.
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink. “Y’all are going to get me banned from ’s recommendations list.”
And as they bickered about book choices and Matilda appeared with more fake champagne for me and more real champagne for them, I rested my hand on my stomach—where something impossibly tiny was growing into my future—and smiled.
Because this was my life now.
Dominic.
Luxury.
Books.
Wine.
Friendship.
Laughter.
A husband who loved me.
Kids who were healing.
A baby on the way.
Law school ahead.
And two best friends who would walk through fire for me, argue about sex scenes, and keep showing up month after month to remind me:
I was worthy.
I was loved.
And I was exactly where I was supposed to be.