14. Ella

14

ELLA

E ight years ago, life looked a lot different for me. Obviously, considering I wasn't surrounded by four gorgeous, naked firefighters.

Back then, I was only dating one man, a man I hoped to settle down with. I craved what I considered the essentials back then—a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, a good family car, and rooms we could fill with babies. I'd had a relatively normal childhood, and although my parents weren't incredibly rich, they provided for me, ensured I grew up surrounded by joy and love. I hoped to model that in my own family. Somehow, though, all the years of completely normal upbringing could not save me from landing in a relationship with an asshole.

Not that it started out that way.

Eight Years Ago

The IHOP booth creaked softly as I squeezed into the red vinyl. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the syrup clinging to a fat stack of buttermilk pancakes like molten gold. My stomach rumbled in appreciation, the sweet aroma momentarily distracting me from the cold, hard fury simmering beneath my ribs.

Across from me, a plate boasted three perfectly crisp strips of bacon, each glistening with a sheen of grease that would make my cardiologist faint. I stabbed a forkful with a theatrical sigh, more for show than anything. My appetite had deserted me three days ago, the day the world decided to take a giant, steaming dump on my perfectly planned future.

"So," I mumbled around a mouthful of pancake, the fluffy dough momentarily silencing the storm brewing inside. "Did you catch that documentary last night?"

Mark, bless his oblivious heart, was busy drowning his hashbrowns in ketchup. "Documentary? Nah, babe. Baseball was on."

"The one about the… uh… love rat?" I pressed, the term sticking uncomfortably in my throat.

Mark finally looked up, a confused frown marring his usually sunny face. "Love rat? What love rat?"

Oh, Mark. So blissfully unaware of the emotional earthquake that had just leveled my life. "You know," I said, my voice tight, "the guy who, according to three very heartbroken women, wooed them with grand gestures, emptied their bank accounts, and then vanished into thin air, leaving them with nothing but a mountain of debt and a broken heart?"

Mark's frown deepened. "Sounds like a real jerk. But babe, why are you bringing this up?"

Because, you walking disaster of a boyfriend, that jerk happens to be you! The words burned on my tongue, but the thought of the fallout, of the tears and accusations from the other women, held me back. I couldn't bear to be the one to shatter their illusions.

"No reason," I mumbled, pushing the remaining pancake around my plate. The syrup, once so inviting, now resembled a pool of betrayal.

Mark, blissfully unaware of the emotional landmines he was navigating, reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Hey, everything alright? You seem… distant."

Distant? Try utterly devastated. But I plastered a smile on my face, the effort almost comical. "Just tired, honey. Long week."

He bought it, the dope. He leaned in for a kiss, and for a fleeting moment, I almost gave in. I almost let myself pretend that none of this had happened, that our future of picket fences and children was still intact.

But then the image of a tear-streaked woman cradling a baby with eyes that looked suspiciously like Mark's flashed in my mind. The documentary had shown interviews with the victims, and one of them, a young woman barely out of college, had clutched a wailing infant to her chest, her voice thick with choked sobs as she recounted her "whirlwind romance" with Mark.

That was it. The final nail in the coffin of our relationship and the spark that ignited a fire of righteous fury within me.

Mark pulled back, a questioning look in his eyes. "Ella? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said, my voice deceptively calm. "Absolutely nothing."

He seemed unconvinced, but before he could press further, I stood up abruptly. "Actually, I think I need some air. You finish up here."

Mark opened his mouth to protest, but I was already out the door, the cool morning air a welcome shock to my system. As I walked, a new resolve hardened within me.

Mark was a lost cause, a human black hole that sucked the joy and money out of everyone around him. But the other women? They deserved better. They deserved justice.

The criminal justice degree I was working toward suddenly felt hollow. It wouldn't help these women get their money back, wouldn't mend their broken hearts. No, I needed a different approach. A more… hands-on one.

Mark liked to take the "scenic route" home, especially late at night when the streets were deserted. It involved a detour through a cobbled alleyway tucked behind a row of trendy shops, the perfect hunting ground for the likes of him. Tonight, though, the hunter would become the hunted.

I'd spent the last week trailing his every move, mapping out his patterns and identifying his favorite late-night haunts. It seemed he had a type—young women, preferably fresh-faced and slightly naive—a perfect reflection of myself not so long ago.

Tonight would mark the end of his reign of romantic terror. I'd dressed with practicality in mind. dark jeans, running shoes built for a hasty exit, a hoodie pulled over my face. I even carried my textbooks in a backpack for good measure because hey, even a vigilante needs to accessorize.

He appeared as if conjured by my sheer force of will—slinking out of a dimly lit wine bar, a slightly unsteady blonde with an adoring smile hanging on his arm. Fury flared through me, and I took a steadying breath. This was for her, and for all the others.

"Marky," I trilled, stepping out from the shadows and relishing the way he almost jumped out of his skin. "Fancy meeting you here."

The blonde was staring at me with wide, confused eyes. "Babe, who?—"

I didn't let him finish. With a speed born of pure, righteous anger, I lunged forward, connecting my palm with his cheek in a resounding slap. It was like a scene from a badly written soap opera, only this was real. This was raw.

Mark stumbled back, a hand cradling his face. "Ella? What the hell?"

"What the hell?" I echoed, my voice dripping with venom. "That's what I should be asking, you lying, manipulative piece of …" I trailed off, unable to find a word strong enough to encompass the sheer depth of his betrayal.

The blonde, bless her heart, was finally connecting the dots. Her mouth formed an 'O' of shocked realization, and I braced myself for the inevitable waterworks.

Mark, suddenly the picture of smooth-talking desperation, was scrambling for words. "Honey, this isn't what it looks like. We can explain!"

And that's when I brandished Exhibit A, a hefty binder crammed with printouts of bank statements, emails, and screenshots of Mark's very sweet, very scammy conversations with half the female population of the city.

The blonde paled, her eyes darting from Mark to the binder and back. When she spoke, her voice trembled with disbelief. "Is… is any of this true?"

Mark had turned an alarming shade of puce. "Babe, come on, it's not?—"

He didn't get to finish. The blonde, in a remarkable display of newfound spine, snatched her purse from him and stormed off, high heels clacking defiantly in the silence.

Mark turned to me, his voice a pathetic whine. "Ella, this wasn't supposed to happen! It's different with you, I swear!"

I narrowed my eyes. "Different with me? Funny, I was under the impression that draining my student savings account until my credit card was about to explode was just a quirky first-date thing you did."

He was silent, and I took grim satisfaction in it. My anger had simmered down, leaving a cold emptiness in its wake. This wasn't about revenge anymore. It was about closing a chapter, about setting things right in my own twisted, vigilante way. With a shrug, I tossed my binder at his feet. "Consider this your parting gift."

I turned and walked away, leaving him hunched over in the semi-darkness, his little empire of deceit crumbling at his feet.

The next day, I walked into the local college and changed my major. Yes, my dreams of a career in law enforcement had been shattered, but I knew I could put my skills to use in helping children, in loving them the way my parents had taught me.

I still meant to serve justice. I'd just do it my way.

The Present Day

I lie sprawled across a tangle of sheets, a warm, sated cat amid a gloriously disheveled bed.

The lingering scent of sex hangs in the air, a heady mix of sweat and something more primal, something uniquely us. Everyone is huddled together in various states of undress.

I can't believe my luck. Four men, all extraordinary in their own right, all currently focused on me.

Marcus leans close, his dark eyes crinkled in a concerned frown. "You good, sweetheart?" His voice is low, almost a rumble, and it sends a shiver down my spine despite the room being comfortably warm.

I blink a few times, trying to refocus. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fantastic. Why wouldn't I be?" I attempt a nonchalant shrug, but it's a sorry imitation under the weight of their combined gazes.

Ethan, my gentle giant, sits up, a single sheet draped artistically across his broad chest. "Because, Ella," he starts, a hint of amusement in his voice, "even with all our combined stamina, that was… well, intense."

Theo, all golden skin and tousled hair, snorts indelicately. "Intense? Dude, that was like a nuclear meltdown with a side order of fireworks for the grand finale." He shoots me a wicked grin, and a familiar blush creeps up my neck.

Will, the quietest of the four, reaches out, his touch featherlight on my bare arm. "Hey, no pressure," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, "But if that was too much, we can dial it back, you know."

His words land with a soft thump against the bruised tenderness of my heart. Too much? No, not physically. In fact, physically, I could happily stay here forever, tangled up with these four incredible men who make my body sing like nothing else ever has.

But emotionally? Well, that's a different story altogether. Relationships are messy, complicated things, and I'm about as good at navigating them as a hamster would be at solving differential equations.

"Guys," I begin, the words catching slightly in my throat. I force myself to meet each of their gazes, needing them to understand. "This… whatever this is… it's amazing. More than amazing." I spread my arms out, encompassing the chaos of the bedroom, the lingering energy. "But it's also…"

"Not a relationship," Marcus finishes, his voice surprisingly gentle. He leans back against the headboard, his expression thoughtful. "Trust me, I get it. More than you know."

There's a flicker of pain in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse of shadows that I suspect mirror my own. We don't talk about the past, about the emotional scars we both carry. We don't have to.

Theo clears his throat, his usual easygoing smile replaced by something more tentative. "Honestly, Ella, coming out of… well, let's just say a messy situation myself, the last thing I want is complications."

Ethan's rumble of agreement echoes around the room, followed by Will's quiet nod.

Relief washes over me, a sweet wave against the bittersweet ache lingering in my chest. "So… what?" I offer a half-hearted shrug, "We just… do this? Whenever? As long as it feels good?"

Marcus grins, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. "Sweetheart, if it were just about feeling good, we wouldn't get out of this bed for a week."

A ripple of laughter fills the room, easing the tension that had threatened to settle. These men, my four impossibly handsome, understanding men, they make something inside me unwind, a knot I didn't even know was there.

"If we're being honest," Will finally says, his voice thoughtful, "This is kinda perfect, right? The best parts without the, uh… baggage."

I tilt my head, considering. "Yeah," I murmur, the word tasting sweet on my tongue. "Perfect might just be the word for it."

"Hey, Marcus." Will's voice cuts through my languid thoughts. "You okay if I order us some pizza? I'm starving."

Marcus is absently thumbing through something on his phone. "Yeah, sure, man, whatever. Just get one with extra pineapple. Ella and I love that stuff."

I make a dramatic gagging noise, earning a playful swat on the arm from Marcus.

Theo snorts. "Dude, pineapple on pizza? That's a crime against humanity."

Marcus suddenly lets out a low chuckle, his eyes fixed on his phone screen. "Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in."

Ethan leans over curiously. "What's up?"

Marcus holds up his phone, and my stomach plummets. It's a picture of Vanessa, his ex-wife, scantily clad and perched on a barstool, a half-empty cocktail clutched in one perfectly manicured hand. Her smile is calculated, and the caption screams thirsty.

"Apparently, Vanessa's discovered the healing power of tequila and midriff tops," Marcus murmurs, his tone laced with a dry amusement that doesn't quite mask the flash of something darker in his eyes.

I stiffen, any trace of the earlier mellow warmth evaporating.

Will, sensing the shift in mood, nudges Marcus playfully. "Dude, come on, it's just a photo. Don't let her ruin our vibe."

"Yeah," Theo adds, flashing a blinding grin. "Who needs midriff tops when you've got… well, this!"

Their easy attempts at distraction are appreciated, but Vanessa's sudden reappearance has thrown a wrench into the works. My pulse quickens with an uneasy mix of protectiveness toward Marcus and a simmering annoyance at the intrusive image that dared disrupt our sanctuary.

Just as I'm about to voice a suitably sarcastic comment, the doorbell rings, its shrill sound slicing through the air. We all freeze, our collective breath held in silent anticipation. It can't be the pizza guy. It's way too early.

Marcus stands, a flicker of tension crossing his handsome features. "That's probably… uh… just an unexpected guest."

Ethan raises a skeptical eyebrow. He gets up from the bed and drapes a robe over himself so he can go downstairs. When he comes back, he doesn't look happy. "Well," he begins with a delicate cough. "That would be the devil herself."

Theo's brow quirks. "Don't tell me it's tequila-soaked, midriff-baring?—"

"Hell no," Marcus grunts, cutting him off. He gets up to get dressed. Then, with a resigned sigh, he heads downstairs toward the door, throwing me an apologetic look over his shoulder.

Something green erupts inside my chest.

This isn't love , I remind myself. Then why? Why am I jealous?