“37 hours.”

“So you broke two of your rules tonight.”

“I haven’t taken Adderall yet.”

“No, but you took something.”

I don’t say anything. I wait for Frederick’s obligatory advice that arrives about now.

“You have to give something up,” he tells me. “And it shouldn’t affect your health. So start looking at things in your life that aren’t necessary.”

What would that be? Cobalt Inc. is my birthright. And the only aspiration I ever had was to get an MBA from Wharton. Is my dream not necessary?

So that leaves Rose and the reality show. They’re intertwined. To have one, I must have the other. Rose’s necessity may be called into question. One doesn’t need a partner to live. To succeed. But Rose is not something I’m ever willing to let go. Necessary or not. She’s mine.

“My life is filled with essentials,” I tell Frederick.

There’s a long, strained silence that pulls over the phone. I wait it out.

When Frederick finally speaks, he sounds a little defeated but otherwise as calm as me. “I’ll order the Adderall, but the prescription won’t be filled until tomorrow. Can you text or call when you make it back to Philly?” He must be picturing that four-car pile-up.

“Of course.”

“Okay, great.” He doesn’t sound enthused.

After a few more words, we hang up. And I assess my level of consciousness. Steady hands. Clear vision. Full attention.

I’m finally awake.

* * *

By the time I climb the brick stairs of the townhouse, the promo has already aired. So I prepare myself for what I may find. The worst case scenario: Scott has seduced Rose somehow—his arm wrapped around her while she’s in a vulnerable state.

My adrenaline is already spiked from the decongestant cocktail. Add in this unnatural fear—and my hand shakes before I turn the knob.

As soon as I open the door, my fear disintegrates into self-assurance. Scott and Rose aren’t tangled on the couch together. She’s not crying in his arms.

The living room is in an uproar. A chair is flipped over. Pillows have been thrown and scattered all along the hardwood. Rose has her heels in her hands, and she swats them at Scott like they’re swords. But she’s being restrained by both Daisy and Lily, who grip her waist, tugging her back.

I hate questioning my resolve to overcome bad odds, and I’m glad to have it back one-hundred fucking percent.

I shut the door behind me, but no one hears my entrance. Lo is too busy spewing sharp insults that bleed my ears. Rose is violently cursing, layering on expletives like cocksucker, son of a bitch, womanizer, dick, bastard, dipshit. I hear castrate five or six times.

Scott has his hands defensively in the air, his back literally up against the wall furthest from the television. But he wears the biggest self-satisfied grin.

This is drama he created.

The cameras dance around the living room. Around Ryke who clenches and unclenches his fist, one hand protectively on his brother’s shoulder. Then around my girlfriend who has completely lost her shit.

Everyone is screaming over each other.

I calmly walk straight ahead, towards the chaos. Rose slips out of her sisters’ clutch, and she takes the opportunity to lunge at Scott, her heels barred. I slide into the space between them, and the sharp point of her heel digs into my chest.

My jaw muscles spasm, the only sign that it fucking hurt.

Her eyes widen in horror, and she drops her four-inch heels immediately, the shoes clattering to the floor. And then, just as quickly, her gaze becomes hot and ill-tempered. She points an accusatory finger at Scott. “He’s a—”

“Douchebag? A pig? A fucktwat?”

She places her hands on her hips, fuming. I rub her arm, and she begins to calm. But hate is still present in her eyes.

My gaze flits between each of my friends. Their bodies begin to relax when I look at them individually, the tension in their muscles slowly loosening. Lo actually shuts his mouth, and Ryke unknowingly releases his fist.

People believe I have some sort of magic hold over others. That I can cause crowds to part without asking. All I have to do is stand at the edge of a mass and they’ll slowly, effortlessly make a path for me. I can calm the most restless soul if I choose to, and it’s not because I’m gifted with some inane supernatural ability.

My power is in my confidence.

It’s that simple.

Their belief that it’s something more—that it’s something greater—is what makes the effect so strong. They need me to be their sturdy unbending fortress.

So here I am.

“Let me watch the commercial,” I say. And then we can decide whether Scott deserves a heel to the fucking face.

I pick up Rose’s shoes while Lily retrieves the remote. Rose reaches out for them, her nose scrunching at the hardwood that’s most likely clean. But to Rose—it’s not clean enough.

There’s such malice in her features. I envision her impaling him in the eye. As much as I hate Scott—I don’t want her to blind him. So I retract my arm, keeping the heels in a firm hand. “I changed my mind.”

She gapes. “Give those back, Richard!” She doesn’t want to walk barefoot around the townhouse. Fine. I lift her easily in my arms, cradling her body, and she inhales sharply. But instead of arguing with me, she holds onto my bicep. My eyes fall to her breasts that rise with her heavy breath, and I internally smile.

I have the girl.

In my arms. Dizzy at my touch. I could have walked into something so much worse.

I carry her to the couch and set her down long-ways. She tucks her legs to the side, her dress rising to her thighs, despite her efforts to keep the hem to her knees. When I should be focused on the television, I ache to see all of her again. The curve of her waist, her erect pink nipples, her bare ass and her mouth wide and full of my cock.

She meets my gaze for a second, and we don’t have to say a single word. She knows what’s on my mind. She can see the longing in my eyes, even if everyone else can’t. She glances at my belt, and my lips rise as I take a seat next to her.

I sit so close that I can practically hear her heart pounding out of her chest. I lean over to grab the remote from Lily, and as I do so, my mouth nears Rose’s ear. And I whisper, “I’m going to tie you up again.” I smile at Lily. “Thank you.”

Her sister goes back to Lo, who’s on a chair, and she lounges against his body.

Rose is stiff, but it’s not out of fear. Her thighs press tightly together, and I rest my arm across her lap, my hand on the bareness of her leg. As I switch on the television, she scoots closer and leans her head on my shoulder, trying to relax, but I know she’s imagining my belt, her wrists, our bed.

I want to make her so wet that she begs for me—that my name is the only one on her mind, the only thing she can possibly utter. I want to hear her scream in wild, crazed ecstasy. I want her to see how perfect we are for each other—mind, body, soul. No words this time. Just actions.

“You have to rewind,” Rose tells me. She tries to reach out for the remote, but I pull it away from her grasp.

She glares. “Vous devez toujours avoir le control.” You always have to be in control.

I try to contain a larger grin. “Vous aimez quand j’ai le control.” You love when I’m in control.

Her lips tighten, but she watches me carefully the way I do her. “C’est encore à prouver.” That has yet to be proven.

I rub the smoothness of her silky leg. “Ne t’inquites pas. Bientot ca sera un fait.” Don’t worry. I’ll make it a fact soon.

“Hey,” Ryke cuts in. “No fucking French.”

“Yeah,” Lo says, “Lily wants to hear you guys talk dirty in English.” He adds a smile to his girlfriend.

She turns beet-red at his admission. “You weren’t supposed to tell them that,” she whispers, still loud enough for us to hear. But she doesn’t seem to know that. “It was a secret.”

“Aw, love, it was too good to keep.” He kisses her on the lips, and he eyes the camera for a second while his hand slips up her muscle shirt, no bra underneath. Not that she’s particularly top-heavy. Rose has the biggest breasts of her sisters and a fuller ass, wider hips. I could stare at her all day and have no problem getting hard.

I rewind to the beginning of the promo spot and press play. Everyone goes quiet as the commercial begins with all of us standing in front of a white backdrop. We shot the footage at a studio in Philly not long ago.

We were told to just act like ourselves while the cameras were rolling, and after thirty minutes of being ignored by makeup artists and gaffers, we all naturally fell into our roles. No acting required. It was real—even from me.

The commercial starts by panning down the row of seven, Scott on the end. The footage cuts to close-ups, starting from the furthest person on the right.

On screen, Daisy does a handstand, her white T-shirt falling down to reveal her bare stomach and green lacy bra. She sticks out her tongue with a playful smile. A caption appears right over her breasts.

Daredevil.

And then Ryke pushes her legs from behind, and she falls over with a laugh. On his chest, the caption scrolls the word: Jackass.

So they’re labeling us.

The thought is silenced as the promo moves quickly. Next in line are Lo and Lily. He has her tangled in his arms, and his mouth meshes against hers as they kiss hungrily, passionately, a desire so intense that it’s almost hard to watch. It seems too intimate and too personal.

At the same time, the words Sex Addict and Alcoholic float across their bodies.

And then here comes me, Rose, and Scott. Rose looks mildly pissed off, her eyes ablaze—which is normal. But she’s turned towards me, our bodies pulled together by something magnetically strong, and as I lean in to whisper in her ear, her face ignites.

I can’t even remember what I said. I could have easily disagreed with one of her favorite feminists or I could have told her that her hair was pretty.

In the video, she shoves my arm. Twice. Waiting for me to get angry like her. Wanting to provoke me.

I just grin.

The word Smartass quickly hits my body onscreen.

On the couch, right here, I hold in a laugh that no one will appreciate. But I find this so fucking amusing. And what are they going to call Scott—a womanizer? No, that’s far too kind. Maybe something like—Scumbag Motherfucking Producer (see also: Liar).

Beside her, in the commercial, Scott’s eyes fall to her breasts.

I didn’t notice that before, and any sort of amusement I felt suddenly flits away. How could I have missed that? I also didn’t notice Rose…

She glances at Scott, ever so briefly. The attention is enough for him to tilt his head and sigh.

Please, this is a load of—

And then his caption appears. Heartthrob.

I choke on a laugh. That’s five levels of ridiculous. So he’s the white knight knocking on her tower. The hero. And I’m what the one who locked her there. It’s wrong. But it’s not necessarily backwards—I’m not the hero.

I’m the king to Rose’s queen.

And then the camera begins to slowly zoom in on Rose while both Scott and I stare down at her, painting the love triangle he so desperately wanted.

Her caption pops up in big bold letters on her body.

Virgin.

I frown. Why would this upset her? Since we were fourteen, she’s never been ashamed of being a virgin. She’s never wanted other women to feel as though they have to lose it in their twenties—that holding onto your virginity post-college makes you unwanted. She’s been proud of the fact that she’s waited. Being ashamed of this now makes no sense to me. Unless she’s more pissed by being labeled something at all.

That seems right.

The promo ends with the title logo for Princesses of Philly, and below, a tagline scrolls:

Get inside the Calloway sisters this February.

It was short. Only thirty-seconds. And it’s enough to resurface hostile emotions. So I stand calmly before anyone starts screaming.