Chapter 24
Lucy
LunaLoves11 comments: I fucking knew that bitch @ZenInTheCity was full of shit, totally unoriginal
BigWaves_eastcity comments: r u kidding me?! Plz someone tell @ZenInTheCity to go back to whatever mediocre hole she crawled out of. No one needs toxic ppl like this, @WaywardDelaney we're so proud of u!
TechnotronBoytoi comments: fake fake fake. Nothing but filters, lies and bullshit. Im unfollowing @ZenInTheCity, you should too
MyDogsSmarterThanYou comments: i honestly think @ZenInTheCity is whats wrong with this country. She always sounded annoying and preachy to me, but hearing how awful of a person she is? #boycottlucy -make it happen ppl
With my basket full of avocados, I take a quick look at my shopping list to see what other things I still need to pick up at the market. Trying to pry unhealthy snacks away from Silas, while entertaining, is fruitless, so I'm attempting to make homemade healthy versions of his favorite junk food. Noah's already warned me Silas will likely love and devour what I make—then dig into the Cheetos.
Which only made me laugh. Still, it's fun to try. I add buttermilk and eggs to the basket before making my way over to the bread, when my phone beeps in my pocket.
I feel a knot of tension in my stomach before remembering that since I started carrying my phone around again, I changed the settings so only certain people could get through to me: Portia, Cara, Mary-Anne, and, of course, the guys.
I still have all my advertisers on silent. And even though they are, miraculously, happier than ever that my reach has grown to over 2 million, they're getting impatient waiting on product placement. I assured them I'll be back online soon, somehow finagling another four weeks off before they pull their offers.
So, I had four weeks left to rejoin the online world, to start posting pictures of whatever candle or bath oil or workout gear I was paid to flaunt, or find a new career.
It's already been four weeks since my world flipped upside down, so I'm determined to make this impromptu eight week sabbatical mean something at the end of it all.
Meanwhile, the apartment has never felt more like home. Silas hung some of his paintings and other pieces of art, transforming the once unintentional-minimalist vibe to a vibrant space for our found family. Noah and I cook together nearly every night, and I run errands while he and Silas work in Mateo's office—another room they transformed and took over—or on the couch.
Mateo gets home late, back to his typical work schedule, and only once he didn't come home at all, so the three of us surprised him with takeout at his office.
I've spent the night with each of the three of them every single night since the day the guys moved in. At this point, my reluctance to continue working as an influencer is more about protecting our perfect bubble than it is feeling anxious over being online.
Apparently, I haven't learned my lesson by letting the warm, fuzzy feeling of being in love obscure reality.
When my phone beeps again, I dig it out of my bag, shifting the basket handle onto my forearm. There's a text from Portia telling me to get online and watch Delaney's live video.
Slipping my headphones on, I open the app and find Delaney's profile. I haven't spoken to her since she came to my apartment, but I have received a few texts from her. They're more apologies, asking if I want to get together, but I haven't bothered responding. I have no idea what to say to her.
My blissful happiness at home may have made the pain of what happened fade, but that doesn't mean I don't remember what happened, how that entire week felt, how it still feels, to think someone I trusted could do that to me.
Delaney's gone live a few more times, talking about me while making herself the victim, and though I haven't watched the videos, the girls have kept me informed each week at brunch, which I'm happily re-attending. We're settling into a new normal with just the four of us and though I like to keep the topic on what they're up to, inevitably, every week, someone will make a comment about Delaney's posts and we end up discussing it.
I feel no different now, watching her face fill my screen. Annoyed. Disappointed. Hurt. None of that's faded. I turn up the volume and listen in. She's already a few minutes into her rant, since Portia took a minute to tell me to watch, so I catch her mid sentence.
"And it's not like she ever really understood, you know? She pretends like her life is so hard, talks about growing up poor. But she lives in a penthouse with a rooftop pool. I mean, do you guys even get how pretentious that is? Talk about a double-standard. Her whole platform is supposed to be healthy living on a budget. So, anyway, I'm sorry to start off complaining. You all know I've shifted my platform to talk more about mental health and the seriousness of the subject."
Clearing her throat, she blinks back tears and averts her gaze from the camera, intensifying the intrigue. My fists clench, and a sheen of sweat breaks out over my skin while panic rises up my chest. The pressure squeezes my brain, leaving me in a cold, dissociating fog, knowing whatever she's already said is terrible, but that was just the build-up. Whatever lies she's about to tell will be a lot worse.
"I need to call out Lucy, ZenInTheCity, because over the course of our friendship, she was incredibly emotionally abusive and manipulative. She's taken advantage of my kindness so many times, and she uses people. She's stolen advertisers from me, modeling gigs, hell, even content ideas! I can't tell you how many times over the years we'd be sitting at brunch and I'd tell everyone what my focus was that week and low and behold, within a couple of days, Lucy would post my idea."
I feel like I'm going to vomit. Delaney is the one who did that! And she did it to all of us. We got so used to it, we stopped talking about our upcoming content at brunch. Delaney is the one who steals ideas!
It doesn't matter though. Comments are pouring in, supporting Delaney's hardship. She even clears away a fake tear, sniffing, thanking everyone for their kind words.
She continues, "So, that's it. Now you know. It's why I shared those pictures of me and her boyfriend. Someone sent them to me as a joke, and I was just so pissed at her. It was wrong of me to share them, Mateo's a really great guy. She doesn't deserve him. But I just needed to get a little bit of my control back. You have no idea who she really is." Her breath hitches on the last sentence.
My hands shake as I grip the basket and my phone. Forcing myself to listen to the next few minutes while she grants platitudes to her listeners, they praise her for her bravery for speaking out against my toxic behavior.
My phone beeps with incoming messages from Portia.
I close the app. I almost turn my phone off, but force myself to open the text messages, and I notice one from a number I put on silent.
How is it possible I didn't delete this text chain?
I never responded to the first ones, too shattered by the pictures the anonymous person sent. Delaney never claimed credit for texting me those pictures that awful night, she said it was some other girl, but I didn't believe her for a second. And now, with the timing of her video, I'm certain it's her.
When I open the text thread, I notice that these recently sent pictures differ from the ones before. There's no sex, no AI, or well-edited, scandalous shots. As I scroll down, I see candids of Silas, Noah, Mateo, and me. Some variation of the four of us, together or on our own, coming in and out of the apartment. As if these pictures offer multiple forms of evidence to support some type of claim.
I know what they're implying by sending these, or maybe I'm just hypersensitive because I know I'm sleeping with three men and feel nervous that someone else might know too.
With a shaky grip, I fumble with my phone until it's turned off. With my heart racing and mind on overdrive, I can't stop thinking about the consequences of what Delaney said, what it could mean for my future. Thinking about all the people who heard those awful things she just said about me, the advertisers, followers, all the progress I've made over the last few weeks—all of it feels like it's going up in smoke.
On autopilot, I pay for my things and leave the market, making the short walk back to my apartment.
I have no idea if I even said anything polite to the cashier. I can't remember paying, though no one chased after me, so I must have. The receptionist in the lobby of our building hands me a package, and I manage a smile that feels more like a grimace, thanking him before continuing on to the elevator, every step closer to my apartment offering a comforting sense of security.
By the time I get home, I feel like I can breathe again.
The now familiar sounds of Noah and Silas working in the living room, arguing over some character rendering, help settle my nerves. I'm grateful they're in the middle of working so that they don't get up to greet me, giving me time to get my shit together.
Slipping my phone in the cutlery drawer, burying it at the back, as if that will help distance me from the chaos, I set the package down at the end of the counter, then put away the groceries.
I plaster on a smile and start making Silas the avocado fries, the monotonous action helping me work through the logistics of the worst-case scenarios. By the time I'm finishing up, Noah meanders into the kitchen, pouring himself a beer. He watches me for a minute, and I know I'm not fooling him at all. But I keep going. He says nothing and when Silas calls out to him, asking where his beer is, Noah ignores him.
"I'm fine," I assure him, smiling wide, though my eyes are watering. I sniff, wiping my face on my sleeve. But then the tears start pouring. I keep smiling, plating the fries, only stopping when Noah's hand reaches out, stilling mine. I pause when he threads his fingers through mine, pulling me toward him.
"Lucy," he says softly, gently guiding me away from the counter so I can face him.
Silas is still shouting from the living room. It makes me laugh. I picture him playing his games, yelling for more chips and beer like a frat boy, totally unaware of his environment. It's cute. And helps break the tension, allowing me to find the courage to say, "I'm fine. I swear. It's just… There's another video. From Delaney. It… it wasn't nice. But I'm fine."
He nods, still holding my hands and giving me space to feel. "Do you want to talk about it?"
I let out a heavy breath, blowing loose strands of my hair, which have fallen from my ponytail up and around my face. "Not yet. I can't—"
The words stick in my throat. He waits a beat before pulling me back to the counter, and together we plate the fries.
It's still early. Mateo won't be home from work for a few hours, but Silas is a human garbage disposal and can eat whenever food is put in front of him, regardless of the time.
Silas notices the dried tears and red cheeks the moment he steps into the kitchen, after realizing neither of us were responding to his beer pleas. About to launch into a full scale interrogation, he's silenced with one sharp head shake from Noah, who's still holding my hand.
We settle on the couch, and the guys arrange back in place, though I'm guessing they've moved from their spots to be a little closer to me. Knees bent, my feet tuck beneath Silas's legs, while my shoulder rests against Noah's, and together, they make me feel safe and supported.
The energy between them is like nothing else I've ever felt. I can't believe they hadn't been lovers all this time they've been together, because they fell into the role like they'd been doing it a lifetime. I can't take credit for them finally taking that step, but it does feel good to know they took it once we were all together. Like we're destined, and they were just waiting all this time for me to join them. I honestly can't believe we met only weeks ago.
Noah takes out his phone and sends a quick text. I don't have to guess who it's to when Silas's phone lights up a second later. Instead of rolling my eyes or getting annoyed, it's comforting knowing they care enough about me to try and work around my stress.
Silas eats the avocado fries like Noah predicted—without prejudice, devouring half the plate. They continue working and I fall asleep against Noah's shoulder, sandwiched between them. It's warm, their voices lulling me under. I don't nap long, waking to Noah rearranging me so I can settle on his lap. I curl against him while he runs his fingers through my hair.
The house is quiet, their game paused. Silas swears under his breath and I rouse and peek over. Wearing headphones, he's watching something on his phone. Probably a replay of Delaney's video, judging by his expression and the look he gives me. He's angry, and I've never seen Silas angry. Noah either, but I can picture Noah taking deep breaths and working through his frustration. I can't picture Silas anything but easygoing.
He turns the video off a minute later, setting the phone screen down on the coffee table. I don't have to wonder if Noah already saw it while I was asleep, because he asks, "Why haven't you spoken out against her yet? From the first stunt she pulled?"
He's brushing my hair away from my face, rhythmically petting me. I don't have an answer for him other than to say, I just couldn't .
But that's a stupid excuse.
Noah doesn't push for answers, he just keeps rubbing my head silently while Silas rubs my feet. It's heaven. All the swirling thoughts over what she publicly said about me are still there, but I'm able to sift through them more calmly.
A slamming door startles me, and I sit up. We all look to the kitchen, finding an irate Mateo, home hours earlier than he should be. He storms over to me, and I glare at Silas. "Okay, which one of you told him?"
Silas winks. "We don't keep secrets, Lulu. He deserves to know when you come home in tears. Just like we do."
"I saw the fucking video, Lucy," Mateo growls. "I am done with this bullshit. I am fucking done. I'm calling my lawyer again, he didn't do shit since—" He pauses then lets out a roar, kicking the back of a dining table chair which bounces loudly against the marble tile.
"Since what?" I ask, sitting up tiredly.
"Nothing. I'm just fucking done. You don't want to say anything about what she's been doing, that's fine. But I'm not letting her talk about you like this. It's libel. Defamation. Lies. Bullshit. Take your fucking pick."
"Hey, Matty, maybe kiss your girl hello?" Silas pokes the bear, but it does the trick. Mateo's expression softens, colored by shame, before he shakes it off and stalks closer. Leaning over the back of the couch, he pulls me in for a kiss. Half in Noah's lap, I reach up to meet him.
He sighs, pressing his forehead against mine. "I'm sorry, Lucy. I'm sorry I didn't stop her."
I pull away then get up and head into the kitchen to get some cold water to wake myself up and face this. "It's not your fault. I just don't know why she's so fixated on taking me down to lift herself up. I never did anything to hurt her, I swear."
"We believe you," Noah assures me, as the three of them follow me into the kitchen.
I shake my head, then my gaze snags on the package. "Oh, Mateo, this came for you. There's no return address though," I say, after picking up the package. I shrug and hand it over. But when I look up, all three men are frozen in place.
"What?"
"Nothing," Mateo says, taking the box from me. He walks over to his bag, which he tossed on the dining room table when he walked in, stuffing the box in his bag.
"What's in the box?"
"Nothing, just something for work," he says too quickly.
Noah sighs, pulling up a seat at the stool. Then he looks at Mateo and shakes his head.
"No." Mateo snaps. No, what?
"As Silas just said, we don't keep secrets. And we definitely don't lie."
Mateo swears under his breath, running his hands through his hair.
"Guys, what's going on?"
"It's nothin—"
"Goddammit, Matty, tell her the fucking truth. God, you really suck at this. You actually need me and Noah to save you from yourself. I thought you were exaggerating," Silas sighs.
"I'm trying to protect her!"
"Umm, excuse me, can one of you please tell me what the fuck is going on?"
Silas walks around the counter, grabs the package from Mateo's bag, and tears into it. He stares at it for a second, then hands it to me.
"What in the hell?" I gasp. No one gives me any answers or explanations why I'm holding a picture of Mateo masturbating. Only, it's not him. Mateo's chest is defined, but not ripped like this guy in the picture. He doesn't have those boob-like pecs and his nipples are dark brown, not nearly purple.
"What is this, Mateo?" I ask, handing it over. He takes it in, looking the image over, before handing it to Noah, then walks to a built-in shelf in the dining room. Pulling open a drawer, he digs through some linens, then pulls out two more pictures buried in the back. Apparently, if I ever want to snoop, this is where we all hide our shit—in the backs of all the drawers.
Mateo tells me the previous pictures were also left in the lobby downstairs and, apart from verifying that a local delivery service paid for them, he doesn't know the sender's identity.
I suggest going to the police because someone is clearly stalking—at the very least, tormenting—Mateo, but he outright refuses.
"I'll get my lawyer to deal with this. A third picture, this is escalating. The first two I just thought were… I don't know. Meant to fuck with my head. Or yours. I'll get a restraining order."
"Against who?"
"The only person who's currently fucking with our lives."
"You think this is Delaney?"
"Who else would it be?"
He has a point. But this is so fucked up. Paired with the video she just made about me, all I can think is she's trying to get me out of the way and take Mateo for herself. Which is absurd, considering how she's going about it, but she's clearly unhinged.
"Why would you keep this from me?" I ask, digging my phone out of the cutlery drawer and turning it back on. One way to get my mind off my one set of problems is to discover some new ones. Finding Portia's contact, I sift through a bunch of unread messages.
My heart contracts when I see a message and a bunch of social media links from her, Cara and Mary-Anne, all calling Delaney out on her lies. I send her a text to thank her, then ask if she can set up a meeting with me and Delaney. For now, considering how far this is escalating, I think it's best to go through a third party and not try to talk to her myself. I don't want her to twist anything any more than she already has.
"What are you doing?" Mateo snaps. God, he sounds like a brat.
"You didn't answer my question. Why would you keep this from me?"
"I was trying to protect you."
"It's not your job to protect me, Mateo."
"Bull-fucking-shit." He stalks toward me, one hand flat on my sternum, and shoves me against the refrigerator door. My panties flood and I curse myself for being turned on at a time like this. "You are ours to protect. If you don't like that, too fucking bad. I will do anything for you, Lucy, and dealing with this psychopath so you don't have to is part of that."
Inhaling heavily, I argue back, "I texted Portia and asked her to set up a meeting—"
"No—"
"Not your decision. And isn't it nice that I'm telling you right away and not trying to keep that from you?"
Silas chuckles from behind Mateo, making me smile. Mateo isn't smiling, though. "I won't let her hurt you again."
"Pictures of you naked, even if it's not really you, is a violation against you , Mateo, not me. We protect each other. Isn't that what this relationship is all about?" And I'm not talking about a poly relationship, I'm talking about anything and everything we have between us. Relationships are built on trust and honesty and respect.
"The lies she said about you—"
"Are lies. I'll figure it out. With my girls, because they know how to navigate online scandals. She won't win, I swear it. But these pictures, that's different. It's darker and fucked up and honestly, it kind of scares me. I need to sit down with her and confront her about it. If that doesn't work, we can meet with your lawyer or go to the police, get the restraining order."
He shakes his head. "No." Just like that, no compromise.
Frustration boils within me. "Please, Mateo. I'm so… it's so… intense !" Hovering my open palms over my temples, I feel the weight of the last hour, the pressure against my brain, the fog, the dissociation coupled with the tension and worry over what's to come. Public scandals, getting canceled, fixing my reputation. It's too much. It's all too much.
My voice cracks when I continue, "I'm so fucking stressed out. I almost lost my shit again today. I watched that video, and I panicked, and I swear I blacked out on my walk home." Ignoring his growling, I add, "I can't do that again. I can't. I just need to talk to her and start taking control. We don't even know if this is her. Please, Mateo. Please." I sniff away a tear, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand, feeling the panic ebb and flow, shaking my nerves, making my skin clammy and cold, while my chest feels like it's on fire.
His nostrils flare, brows furrowing, and he takes his time before responding. The pressure on my chest loosens and his hand trails down from my sternum to my navel. I shouldn't be turned on right now, I remind myself, but the feel of his hand is a nice contrast to what's going on inside my head.
The four of us discovered a lot over the last few weeks. When I'm stressed or spiraling, they take control. It's not about sex or the distraction of fleeting pleasure. All the familiar anxiety metamorphoses when they push or hurt and mark my body, and in its place, where pleasure and pain intertwine, it's like we're rewiring my primal reaction to fear; with each intensified touch, my overactive brain, the tempest, is tamed, leaving my mind still, and I can rest. I'm calm. Settled. Not just for a few minutes, but for days .
We discovered other things, too. Edging increases my anxiety. I absolutely hate it and it stresses me out. A little edging is fun, but I'm a needy bitch, and I need to feel. I can't stress about what's coming, when. I like impact play, but bondage, being tied up or held down, that's the sweet spot. Who knew having three lovers who spent their 20s exploring their sexuality would become the unexpected remedy for the struggles I had faced alone for so long.
"Fine," he finally agrees.
"Really?" I squeak in surprise.
"One of us goes with you, no exceptions."
"Deal." He doesn't nod, say anything more, or move out of my personal space. After a few breaths, he turns to his friends. "Did you by any chance bring home my black bag?"
Noah's eyes light up. "Sure did."
Mateo turns back to me. "Alright, Lucy. You can meet with Delaney, with one of us, and maybe get her to admit to all this or to back off. I've decided, if it doesn't work, I'm done with lawyers. I'm not going to the police. I'm going to ruin her, and she'll regret the fucking day she ever looked at you wrong."
"Okay, I understand. Th-thank you," I whisper.
"Great." Then he roughly grips my chin, forcing me to look up into his coal black eyes. "Now, I'm angry you didn't call me, turned your phone off and stuffed it into a drawer while you were spiraling. I think you need to learn a lesson, mi corazón . We've been entirely too easy on you."