Soulmates & Twin Flames [a spicy, billionaire love triangle +18]

1 - A Fun Ride

Don't wear combat boots in summer—even if you're hiding them under a green ball gown that's long enough to cover your feet. No bet is worth this torture. Seriously, why did I agree to such a ridiculous dare?

It's not about the money. Our bets with Olga are never about the money; they're about the humiliation. One drunken night, we thought it'd be funny if I wore these boots every day in August, and if I did, Olga would have to march through Times Square in nothing but the boots and a giant I LOST sign.

At the time, the idea of seeing her butt naked and miserable seemed hilarious. But now, I'm the one who's suffering!

"One more night," I mutter, slamming open the terrace doors. One more freaking night, and the bet will finally be over. I just wish tonight had turned out a little differently.

Stupid, two-faced, entitled producers...

They woke me up at 3 a.m. a week ago, demanding I edit a twenty-minute-long scene for this movie gala. Urgently. Then I come here and find out they scrapped my work at the last minute. Why? Because some junior messed up cast releases, and they can't screen any shots with the actors who signed the wrong waiver.

All those sleepless nights, hours of perfecting zombie makeup, and timing that majestic bus explosion? Gone. Just like that. Poof!

I grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter and take a long swig. My feet have blisters from the stupid boots, and the bust of this strapless, A-line dress is squeezing the life out of me.

I near the edge of the terrace for a breath. The dust rising from the evening traffic stings, but I'll take it. I'll take this gritty, sewer-scented air. I'll take anything to put out the fire in my chest, my feet, and my face.

I shuffle my bangs and turn back, sipping more champagne. The cold fizz slides down my throat, and somehow, helps me breathe.

Beyond the terrace's doors, two men in tuxedos stand under a crystal chandelier in the grand foyer.

Why aren't they watching the movie with everyone else?

Are they actors? They can't be. One of them is too short—maybe five foot nine—and the other doesn't have the kind of facial symmetry the cameras adore. Still, they both look pretty hot from where I'm standing.

The shorter one takes out a velvet box, shakes it, and flips it open with a frown. The tall, muscular one pats the other's arm and gives his shoulders an encouraging shake.

I wish I could hear them. Looks like Mr. Muscle is prepping Frowny Face for war or something. I lower my glass as the shorter one stares at the box, then straightens up when Mr. Muscle punches his jaw playfully in slow motion.

It's been a while since someone touched me—and I don't mean intimately. A human touch, like the way Frowny slaps Muscle's cheek in a brotherly manner. My cheek, my hand, my hair...

I'm in a drought.

My last relationship ended six years ago, the moment I graduated from high school. The breakup was messy and brutal—the kind that leaves you on the floor like a stain on a carpet. The kind that makes you feel like a dust ball, swept and piled into a corner.

Don't get me wrong, I went out with all sorts of guys later on. College was fun, but that's all it was. Meaningless fun.

I've been on dating apps, the most exclusive ones, swiping left and right. Although I matched with some pretty hot guys, we never had a spark when we met. I can't bring myself to touch those apps anymore.

I put my faith in astrology, flipping through horoscopes, waiting for the stars to align and lead me to the one. I've read countless articles about soulmates, twin flames, fated souls and cosmic connections supposedly happening out there in the universe.