A Kiss For Three

chapter 21

I stopped halfway down the block from Nico’s building and leaned against a lamppost. The cold metal pressed through my coat, but it helped me think. I pulled the invitation from my pocket—thick paper, pretentious gold font, Steve Wallen’s Return to New York Celebration. A party for a man who thought arrogance was an art form.

“Plus one,” I whispered to myself, flipping the card over. I could bring someone. I should have brought someone. Steve would have expected me to come alone, to look small beside his shiny new life. The idea of disappointing that expectation lit a petty little flame inside me.

The problem was—who?

It would have made sense to bring Nico. Steve had already seen us together; the optics would have driven him insane. But then there was Adrian. Leaving him out felt wrong, like breaking a pattern I hadn’t realized I was addicted to. The three of us—chaotic, mismatched, unexplainable—somehow worked.

For thirty minutes I stared at that embossed name, weighing pride and impulse, trying to imagine how each man would look beside me in a room full of judgment. The thought wouldn’t settle until it rearranged itself into something simpler.

Why choose? Why not both?

Before I could second-guess the madness of it, movement caught my eye. Nico stepped out of his apartment building, scarf tucked high, glasses perched low. Even in the daylight, he looked like he had stepped out of one of his own paintings—effortless, deliberate, impossible.

He noticed me almost instantly and smiled, warm enough to melt the chill.

“Iris,” he called. “Stalking me, or coincidence?”

“Coincidence with intent,” I said, pushing off the lamppost. “Did you have spare time for a walk with me?”

Nico chuckled softly. “I always had time for you, Iris.”

We fell into stride down the street. Leaves crunched underfoot, the air crisp with early autumn. I asked about his day, careful to avoid the topic of the gallery. He talked about sketching for a new series, something “less human, more dream.” I listened, pretending not to hear the irony.

When our steps slowed near a small park, I finally asked the question that had been sitting on my tongue since dawn.

“There’s a party,” I said, glancing at him. “Hosted by my ex and his fiancée. I got invited.”

He tilted his head, already amused. “That sounded… horrifying.”

“Oh, it got better. He was smug, rich, and just self-absorbed enough to invite me so he could gloat. I could bring a plus one.”

Nico stopped walking, eyes narrowing with interest. “You wanted me to come with you?”

“Would you?”

He snickered, shaking his head. “That wasn’t even a question. Of course.”

I blinked, surprised at how easy that was. “You did realize what you were agreeing to? It would be crawling with reporters and investors. You would have to hide your identity—probably pretend to be a museum janitor or something.”

Nico grinned. “Please, I survived critics. A party was nothing.”

I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “All right, brave soul. I’d send you the details later.”

He nodded, his eyes softening. “See you soon, Iris.”

When we parted, I caught myself smiling like a fool. It faded only when I remembered there was still one more stop.

Adrian.

The ride to his building felt longer than it should have. I sat in the lobby, surrounded by glass and chrome and people in suits who looked allergic to joy. His assistant—a too-perfect woman with red lipstick—barely glanced up from her tablet when I said I wanted to see him. She must have recognized my name, because Adrian appeared ten minutes later, descending the staircase like he owned gravity.

He looked tired but composed, his eyes sparking when he spotted me. “Iris,” he greeted, his tone equal parts surprise and warmth. “To what did I owe the pleasure?”

“Business,” I said, though my pulse betrayed me.

We moved to a quieter corner near the windows, the city stretching behind him like a painting. He studied me for a beat before smirking. “You looked like you were about to propose something illegal.”

“Close enough.” I took a breath. “There’s a party hosted by my ex-husband and his new fiancée. Everyone there would probably hate me—and anyone who showed up with me. Would you want to go?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You were serious.”

“Deadly.”

He laughed, low and genuine. “When did I ever decline fun, Iris?”

I shook my head, relieved and exasperated all at once. “You might regret saying that.”

“I never regret anything worth doing,” he said, his voice dropping a note lower. “Send me the location and time. I’ll make sure my tech-magnate face stays off the cameras.”

“Appreciated.”

We shared a smile that lingered a second too long. Then I straightened, reminding myself why I had come. “All right then. I’ll text you both details later.”

“Both?” he repeated, curiosity flashing.

“You’ll see.”

He grinned. “Now I was intrigued.”

I left before he could charm another confession out of me. The lobby’s cold air bit at my cheeks, but the warmth in my chest stayed stubbornly there.

Outside, the city buzzed with early evening—honking cars, shouting vendors, the heartbeat of somewhere that never forgave silence. I wove through the crowd, my mind a mess of strategies and impossible scenarios.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I already knew who it was before I looked.

Steve Wallen.

“So should I expect to see you at the party? Or were you planning to bail like you always do? ;)”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. The audacity hadn’t aged a day. My thumbs moved before my brain could stop them: I’ll be there.

No emoji. No warmth. Just a promise. I slid the phone back into my coat pocket and kept walking, letting the crowd carry me forward.

Two allies, one stage, and an ex who deserved every ounce of chaos coming his way. This time, I wasn’t walking into his world alone.