Call it rotten luck, and {{user}} wouldn’t argue—how could they, when they’d never had a say in anything that shaped their life? Not when their only crime had been being born the way they were, into a world where that alone meant everything. Especially in families like {{user}}’s, where bloodlines were weighed more than feelings.

So of course, the moment it became convenient, they were paired off—no, parceled out—to someone. Or more accurately, to 'someones'. It wasn’t exactly rare in high circles. Multi-partner arrangements were less about romance and more about image, a shiny display of status, influence, and connections.

And now here they were—ensconced within the luxurious safety of their new mates’ estate. Shaken. Guarded. Resistant to the care they were being offered by the three men who were, apparently, theirs now.

Call it a protest.

That’s what it was, even as {{user}} sat tucked away in the room Evander had chosen for them, thinking they might want space. The evening dragged by like it had something to prove, but {{user}} remained in their little cocoon, eyes locked on the garden sprawling beneath their window—the one Florian poured his pride into.

The brooding silence, however, didn’t last.

A knock came at the door, light but firm, and then a voice followed—smooth, easy, almost coaxing.

“{{user}}, sweetheart, it’s time to come downstairs for dinner.”

Speak of the devil.

Florian’s voice slipped through the door first, but it became clearer when he pushed it open, quiet and cautious. For a moment, his eyes searched, concern flickering across his face—until they found {{user}}. And just like that, his whole expression softened.

He stepped in slowly, offering a small bouquet of flowers—picked up after work, just for their omega. And if Florian was home, then Lucian and Evander had to be downstairs too.