“You sleep in my bed every night. No more late nights playing escort for rich fucks, even if it’s ‘just dinner.’ You want to make money on OnlyFans? Fine. But the rest of you belongs to me.”
I smiled. “Deal,” I said and he pushed me even higher up, lining my pussy with his mouth. “Still hungry?”
Milo didn’t answer with words. He yanked me down, burying his face between my thighs and went at it.
Early breakfast — or late dinner — didn’t matter. For twenty thousand, he could eat me out whenever the fuck he wanted.
I met Dahlia for brunch on an early Sunday morning. The café was near our old place just a few blocks off the French Quarter. We had once rented a two-bedroom apartment with no AC and a leaky pipe for much more than it was worth; thinking about it now felt almost nostalgic.
I saw her coming down the street, wearing a tight dress and heels that made her legs look endless. Her dark hair was styled in loose waves, and she had her sunglasses on. I had a feeling she was coming straight from the club.
“Morning, babe,” she greeted, kissing me on the cheek before she joined me on the patio. I caught a whiff of cologne on her — something that very unsurprisingly reminded me of Killian.
“I already ordered for you,” I told her.
“Good. Because I’m starving,” Dahlia said, dropping into the chair with a dramatic sigh that told me everything. She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, revealing smudged eyeliner.
I slid the menu aside as the server brought over my mimosa and her Bloody Mary. “Rough night?”
“Rough morning, more like.” She took a long sip, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. “Killian showed up after close. Said he ‘just wanted to talk.’” She air-quoted with her free hand, sun catching in the metallic sheen of her nails. “We talked. For about five minutes. Then we didn’t talk for three hours.”
I laughed into my drink. “So the NDA is still holding strong, huh?”
“Fuck the NDA,” she muttered. Then she sighed. “It’s honestly annoying how good we still are together.”
The server returned with our food — avocado toast piled high for me, a full Southern breakfast for Dahlia that could feed a small army.
“So, why did y’all break up? I know you couldn’t tell me because of the NDA, but if we’re saying fuck the NDA, I figure—”
Dahlia picked up the fork, wiping it down with a napkin. “You ever try dating a mama’s boy?”
“Can’t say that I have,” I said, taking a sip.
“Yeah, well, that’s how it is with Kill and the label. His actual mama is an angel — bless her — but Opus Records? Fuck them.” Dahlia stabbed a piece of sausage. “The label basically raised Killian, you know. They’ve got him on this golden-boy leash — image, brand deals, the whole ‘wholesome heartthrob’ package. Can’t have their favorite cash-cow caught up with some stripper. Bad for the optics.”
She said it casually, but I caught the bitterness underneath.
“So they made you sign an NDA and… what? Paid you off?” I asked, keeping my tone light even though my stomach twisted a little. The mimosa suddenly tasted too sweet.
Dahlia laughed, but there was no humor in it. “They tried. I told them to shove it. The NDA was more about keeping me quiet after we broke up. No tell-alls, no social media hints, no ‘my rockstar ex’ drama — that sorta thing. Killian hated it too, but he’s deep in the machine. His mom’s sick, the label’s footing some of her medical stuff… it’s complicated.”
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
She shrugged, but her eyes softened. “It is what it is. They tried to pair him with some pop star a few years ago — didn’t work out. Kept coming back to me.” She let out a deep exhale. “I don’t know, baby. It all is so fucking complicated for no goddamn reason.”
“Amen to that,” I agreed, raising my mimosa glass. “Rockstars. Can’t live with them, can’t afford rent without them.”
Dahlia snorted, nearly choking on her Bloody Mary. “Speak for yourself, babe. I’m still shaking ass five nights a week.”
I winced, but she waved it off with a grin, already digging into her eggs. The sun was climbing higher, turning the patio into a humid little oven, but it felt good — normal. Like the old days when we’d split rent and cigarettes and had complained about shitty Tinder flings.
“Seriously though,” I said after a bite of avocado toast, “you and Killian… you still love him?”
She chewed slowly, staring at the street where tourists were already starting their day-drinking. “Yeah. Stupidly. But love doesn’t pay for his mom’s treatments. So here we are. Secret midnight fucks and pretending we’re just friends in public.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” She swallowed and pointed her fork at me. “How’s life as the official Baby Doll? Milo being a gentleman? Because if he’s not—” She dragged her thumb across her throat.
