Page 21 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

I'd thought it was just a rich-person thing, but now I'm remembering the way other vehicles had seemed to follow at a distance.

Security details, probably.

The private elevators.

Both Alex's building and Nick's had required special access to reach their floors.

Not just a key card, but actual security checkpoints with guards who'd looked at me with suspicion before letting me pass.

The way all three men had seemed completely comfortable around armed men. Not nervous or concerned, just casually accepting of the presence of people with obvious weapons. Like it was normal and expected.

My coffee grows cold in my hands as I sit there, piecing together a picture I really don't want to see.

These weren't just rich businessmen. They weren't just successful entrepreneurs who happened to frequent the same club. They were something else. Something dangerous.

The realization settles over me like a heavy blanket, making it hard to breathe.

I'd been so focused on my own nervousness, my own inexperience, that I'd completely missed the obvious signs that these men were likely wealthy beyond my comprehension.

I think about the way Russ moved, that constant alertness beneath his playful exterior.

The way Alex assessed everything around him with those calculating eyes. And how Nick commanded his space like a king in his castle.

A chill runs down my spine. These are dangerous men. Genuinely, seriously dangerous.

And I slept with all three of them.

My phone buzzes again, and this time I grab it, desperate for a distraction from my spiraling thoughts. It's Sharon again.

Marla, seriously, call me. Something weird happened at work last night and I need to talk to you about it.

I drop the phone back onto the couch cushion. I can't talk to Sharon right now. Besides, I know what she's going to say. She's going to tell me that there are rumors going around about me.

Just like last time. Only, last time, I didn't do anything to deserve the talk. That was all Zach's doing. This time, I absolutely did.

I try to work. I really do. I open my laptop and pull up the document for my romance novel, staring at the cursor blinking on the blank page. I should be writing.

I have so much material now.

But every time I try to write, my mind drifts back to that moment outside Nick's building and how the men looked at me, as realization that they'd all slept with me seemed to dawn on them. I could be mistaken.

My overactive imagination could have seen connections that weren't there. But I don't think so.

I close the laptop and abandon any pretense of working. Instead, I pace around my cottage, moving from room to room like I'm trying to outrun my own thoughts.

It doesn't work.

The cottage is small and cozy, my safe space. But right now it feels like a cage, trapping me with my mortification and my growing understanding of just how badly I've screwed up.

The afternoon drags by with agonizing slowness. I try to read, but I can't focus on the words.

I try to watch something on my laptop, but nothing holds my attention.

I make lunch but barely eat it, my stomach too twisted with anxiety to handle food.

My phone keeps buzzing with texts from Sharon, but I ignore all of them.

I'm not ready to face whatever she wants to talk to me about.