The night after the PI’s visit felt like the air itself had thickened, every breath heavier than the last.
The chalet was quiet except for the low crackle of the fire and the occasional groan of timber settling under fresh snow.
Fukky had spent the evening in her room—alone—trying to process the confrontation, the way Ethan’s face had crumpled when she told him she belonged to three men who actually loved her.
But the adrenaline hadn’t left her system.
It had only changed shape—coiled low in her belly, turned molten, turned needy.
She found them in the master bedroom.
The door was open.
Firelight spilled into the hallway.
They hadn’t closed it.
They wanted her to come.
Rafael sat in the armchair by the window—shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, legs spread, watching the flames like
