Modern Romance

by olivieblake

Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. Each week, a new episode unfolds in the lives of the Wizarding World's elite. Multiple pairings, post-war, EWE. COMPLETE.

11. The Beauty

Episode XI: The Insincere Beauty Who's Never Been Good at Decisions

Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. This week, a young heiress with too many love affairs is forced to confront her truths: 21, female, straight, married (and then some).

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DAY ONE

7:30 a.m.: I'm staring. I know I'm staring. And it's odd, really, because I'm normally the sort of person other people stare at. Maybe it's not very humble to admit as much, but I don't see the point in pretending. The truth is, very simply, that I'm accustomed to feeling eyes on me. It's been this way since I was a pretty child, and then an attractive girl, and now a beautiful woman. I know my own beauty the same way I know I have one sister, and a Sacred Twenty-Eight fortune split between us both; it's a fact, as concrete as knowing that I detest small talk and bite my nails when no one's looking. I know that I'm beautiful. I know that people look at me and see something rare and valuable and lovely, so I have always let them look. They take nothing from me by looking. But now I am looking at his face, and I wonder now if this is how people feel when they look at me. I wonder if their chests tighten like this, or if the recognition of what I am floods them the same way my adoration of his face floods me; if they feel their hearts stop for having seen me, like I feel when I look at him. Foolishly, I feel like my blood could very well burst from my veins, or that the world could simply collapse to a halt, and I would keep on looking at his face.

7:31 a.m.: "Good morning," he says quietly, and today, everything about him is quiet; the lines of his face are elegant and smooth, and he's older than I am—over a decade, in fact—but the maturity in his expression is quiet, too. His hands quietly trace my cheek, my lips, my jaw. They slide down my neck and I catch his fingers just as they fall still between my breasts, settling over my pounding heart. I swallow, and I know he feels it. If he's noticed me staring, though, he doesn't say anything about it. He probably knows he is handsome just as unequivocally as I know that I'm beautiful. We're a strikingly attractive couple, and I would have known this even if he hadn't fucked me in front of the mirror last night (though yes, fine, I know it better now). I look at him and he looks at me, and I can feel that shiver of excitement that means he's going to touch me again; he's going to love me the way that he does, like a goddamn fever. Like a fucking curse—and I welcome it, opening my arms to him as he rolls my onto my back and kisses my neck.

7:35 a.m.: I love the way he holds me; close. Safe. A little possessively, like he might fight someone else who dared to try. We should be tired (so tired, actually, after hours and hours of this—of him, of me, of heat and sweat and out-of-breath, out-of-our-minds euphoria) but I want nothing more than to have him again. For a while it's just friction; it's his hips against mine, his stubble against my cheek just—just there, just near my lips, just just just tantalizingly out of reach when I tip my chin up for his kiss—with our hands traveling over each other like don't let go don't let go don't let go. It's the way my teeth scrape against his neck, or how he leaves red marks on my hips where his fingers have been. There's a place just in-between sharing space and having sex, and I want to make a home in it. I want to live here, in the place between affection and want. It feels dangerous here, like a precipice, and I love the threat of falling.

7:43 a.m.: Inevitably it turns to sex, once I'm begging for him and I know he's gritting his teeth, grinding his desperation down to a tiny hiss of satisfaction at the feel of me. Really, this feels like the least of it. Sex is the easiest thing in the world, isn't it? I remember my mother telling me to guard my virtue far more often than she ever warned me to guard my heart, and honestly, I think the opposite should have been true. If I ever have a pretty daughter, I'll tell her that her heart is the one thing that's just for her. She shouldn't give it away like I do, letting it slip between my lips in promises I can't afford to make. I hope she looks at me and sees me for the fool I am, though she probably won't. I am excellent at pretend.

7:50 a.m.: Sex, at least, is authentic. I am authentically driven to incoherence, letting him flip me onto my stomach and coax my hips up so that he can fuck me from behind, one hand firmly on my clit. I turn and watch his face while he does this and I know my gaze is serene, mentally tracing the scars on his cheeks; the little burdened crevices that I swear I can still feel under my fingers sometimes when I fall asleep at night. He is imperfect and beautiful. He's like those sunsets that are the wrong colors—the ones that are too red, or too purple, just that strange, hazy corruption of sky—that you can't help but look at, that you nudge the person next to you and say look at the sky, look at it! and then you both turn and stare. He's a technicolor sun. When I come, still looking at his face, it's nearly blinding.

8:17 a.m.: "I have to go home," I whisper to him when we're back in each other's arms, my fingers curled indolently into the spot where his pulse skips against mine. "I know," he says, and kisses my knuckles. "My brother needs to see me today," he adds, and I note that he seems somewhat anxious about it. I'd frown, but nobody wants to see me frowning. That's another thing my mother always told me: a smile is a valuable commodity. That, and a facade is always more desirable than the truth. "Will you miss me?" I whisper to him, running my hands along his torso so he'll remember this moment with the accent of my touch, and his blue eyes meet mine. "Ferociously," he says, flashing me a wolfish grin before he brings my lips to his.

8:37 a.m.: I make him coffee and eggs before I leave. This is habit, mostly. I have this reflex, this itch to please; also, I'm a very good cook, and I take quite a lot of validation from knowing I've done something right (as I assume most people do), so I always choose that over inaction. "Delicious," he declares, kissing me soundly, and then I turn to the Floo, taking a deep breath before I step through it.

8:41 a.m.: The man I just left is not my husband. I'll call him Paris, and he is married to a woman who is not me. My actual husband looks up as I enter, sparing me a thoughtful glance. "Good morning," he says, and he doesn't look upset; actually, he looks pleased to see me, and as strange as the circumstances may be, I'm rather pleased to see him. "I didn't expect you to stay the night with him," my husband says, and I sigh. "I didn't mean to," I admit, "but I was tired, and—" He casually holds up a hand. "You don't owe me an explanation," he says, though I don't know if I agree.

8:43 a.m.: I wander over, settling myself in my husband's lap, and he wraps his arms around my waist. He's reading the newspaper—an article about the Quidditch World Cup, which is apparently a thing that's happening again—but he easily shifts his attention to me, which is one of the reasons I might love him. It's easy for me to get his attention, which is nice. "Did you enjoy yourself?" he asks me. I'll call him Odysseus. "I did," I say, "but I can stop, if you want me to." He shakes his head. "Clearly we're never going to have something conventional," he tells me, "but if you're happy, I'm happy." I'd wonder if that's true, but I doubt he'd tell me either way. The truth doesn't exactly come naturally to him, which I find to be a perfectly reasonable weakness. Instead of pressing the issue, I take a sip of his coffee. "What do you think," Odysseus suggests slowly, "about having Ajax over again tomorrow night?"

8:50 a.m.: Ajax is… well, he's difficult to explain. I'll save it for a better time. "Yes," I say firmly, "I'd like that." Odysseus looks pleased. "Good," he says, and tilts his chin up. I kiss him. It feels comfortable, and I'm sitting in his lap, so we kiss for a bit. There's a little bit of tongue involved, a little extra motion from our hips, but we both know this isn't going anywhere. He swallows, pulling away slightly, and clears his throat. "Hungry?" I ask. The corners of his mouth tilt upwards. "Starving," he says.

10:15 a.m.: I take considerably more time with this one; largely because this is a meal for my husband, and also because I do feel a bit like I owe him. He says he's fine with me waltzing in this morning without warning, but I can't say that I would react the same way, personally. Actually, I know I would react terribly, so the meal I end up crafting is very much an apology. The truth is that I've been with Paris several times over the past week while his wife has been visiting her sister in Bordeaux (don't worry, she knows about me—I'm not a monster). I haven't stayed the night before, though, and admittedly, this comes at a very inopportune time, considering that Odysseus and I are still in a fairly early stage of making our tentative marital arrangements work. In sum, I do feel bad. Considerably bad. Bad enough, in fact, that I make a brunch spread fit for a king. "Fuck," announces Odysseus, impressed. He kisses my cheek, enthusiastically reaching for the Eggs Florentine with baby spinach and goat cheese, and I immediately feel better.

12:15 p.m.: I set a few expert cleaning spells to work in the kitchen and sit down, realizing now how tired I am. I reach up reflexively, checking for any evidence of swelling under my eyes; I must look terrible. Ajax is coming tomorrow. I should really apply some beauty charms before he gets here, or at least try to sleep.

1:20 p.m.: I doze off for a bit. I don't have much going on, as you might have guessed. I'm a wealthy pureblood heiress married to a wealthy pureblood heir, so we have plenty of money and no need to work. Paris, unlike us, works at Gringotts, doing something or other. I'm never quite sure. I think he's a curse breaker? Needless to say, he doesn't discuss his occupation much (unsurprising, given that we met as the result of being matched by Wandr at a swingers' party my best friend talked me into). Given my station, I've never really been with men who've had to work. Odysseus is part of a recreational quidditch league. Ajax is… I don't actually know what Ajax does, which probably means it's nothing. My first love doesn't do anything either. Well, I shouldn't say that. We were together at Hogwarts and then I was engaged to Odysseus, so I don't really know what he does now. We agreed not to speak after we were forced to break up; too painful. My chest hurts thinking of him and I shove it aside.

1:35 p.m.: I'll call my ex Achilles. But that's all I'm saying about him.

2:15 p.m.: Achilles is a pureblood also. His father was a war criminal, though, so he's the bad kind of pureblood, as my mother told me repeatedly when she warned me I couldn't have him. Ouch; that memory, like many of my memories of him, burns a little. I should think about what to make for dinner.

3:35 p.m.: Achilles loved me before I could cook. Before I could do much of anything. Before I was very good at sex, actually. Before—fuck. Fuck. Fuck, ouch. Lamb? No, Odysseus doesn't care much for lamb. Maybe a stew. No, if I make a stew, then it'll just—stew. I need to make something that requires constant vigilance. No, don't, that's something Achilles would joke about. Constant vigilance. Stop. Fuck, ouch. Béchamel? Yes, something with béchamel. Stirring. Frequent stirring. That's something I can do.

4:05 p.m.: I'm spiraling, clearly, so I toss some emerald powder in the Floo and call my best friend, whom I'll call Cassandra. "Hi," she says, seeing directly through my smile and leaping gracefully to concern. "Everything okay?"

4:10 p.m.: "Spiraling," I say. "Ah," she agrees, "been there myself lately." "What, the depraved spiral?" I ask. "No, the lonely one," she says. "Loneliness isn't exactly my problem at the moment," I exhale at a grumble, before admitting that I spent the night with Paris. Cassandra's lips purse slightly; disapproval comes naturally to her. She doesn't know who Paris is, only that he's a married man and I'm sleeping with him. Personally, I think it's better that she doesn't know the details, especially since she's quietly in love with Paris' youngest brother and still refusing to admit it. "So, why the spiral?" Cassandra asks, thoughtfully chewing on a macaron, and I shrug. "I miss him," I say, and she knows I mean Achilles. "Maybe you don't actually miss him," she suggests, kindly not reminding me that I was the one who chose my parents' wishes over him, "and you just miss what you had with him." I think about it. "Does that actually help?" I ask, and she shrugs. "It's shitty," she says, and I know what she means: nothing will help, but she's trying. "I love you," I sigh, and she nods. "I love you," she replies. We both end the call, agreeing to see each other later this week.

6:30 p.m.: "Wow," Odysseus exhales, looking at the dinner plate I've levitated over to him. "You outdid yourself," he says, and looks up at me. He's not unattractive; actually, I think if he weren't mostly interested in men we'd have a fully healthy sex life. He's dark-haired and tall and there's always been a shadow of something sort of coiled and ruthless to him pitched just under his cheekbones, but I like it. It gives me something interesting to look at, which is nice. I press a kiss to his angry jaw, which always softens for me. "It was nothing," I say, with the added flourish of a practiced smile.

8:30 p.m.: Would I prefer to be ending the night with Paris? Hard to say. Space and time feel very different with him. When he's with me, he's all I think about—but now, lying in bed next to Odysseus, I'm not unhappy. I suppose it helps knowing that I can never have Paris. It can never be real, so why should I lend any thoughts to it? Instead I curl up in Odysseus' arms, meditating on the sound of his breathing. He seems sad lately, though I don't really know how to put a finger on why.

9:05 p.m.: He kisses the top of my head and flicks his wand, turning off the lights. "I love you," he says quietly, and I think it's mostly something he wants to make a habit; sort of like he's going to keep saying it until he believes it. Still, I don't mind. It's a much kinder offering than it sounds, and I think I know what it costs him. "I love you too," I say.

9:35 p.m.: I don't fall asleep right away. Something's bothering Paris, something's bothering Odysseus, and I think something's bothering me. Maybe Cassandra's right about me missing what I had with Achilles more than the man himself. He and I used to talk until we dozed off, usually about nothing. I had no secrets from Achilles, and I technically have no secrets now, either, but it doesn't feel as open as it was with him. It still feels like I'm trying to make something work instead of it just …working.

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DAY TWO

6:04 a.m.: Odysseus wakes me briefly when he slips out of bed, searching in the dark for his trainers. "Sorry," he whispers to me, brushing his lips against my forehead. "Just going for—" "A run, I know," I tell him sleepily, absently patting his back. He's been at this for weeks now, though I'm not sure what got into him to begin with. "Go," I yawn, immediately falling back asleep.

6:45 a.m.: I'm not a total waste of space, okay? When I wake up again, I tidy up our bedroom and head downstairs to have breakfast ready for Odysseus when he returns. I prefer cooking to baking, but the croissants aren't bad. I sample one and leave the rest for him.

7:15 a.m.: Odysseus left the Daily Prophet out on the quidditch page, which doesn't interest me. I glance listlessly over it and then decide to entertain myself by owling Paris, who's probably getting ready for work around now. 'Good morning,' I say.

7:35 a.m.: 'Good morning, beautiful,' he replies, asking me if I have plans for the day. I don't really want to tell him about Ajax, so I skirt the question and reply with an innocent claim to nothing. 'And you?' I write.

7:42 a.m.: 'I have some things to take care of with my brother—the dragonologist in Romania,' he says—which is a highly necessary clarification, seeing as he has more brothers than anyone I've ever met—'so I'll be busy for a couple of days.' I'm disappointed to hear it, but he must have known I would be, seeing how he reassures me quickly. 'As soon as this is over I want to see you,' he promises, and asks, 'Friday?' I send him back a note agreeing without hesitation just as Odysseus comes in the door.

7:50 a.m.: "Oh, for fuck's sake," he says with what I think is affection, picking up a croissant and tearing it in two. "Jesus Christ," he declares approvingly, and kisses me brusquely on the mouth before putting one half in his mouth. He smells like sweat and grass and manly things, and I think I'd fuck him right now if I didn't know perfectly well it wouldn't work. He'd rather have my croissant in his mouth than my pussy, and that's fine. It's fine. Everything's fine here—or at least it will be, once Ajax gets here.

12:34 p.m.: Is it strange to spend all day cleaning the house in advance of a threesome? Granted, I was brought up to revel in my own theatricalities—nothing is perfect, my mother always said, but any witch worth her wand can create the illusion of perfection with ease—but even to me, this feels foolish. A bit like I'm trying to distract myself, and maybe I am. Before Paris was in my life, I was focused on Odysseus. I hadn't known his sexual preferences then, and the entire fixation of my day-to-day life was how to land my own husband in bed, which was not something I'd ever struggled with before. Now, of course, I still have Odysseus to think about, but not so much to worry over. I'm a worrier by nature, though. I like to worry. I think all pretty girls are worriers in some way or another, actually. We know better than to trust something that only looks unblemished. So now, of course, I worry about Paris; I worry about what happens if the things I feel for him are feelings. You know, above the waist feelings. In my heart, or something. That, and I worry about whether Ajax will like the sheets I picked out for him.

2:45 p.m.: The house is clean and the food is marinating, so I stop by Odysseus' amateur league game. I think he likes it when I'm here, whether he admits it or not. I can see Ajax playing keeper, though we don't make eye contact. I think we like it better that way; the thrill of having the secret.

3:15 p.m.: Odysseus scores handily and across the pitch, Ajax whoops. I clap politely, catching the look of inextricable focus on my husband's face. I can tell that this is where he's most at home, which I suppose explains why he's always up-to-date on the World Cup. Odysseus is fierce and determined, and he shouts something at Ajax, telling him to pay attention. It's amazing that either of them is involved in any way with the other, seeing as Odysseus has his serious face on while Ajax is carelessly showboating in front of the rings. It's a bit like watching Hades admonish Zeus.

3:20 p.m.: Ajax wipes some sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt, briefly flashing the toned expanse of his torso. Similarly, Odysseus launches the quaffle across the field, showcasing the muscle in his arm. They both look at me, and I bite back a smile. I have no idea who's winning this game, but I suspect it might be me.

5:29 p.m.: By the time I get home to finish getting dinner on the table, I've managed to shove Paris into one of the vacant corners of my mind. Yes, I miss him, I know that much is true; and yes, sometimes I wonder if I would choose to spend the night with him if I could, but it doesn't seem worth thinking about. I can't, obviously—he's busy, I'm busy, and anyway, it's impossible—and what does it matter? Tonight is for Ajax and Odysseus, so I nudge any spare thoughts of Paris aside.

6:27 p.m.: "Ready?" Odysseus asks me when he comes down the stairs, freshly showered. He's tense in his particularly focused way, the same way he looks before a quidditch game. He smells like cedar and laundry, fresh and clean. "Of course," I reply, letting him kiss my cheek as we both glance expectantly at the Floo.

6:29 p.m.: As the subject of our entertainment walks in through the fireplace, I think once again that there's something very princely about Ajax. I'd say kingly, but it's much too smug for that—too youthful, even if he's only a year older than me. Ajax is a spoiled, golden prince with a bold little smirk of a smile, and though I would hardly have chosen him for myself, I'm upsettingly weak-kneed at the sight of him. Even Odysseus is having trouble pretending not to care, which is something he normally excels at doing when it comes to other people.

6:30 p.m.: "Hi," Ajax says, and catches me around the waist, bending to brush his lips against mine before sending me staggering backwards into Odysseus' chest. "Hi," I reply, and Odysseus' fingers close around my shoulders. "Dinner?" Odysseus asks neutrally, and Ajax gives us both his royal smirk. "No," he replies, his hands dropping to the buttons of his shirt, stripping it from his broad shoulders and then letting it fall to the ground. "Shall we?" Ajax asks, holding his hand out for mine. What a fucking tyrant. "Get on your knees," I say, and I can tell without looking that Odysseus is pleased. I'm not normally that type of girl, but my proclivity for pretend is endless. "Perfect answer," Odysseus whispers in my ear, and Ajax gives me another satisfied smirk, lowering himself in front of me.

6:35 p.m.: Ajax is Odysseus' boyfriend. Well, he's our boyfriend, which continues to be an insane thing to say. It sounds better when Cassandra says it, mostly because she has no shame and a lot of curiosity. I'm curious too, but I'm far more fussed about appearances. From his knees, Ajax trails my skirt up, drawing his hand up the back of my calf and then up to my thigh, where he turns his head to slide his lips against the curve of it. He leans back, looking up at me. "Take her dress off," Ajax says to Odysseus. "Fuck off," Odysseus says lazily, but I feel the zipper come loose behind me. In the same motion that my dress falls to the floor, Ajax is on his feet, his lips on mine. If I could speak, I'd tell him I didn't say he could stand, but he's an outrageously talented kisser. He slides his tongue against mine just as I register my knickers being slid down my legs by my husband. "Miss me?" Ajax breathes into my mouth. I inhale sharply, feeling Odysseus' tongue on my cunt from behind. "Yes," I admit, swallowing hard.

6:41 p.m.: While Ajax kisses me, urgent and frantic, Odysseus widens my legs, fucking me with his tongue. My legs start to shake sooner than I would like, especially when Ajax slides his hands under my bra and drags his thumb over my nipples, prompting me to shudder. Odysseus seems to feel it; between the three of us, our rhythm is getting better. Odysseus gets up from his knees, wrapping his hand loosely around my throat, and turns my head towards his, taking Ajax's place and growling a little between my lips. I realize that the growl is because Ajax has reached over, sliding his hand into Odysseus' trousers. Odysseus groans his approval into my mouth, and this is positively sinful. I delight internally in my den of vice.

6:48 p.m.: I take a step back, removing my bra and leaving my stiletto heels, and in my absence Ajax tears Odysseus' shirt off as Odysseus tugs gracelessly at Ajax's trousers. When Odysseus kisses Ajax, I can see how much they've wanted it; it must have been torture, I realize, being on the pitch together and knowing this had to wait until tonight. For a moment, I'm so dazed I just stop, watching each of their hands travelling the paths of the other's muscle.

6:52 p.m.: It's beautiful to watch them together; I'm entranced. I see something real when Odysseus touches Ajax, and when Ajax leans in for his touch. Do they see anything when one or the other is touching me? After all, I've been in love before, and in my experience, love looks like two people. Two people, in fact, who touch each other like this. For a moment my chest tightens—I think of Achilles first, and then of Paris—but Ajax and Odysseus turn expectantly towards me, holding their hands out. I take both proffered hands, and Odysseus apparates us into our bedroom.

6:55 p.m.: It's different now, faster, and the whole rhythm of everything changes. I push Odysseus back onto the bed, climbing up after him, and gladly kiss my way down his torso, dragging my nails across his chest. His cock is hard, obviously, which I register with a momentary flinch is something I can't accomplish on my own, but I shove the thought aside to take him in my mouth, satisfied by his full-bodied shudder. Behind me, Ajax lines his hips up with mine, his fingers sliding forward to cup my cunt with one hand. I grind against him a little, still careful to focus on the shape of Odysseus' cock against my tongue, and then Ajax slides into me with a groan. He feels incredible, like he always does. I groan then, too, and Odysseus hisses a little from the vibration from my throat. I look up at him. He looks down at me, and then up at Ajax, who has his teeth on my neck. Odysseus shudders. I lean back, knowing he'll come soon if I don't stop, and Ajax takes hold of my leg, sitting me back further on his lap. Odysseus adjusts to lean down, sliding his tongue against my clit, and fuck, this is bliss. At this point, it's positively astounding to me that sex with one man ever feels worth doing.

7:15 p.m.: I come, hard, and Ajax releases me, laying me back almost gently against the bed. He permits Odysseus to take hold of his jaw, dragging him forward for a kiss, and again, I stop to watch them. They're attractive, youthful. They're both older than me, true, but they're athletic and lined with bruises and scars, and it's strangely erotic just to look at them. I can see the pebbled gooseflesh on Ajax's arms while Odysseus kisses him. I wonder whether the sex is better for them with me here. I worry, because of course I do. I'm a worrier, and this is just one of many helpless worries, though I'm relieved when Ajax turns to me. God, he's handsome. He's so handsome and smug and I ache for him, and for the way Odysseus' fingers dig into his hips. It's all indistinguishable wanting at this point, and I hear the desperation in my own voice when Ajax slides into me again, spreading my legs wide.

7:34 p.m.: Odysseus mumbles a spell and then I watch Ajax's eyes fall shut and his mouth drop open as Odysseus slides into him. The rhythm shifts again; it's slower now, but each motion is perfect. The sweat under my palms as it drips down Ajax's sculpted chest is perfect. The tightness in Ajax's jaw, the way Odysseus' tongue slides up the side of Ajax's neck, the pounding of my heart as I watch my husband convulse with pleasure—perfect. I come just as Ajax does, the sound of his choked-out sputter slipping between gritted teeth, and the last sound before we collapse together is a quiet sigh that leaves my lips: yes, I say, and I think all three of us feel it.

8:03 p.m.: For several minutes, none of us move. I buck my hips against my husband's, waking him from a half-sleeping trance. "Dinner," I remind him firmly, and Ajax, spoiled prince that he is, leaps to his feet. "I'm STARVING," he announces, not bothering to cover himself as he bounds down the stairs.

8:05 p.m.: Instead of getting up right away, though, Odysseus strokes my arm, clearly thinking about something. "What is it?" I ask, tilting my chin up to look at him, and he kisses me softly. "I like this," he says. I notice he doesn't say I love this or I need this, but still, it seems like something of fairly considerable magnitude. Like he just wants me to know that he's happy. "Me too," I say, because I am. He nods, kisses me again, and then looks around the room. "Where the buggering fuck are my boxers?" he demands, and I giggle.

8:15 p.m.: Ajax is standing in the kitchen, eating my bucatini all'Amatriciana right out of the serving dish. I sigh and he turns, catching my eye. "Wine?" he asks. I point to the bottle behind him. "I fucking adore you," he says firmly, reaching forward to smack a kiss against my cheek.

9:24 p.m.: Conversation is easy enough. Odysseus is actually pretty funny, especially when he's with Ajax, who seems to inflame all of his sensibilities. For a man who's just had a threesome, Odysseus is hilariously conservative, and Ajax delights in pushing his buttons. I laugh into my pasta, but pretty soon we're each three glasses in and Ajax's lips are on mine again. Odysseus tugs at my robe, which pools at my feet. By the time Ajax is licking my pussy on the kitchen floor, I'm full and half-drunk and too delirious to move.

9:31 p.m.: "I want to watch you two," I say, propping myself upright after I've come with a strangled yelp from Ajax's fingers diving expertly into me. Odysseus frowns, hesitating, but Ajax shrugs. "Okay," he says, and drags Odysseus down to the floor.

9:38 p.m.: It's so manly when they kiss. It's all stubble and cheekbones and chiseled jaws, and it's rough and firm and inescapable. Odysseus rolls Ajax onto his back, apparently not taking much care to prevent Ajax from bruising his shoulder, and then he curls his fingers around Ajax's shaft, looking up at me. I lock eyes with him, curious, and reach up for the wine bottle on the counter; this is a show, and I plan to enjoy it. I take a sip straight from the bottle, waiting, and Odysseus' smile quirks ever so slightly as Ajax lets out a groan.

9:47 p.m.: I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I don't know, maybe I was waiting for something truly pornographic, but it isn't. Not really. It's Odysseus' hands tightening in Ajax's hair as they rut against each other, and maybe it doesn't sound appealing in those words, but it's fascinating. They're desperate for each other. They're touching in every place that they can, drawing friction from every inch of skin that touches, and I'm sitting here in total awe, quietly sipping my wine until I find the bottle empty. Odysseus locks eyes with me and I know he's going to come soon; similarly, I'm so wet it's disconcerting. I squirm a little, not sure what to do about it, and then decide to settle my own hand between my legs. I'm not generally a fan of masturbating, but at this point, I don't really see how I'm going to get around it. I come in the same moment Odysseus does, and Ajax shortly after.

10:27 p.m.: By the time we fall into bed together, we're exhausted and the house is a mess. I don't have to talk Ajax into staying over; I think he likes sleeping with us as much as he likes fucking us. "We need a bigger bed," Odysseus grumbles, glaring at Ajax, who has definitely stolen most of the space. He's sprawled out with me in his arms, one leg slipped carelessly between mine, and he uses it to kick Odysseus. "Come closer," Ajax mutters, and Odysseus sighs, kissing my shoulder and curling himself around me to let his arm drape across us both.

10:45 p.m.: "You two are a handful," Odysseus says fondly, as he often does, and I think again about what he said earlier: I like this. It's hard to believe that two nights ago I was with Paris. It's hard to believe that this is where I am now. I feel like I'm being torn in two by things I want: by the kind of love I could have with Paris—the fairytale kind that I thought was true before—and… I don't know. Whatever this is.

10:54 p.m.: If Paris is a technicolor sunset, then Odysseus and Ajax are ocean waves. Steady and unerring, and if I close my eyes, I can almost make it to the horizon before the promise of it recedes.

---

DAY THREE

6:30 a.m.: I shiver as the blankets shift, registering Odysseus getting out of bed behind me. He brushes his lips against my cheek. "I'll make breakfast," he says quietly, "so stay in bed." I open my mouth to protest, but Odysseus shushes me softly. "Careful," he warns with a muted laugh, gesturing to where Ajax is stirring. "What's going on?" Ajax asks sleepily. "We're sleeping," I say. "Oh, good," he replies, and I let him gather me in his arms again as Odysseus slips out behind us.

8:45 a.m.: Astonishingly, by the time I wake up again, I can smell food from downstairs. I perform my usual morning stretch, turning my head to find Ajax watching me. "You're beautiful," he says, as if he's commenting on the weather. I'm fairly used to it, so I accept the compliment with a shrug. "Are you always this beautiful?" Ajax presses. "Sometimes even more so," I joke, and then he permits a laugh, smacking a kiss against my shoulder before bounding out of bed.

9:04 a.m.: Odysseus isn't a great cook, but he made us eggs and toast. I have at least introduced him to the bountiful offerings of scallions and feta cheese, so it's not totally without some flourish. "Breakfast?" Odysseus offers hopefully. I kiss his cheek. "Looks perfect," I say. Ajax merely piles some eggs on toast without preamble and takes an extraordinarily large bite, sitting down at the table without a plate and making a sound that I think indicates satisfaction.

9:35 a.m.: "Well, I have to go," Ajax says, searching around for his shirt and then triumphantly swooping it up from behind the sofa. "But we'll do this again soon, right?" he asks, kissing my cheek and looking questioningly at Odysseus. "Why are you asking me?" Odysseus demands gruffly. "Because you're the boss of us," I tell him, privately delighting in his exhausted sigh.

9:37 a.m.: "Monday?" Odysseus suggests. "That's—" Ajax frowns, clearly counting in his head, "four days from now." "Yes, very good, excellent observation," Odysseus congratulates him stiffly. I frown too, sensing something like evasion in his voice, but Ajax isn't one to dwell on it for long. "Well, fine," he says, glancing down at the Daily Prophet that's been left out on the table. "Oh, hey," Ajax muses thoughtfully, "that guy from the Gryffindor team who's playing for Scotland—wasn't he at one of our games a few weeks ago? Weird. Okay, anyway," he says, waving to me before picking up a handful of Floo powder. "All hail Monday," Ajax declares, and then he disappears, leaving me to catch a look of dismay on Odysseus' face.

9:45 a.m.: "What?" I ask him, but he shakes it off. "Nothing," he assures me. "Still planning to see Cassandra today?" he asks, obviously changing the subject, but I nod, letting it go. We usually have lunch in Diagon about once a week, and today I promised her I'd discuss an article she's writing for the magazine she's starting called The Human Interest. "This afternoon," I say. "Oh good," Odysseus says absently, wandering back into the kitchen.

12:30 p.m.: I spend the rest of the morning cleaning up the house and getting ready before meeting Cassandra outside of Twilfitt and Tattings. She looks a little anxious, which is unusual. She's a decently anxious person, but she normally does a better job of hiding it. I've always envied the excellence of her cool facade, which looks to have some cracks in it now. "Want to go shopping?" I ask, as that usually works, but Cassandra shakes her head. "I think I'm going to have to be more careful about money," she says, but before I can ask more questions, she drags me to the Leaky.

12:45 p.m.: "I want you to write something for The Interest," Cassandra says, and I stare at her, picking at my salad. "You have a great voice!" she urges me, referencing this little joke of a column I had in a short-lived Hogwarts newsletter (it never saw the light of day outside of our dorm, given that it was run by a certain unloved house of serpents and contained perhaps more gossip than truth), but I shake my head. "Isn't this magazine supposed to be for serious things?" I ask, and add that I clearly have nothing serious to say. "Well, not everything can be serious," she tells me, "and anyway, don't you think you have something worth saying?"

12:52 p.m.: I change the subject, asking about Paris' brother, but Cassandra instantly shuts down, becoming her most closed-off self. "He's dating someone else," she says in a low voice, not looking at me. "Well, does he know how you feel?" I press, but I know the difference between something that's funny and something that's terrible, and I can see this is well into the realm of awful. "I like her," Cassandra says, and I realize it must be someone at this magazine she's working on. "Oh, no," I say, reaching out for her, but she shrugs out of my reach. "It's fine," she says, her voice clipped and disinterested. "What about the money, then?" I ask. Cassandra's being audited for the crimes of her parents—which doesn't seem fair, really, since her father has some kind of degenerative brain disease that magic can't fix and her mother's long since disappeared. "I don't want to talk about it," she says, unsurprisingly.

1:21 p.m.: I wish, at times like these, that it was possible to physically lift someone else's burden from their shoulders. The sadness drapes over her, prompting a bend to her spine that isn't usually there, and I want so badly to help, but I know I can't. I know she won't let me in any further than I've already gone today. I sigh, shifting to sit next to her in the booth, and she permits me to wrap my arms around her for approximately five seconds before shoving me away.

2:03 p.m.: "Think about it," Cassandra says, after we talk about old friends and boyfriends (hers is apparently quietly dating one of our former enemies, though Cassandra seemed oddly guilty about bringing him up). She doesn't say much about Achilles; I know she sees him from time to time, but I'm grateful she doesn't tell me anything. I don't think I'm ready to consider a world where he's real and existing and probably fine without me. "Think about what?" I ask, and she rolls her eyes. "The article," she says, "or editorial. Or column. Whatever you want." "I have nothing worth saying," I remind her. "Oh, shove it," she says, "just get it to me by Sunday, if you do."

2:40 p.m.: "Let me know how it goes with Paris tomorrow," she tells me when she hugs me, though she doesn't look at all optimistic. "Be careful," she warns me, and I sigh. "Nothing can come of it," I remind her, "so there's nothing to worry about." She clearly disagrees. "Just be careful," she says again, and it seems so strange that she's taking care of me when she's the one whose life is mildly crumbling. Well, I shouldn't say that; it's not strange, actually. It's just very Cassandra. She's one of those people who loves so fully that once she lets you into her carefully guarded heart, you know you're taken care of.

2:42 p.m.: "I'm proud of you," I tell her, because I think that's what she needs to hear, and also because I am. She could have let a man save her, or distract her—this is, after all, probably the only time I can remember that she's been truly, genuinely single—but she didn't. She'll get through this. "Get me that article," she says primly, and we part ways.

9:30 p.m.: The rest of the day is uneventful. I make dinner, Odysseus and I eat, we end up curled on the sofa. It's kind of nice that it's the two of us, though it's quiet without Ajax.

---

DAY FOUR

7:15 a.m.: I get an owl from Paris while Odysseus is still out running. 'I have to see you today,' he says, and I feel a little thrill up my spine. 'When?' I ask.

7:31 a.m.: 'As soon as you can,' he says, which is odd, and only becomes more odd the more I think about it. He tells me he took the day off, which is unusual. He sounds distressed, so when Odysseus returns home, I incoherently blurt out my plans as I hand him a plate of crepes. "What?" he asks, frowning, and I clear my throat, trying again. "I need to see Paris today," I say, and I tell him something's wrong. "Oh," is all Odysseus says. I check for signs of anger, but he doesn't look upset. He looks sort of—thoughtful, actually. Like he's turning it over in his mind. "Okay," he says, and I excuse myself, heading up to our bedroom to get ready.

7:59 a.m.: Just before I leave, Odysseus looks like he wants to say something, but then he shakes his head. "See you tonight?" he asks, and suddenly I feel as if we're roommates, and not at all as if he and I made a vow to love each other until we both died. "Yes," I say firmly, and step through the Floo to find Paris waiting for me on his sofa.

8:00 a.m.: Paris is dressed but his clothes are wrinkled, as if he's been wearing them since the night before. I open my mouth to say something coy but stop short, catching his weary gaze and knowing with certainty something is wrong. "What is it?" I say, but he says nothing. He rises to his feet and takes my face in his hands, stroking my cheekbones reverently with his thumbs. "I missed you," he says hoarsely, and I don't know why, but the impact of it resonates in my chest. It's that time and space thing; I fall into his arms and immediately dive out of reality. "I missed you too," I say, and he kisses me, pulling me into the bedroom.

8:05 a.m.: Yes, fine, it occurs to me that I should ask questions (he'd said his brother was here, so it's not like I don't have a guess that something relevant to his family could be bothering him) but he is thoroughly distracting. Even with exhaustion and a little hint of misery he is so, so handsome, his features made even finer by distress, and I let him kiss me into silence as he tears at the fabric of my dress. He turns me sharply, yanking the zipper down, and kisses his way down my spine, ending with himself on his knees and his arms around my thighs as the dress falls to the floor.

8:10 a.m.: I step gently out of the circle of his arms, lowering myself slowly to face him, and he can't look at me. "What is it?" I say, as gently as I possibly can. Gentleness comes easily to me; I know when I'm expected to be soft. He looks up slowly, his blue eyes meeting mine, and he looks pained beyond belief. "What if," he says slowly, "I don't want you to go?"

8:12 a.m.: I don't understand, and I tell him so. "Stay with me," he says urgently, taking my hands in his. "This," he says, "whatever this is between us, it's real. Stay with me." I stare at him. "I'm married," I say, and then, upsettingly slowly, I add, "and you're married." He swallows hard, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "I can't be in my marriage anymore," he says, and shit. Shit. Shit.

8:15 a.m.: I don't know what to say, so I hold him close. I can't imagine what he's going through. I know he was very much in love with his wife at one point; his marriage wasn't ever like mine. I think that at one point I selfishly wanted to believe he loved me more—his wife is very, very beautiful, but she has a coldness to her that makes it look, in my opinion, as though she might be difficult to love—but now those thoughts feel like curses. Do I want him for myself? Yes. No. I don't know. I didn't want to be in this position; I only permitted it to get this far because I didn't think we ever would be. I thought what we were doing was safe, but now—

8:20 a.m.: "You're so beautiful," Paris whispers, tucking a loose curl behind my ear, and god, the way he looks at me. Achilles used to look at me like that; like he would never get tired of looking. I melt a little, and then Paris' lips are on mine again. It's one of those hungry, pressed-together kisses, where he's clinging to me and I'm clinging to him and yes, it's going to be sex, but before we get to that we have this. That place of sharing space and breaths and thoughts and feelings. It's me in his arms and him in mine, and isn't this what love is? Isn't this what love looks like—two people who can't bear to separate themselves, one from the other? Isn't this what soulmates are—two halves of a whole?

8:25 a.m.: He carries me to his bed and I fumble with the button of his trousers, pulling the band of them over the curve of his backside and then kicking them down to his ankles. He tears his shirt from his shoulders, parting from me only to let it fall to the floor, and then his lips are on my breasts, his tongue tracing the lace of my bra. I bought this bra months ago, when I was trying to get Odysseus to see me, to adore me, to want me. I tried every form of ornamentation, but I can see with Paris I don't need it. He is enraptured, and so am I.

8:36 a.m.: I reconcile my previous wonderings with the knowledge that sex like this is very much enough. The moment I feel Paris slide inside me, I can think of nothing else but him. He's different this morning; no surprise there. He holds me close while he fucks me, and it seems like he's taking something from me. Maybe I take something from him, too, but it's hard to care either way when he's sweeping my hair from my forehead and staring down at me, like he can't believe what he's holding in his hands. He slides one hand under me and lifts my hips, gifting me the perfect angle of friction, but I barely care whether I come or not. I'm going to, definitely, but there's something else here: intimacy, I think. It's just Paris and me together, and it's hard not to be a little moved by how significant that feels.

8:54 a.m.: "Stay with me," he whispers, holding me with his lips pressed to my ear. I shiver, suffering some nameless blow, and I don't know what's tormenting me more: the fact that most of me wants to do just that, or that a voice in my head is presently screaming my husband's name. "For how long?" I ask quietly. "I have to be home later this evening," I add, and Paris turns me around to face him. "I don't just mean today," he says, his gaze lingering on my face. I can feel it as though he's touched me. "Then what do you mean?" I ask, aware I'm holding my breath.

9:14 a.m.: He tells me it's over between him and his wife, and I suppose I should have known sooner that their marriage wasn't on solid footing. Odysseus told me that he suspected Paris' wife of infidelities—an interesting claim, really, considering the four of us are in open marriages, which presumably makes the 'adultery' line a little thin. It occurs to me that Paris looks more than sad; he looks a bit betrayed. A bit injured, actually, and there is a not-insignificant part of me that wants to soothe him as I run my fingers over the angles of his cheeks.

9:23 a.m.: I wonder, then, if I had been the one Paris had fallen in love with six years ago (I was too young then, of course, and fully in love with Achilles at the time, but for the sake of general musing) if he and I would have the sort of marriage I dreamed about as a girl. Not this open polyamorous mess I have now—a soulmate. Could Paris be my soulmate? And if he is, does that make this—everything we've done, wrong or right—somehow … okay? Did we need to go through this in order to find each other? Is that how fate works? It's hard to tell. It's impossible to tell, in fact, and I can't keep my thoughts from racing. I try to drag them to a halt but fail, only shuddering instead.

9:33 a.m.: "Don't you feel it?" Paris asks, his hand steady over my heart. "This," he says, and brushes my knuckles against his lips. "This means something," he says, and then, "this is no accident." I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Doesn't it mean something? Shouldn't it mean something? He wasn't an option before. I wasn't allowed to have feelings before. But now…

9:34 a.m.: "I want something real," Paris says. "No other people; just you and me," he promises, and isn't that just the most inconveniently perfect thing to say? Isn't that the terrible, horrible ideal?

9:57 a.m.: "I need to think about it," I say, because if Paris is available to me, then that inevitably changes things with Odysseus. Odysseus would still have Ajax, of course; he wouldn't be alone. Yes, it would be messy, and yes, our families would have problems with it, but aren't there more important things? I certainly didn't think so a year ago—after all, I chose my betrothal to Odysseus over my love for Achilles—but everything only seems to have gone wrong since then. Is this what was always supposed to happen?

9:58 a.m.: My mind wanders further, and I think about the way Odysseus says he loves me. I think that he does, in some unconventional way. In the same way I love him, at least. I recall, too, that Paris hasn't technically said so yet. The only person who ever said he loved me and meant it the way that I thought it should be meant was Achilles, but he's long gone from me now. It broke my heart to lose him. Am I ready to break my own heart again, or anyone else's?

9:59 a.m.: "Think about it," Paris assures me, and kisses me again. This kiss is less needy. This kiss, though, is definitely leading somewhere. He takes my hand, pulling me towards the bathroom. "Shower?" he asks, and I agree. "Take my mind off all of this," I ask softly, and his lips curl into his handsome, wolfish smile. "I can do that," he promises me.

10:15 a.m.: He sits me on the lip of the copper tub in his bathroom, kissing the arch of my foot before lowering it into the perfectly charmed water. He parts my legs and slides his tongue against my clit, looking up to watch my head fall back against the wall behind me. There are rose petals in the tub, and he's brought up two glasses of champagne, and this is romance, isn't it? Isn't this what romance looks like? My mind leaps briefly to the image of Odysseus and Ajax holding each other on the kitchen floor. That's romance too, isn't it? And this is romance. It's all the same, and yet it's so terribly, terribly different.

11:30 a.m.: Eventually we doze off together, and I can't help picturing a life with Paris. I've always imagined a family—a husband, a wife, and children—and I don't (can't) work out logistically how that would happen with Odysseus. I can barely explain Ajax to myself; how would I explain it to a child? To my friends? To the rest of my family? Suddenly, with as difficult as it would be to leave Odysseus, it seems so much easier to choose the life I'd have here, wrapped in Paris' willing arms.

3:45 p.m.: "Are you okay?" Odysseus asks when I return home. I don't speak right away (how can I? I haven't the slightest idea what I'd say) and he reaches out a hand for mine, squeezing the tips of my fingers once, delicately. Alarmingly, I find it even more impossible to speak. "What is it?" he asks, and I shake my momentary paralysis to settle fluently into a lovely, delicate lie. "I don't know what to make for dinner," I remark. He gives me a grim smile—as if he doesn't really believe me—but I know him well enough to know he won't push it. "Toast," he suggests.

6:35 p.m.: I don't make toast. I make a venison stew with dumplings I painstakingly craft into perfectly equal quantities, throwing out any with flaws. I pour my husband a glass of my family's whisky and settle across from him as if I didn't spend the last hour crying intermittently into my perfectly savory broth. What if I lose Paris? What if this is my only chance and I throw it away? Or what if I choose him, and thereby waste the effort I've made for the last year of my life? What if I should have been with Achilles all along, and now I don't deserve to be happy? Each terrible hypothetical buries itself in my bones and then breaks off in slivers, slicing perilously through my veins.

6:45 p.m.: "Everything okay?" Odysseus asks again, covering my fingers with his. A habit of his. "Of course," I assure him, lying the way that pretty girls lie. Beautifully, and through my perfect teeth—playing pretend in order to please, which is an incurable habit of mine.

9:30 p.m.: The evening is nothing out of the ordinary. "Are you going to write the article Cassandra asked for?" Odysseus asks, and I shrug. "I just don't think I have anything worth saying," I tell him. He tells me he disagrees, but I remind him that's a matter of opinion.

---

DAY FIVE

8:15 a.m.: I don't even wake up when Odysseus leaves for his morning workout, and when I glance at the clock, I realize I probably won't be out of bed in time to make anything. I feel groggy and bleary and vaguely swollen. I'm also starving. Is there such thing as a breakfast cake? If there isn't, I'm about to invent it.

9:30 a.m.: "Is that a cake?" Odysseus asks me. I shrug. He seems to notice I am out of sorts (the ganache might have clued him in; it's not particularly artful) and comes over to take me in his arms. I get the sense, as I often do, that he likes to solve things with touch; he has fairly physical tendencies, whether he's playing quidditch or trying to soothe his bewildering wife. I'm not sure I communicate back to him what he tries to say to me—maybe if I did, we wouldn't have the problem of needing a third party—but I try. For him, for us, I try.

9:35 a.m.: "I have to see my mother today," Odysseus tells me. Like all pureblood families, we check in with our parents for terrible visits that nobody really enjoys about twice a month or so. Both of us have younger siblings still at our respective homes—my sister and his brothers—so our obligations are slightly lower than the only children we know, but there is at least relief in this: that I understand he doesn't want to do it, but he has to, and he knows that I know this, and feels gratitude for the way I say nothing. If only mutual understanding about family brunches were enough to build a marriage on.

10:03 a.m.: After Odysseus leaves, I'm restless. I Floo Cassandra to chat, but she doesn't answer. It strikes me that it's a bad sign given how distressed she was, but I'll try again later. In the meantime, I'm in my closet and putting on one of my nicer dresses for reasons I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. I fix my hair until it sparkles. I fix my face until I glow. I put on my prettiest things until none of my ugly is showing and I walk through the Floo, not even sure where I'm going until I've gotten there.

10:35 a.m.: "Hello," Paris says, surprised. I haven't come to his office before, obviously, but it isn't that hard to find. Gringotts is sort of a large building, and he's one of the few wizards who works here. I stand in the doorway and hesitate until he beckons me inside, stepping around to the other side of his desk and then leaning against it. "What's wrong?" he asks me, and I adjust my smile, letting out any toxicity on a furtive breath. "Nothing," I say, "I just wanted to see you."

10:45 a.m.: I didn't stop to consider that he might have turned me away until I walked in, and I'm retroactively relieved to find he doesn't. I think maybe he likes that I've come to him; he seems to brighten when I tell him I was thinking about him. "Come here," Paris says, and I obey, stepping in close while he folds his arms around me, tucking me in against his chest. "What's happening?" I ask helplessly, which isn't in any way a useful question, but it seems to be the only one I have. He rests his chin on top of my head, sighing.

10:46 a.m.: "Sometimes," he says softly, "you can want something to work, and it doesn't." I feel a little ache in my chest at that. "But how do you know it isn't working?" I press indignantly, leaning back to look up at him. "And how do you know it won't work even if you keep trying?" I ask. I know I sound desperate, and perhaps he's the wrong person to come to, but I feel something like safety in his arms. "Maybe you don't know for sure," he says, and I sigh. "But then again," he murmurs, "is it such a stretch to believe you could have something better?"

10:48 a.m.: I tell him I can't believe he can choose. It's an impossible choice, really, between the life you thought you'd have, the one you have now, and the life you could have if you only stepped right instead of left and changed paths. I tell him that I wish I had his certainty. Paris opens his mouth to say something, a moment of difficulty manifesting on his face, but we're interrupted by a knock at his door frame.

10:55 a.m.: "Excuse me, sorry, I was looking for—" I turn, and alarmingly, it's Ajax. He gapes at me, and I promptly step out of Paris' arms, my cheeks turning red. He stares, blinking, and Paris clears his throat. "You were looking for something?" Paris says. Ajax doesn't take his eyes from mine. "Actually, I thought I had something," he says flatly, and then he turns, storming away.

10:56 a.m.: "Who was that?" Paris asks, but I don't answer. I hurry after Ajax, who's even more unbearably princely in his refusal to turn when I call for him. I finally reach him, nearly stumbling as my heels lose traction against Gringotts' marble floors, and slide my fingers around his wrist, pulling him towards me. "Hey," I snap, and Ajax glares at me. "What are you doing?" "What are you doing?" Ajax demands, shrugging out of my reach. I reach for him again, exasperated. "Odysseus knows about him," I say defensively, and Ajax's eyes widen abruptly before they immediately narrow. This time, when he pulls out of my reach, it's with an element of reproach. "Maybe he does," Ajax mutters bitterly, "but I didn't."

11:01 a.m.: People are starting to stare, but I can't bring myself to comprehend what's happening. "What?" I demand, but by now Ajax has noticed we have an audience (largely goblins and some nosy witches, but still) and he grumpily gestures to the door. We make our way into Diagon Alley, ducking into the first little side alcove that doesn't have someone trying to sell collapsible cauldrons in it.

11:06 a.m.: "What do you mean you didn't know?" I demand again, and he opens his mouth to retort, but I shake my head. "This whole thing is just sex, isn't it?" I press, grinding it down between my teeth. "You didn't need to know," I say, and he stiffens. He opens his mouth to argue, to fight me, but anger doesn't stay coiled in his jaw the way it does for Odysseus. "I thought it was more than that," Ajax says, a little bruised. And then, angry again, he flings this at me: "You let me believe it was more than that."

11:10 a.m.: I tell him I can't believe he's angry at me. "You knew Odysseus and I were in an open relationship," I say accusingly, "and you were sleeping with my husband long before I knew about you!" "Yeah, well, I'm not saying this is perfect!" Ajax barks in return, and we're having a very strange argument that is both childish and wildly inappropriate for children, but we've both lost hold of our restraint now. "I know it's not perfect," I growl at him. How could I forget? After all, I married a man who isn't attracted to me, and in a way I can't fix on my own. A man who has feelings for Ajax, in fact, meaning that I may be the one Odysseus feels he owes, but I'm not the one he wants. "But what about us?" Ajax snarls, and I can hardly keep from laughing, or crying. "I dreamt of a marriage, not a fucking arrangement," I say.

11:15 a.m.: We've gotten loud again, and now people are pausing on the street. I step closer to Ajax, dropping my volume. "You don't need me," I say. "You have Odysseus, and the two of you—what the two of you have—" "I don't have him," Ajax hisses, and I freeze. "He didn't want me," he adds bitterly, and I can hear pain in his voice that stops me cold, leaves me breathless. I can hear it on his lips. "He didn't want me until you wanted me," Ajax says again, and I don't know what to say. I just don't know what to say.

11:21 a.m.: "Do you really think that this is just a game? Just sex?" he asks me, still with that pain in his voice, and I grasp for words and find nothing. "I'm happy when I'm with the two of you," he says, "and I thought you were happy when you were with me—" "I am," I tell him, "but still, this isn't exactly what marriage looks like!" "You're so obsessed with perfection," Ajax tells me snottily—as if he knows anything, honestly—and then he adds, "Why does your love story have to look like everyone else's?" I glare at him. "You only want me because of the way I look," I remind him accusingly. "So why should I not want something that looks the way I want it to?"

11:23 a.m.: "Do you really think I—" He breaks off. He stares at me, and for a very long time he says nothing. His chest rises and falls, his breath ragged and forced, and he's either in terrible pain or terribly angry. Similarly, I'm not sure what's gotten me out of breath, my fingers curled into fists. I think I'm furious. Also, I think I'm overcome with guilt. I think I'm gnashing all of it together somewhere between my molars and my jaw is starting to hurt. I open my mouth to speak, to fling something else at him, but before I can, his lips are on mine. His tongue darts into my mouth and he presses me back against the wall. It's all a jagged rush of sensations then: the cold stone against my back, the hiss of displeasure I release against Ajax's lips, the way his hands tighten on my waist. We break apart and I glare at him, his heart pounding ruthlessly beneath the bones of my hand as his pulse ricochets through my veins.

11:24 a.m.: "Fuck," he growls, and apparates us away.

11:25 a.m.: I don't really register my surroundings as he shoves me against the wall, but I assume this is his flat. It's smaller than I thought, though I'm not sure what I was expecting. Maybe I assumed he was wealthy because Odysseus and I are; it seems like wealthy purebloods are the only people who have the time for gratuitous affairs. I don't think for long, though, because he's fumbling with my dress with his lips on my neck, and shit, shit, shit, I feel a rush of something that I don't want to stop. I drag my hand through his golden curls and bury my fingers in them, digging my nails into the back of his neck. He tears my knickers, I think; I hear a definite tear, and I don't care. I bought them to fix my marriage, but my marriage is obviously a mess. I can't be surprised if the lace is flimsy.

11:29 a.m.: Ajax looks at me. I look back at him. Neither of us says anything. We've got our eyes locked as he shifts me, blindly finding the slickness at my cunt, and strokes his thumb against me. Once. Twice. I shudder, my eyes falling shut. When they open again, he's still looking at me. He's waiting for me to say something, just like every other man in my life, but this is easier. "More," I whisper, and he yanks me up, wrapping my legs around his hips. My eyes are even with his when he slides inside me, and I watch both of us go through the same torment: the sharp intake of breath, the teeth that slice against our lips, the sensation of dizziness that makes me drag him closer and that makes him slam a hand against the wall beside my head, steadying both of us.

11:34 a.m.: God, his cock feels good. He feels so good and he knows he does, I know he knows, but I tell him anyway. He tells me similar things, of course; how good I feel, how sweet I taste, how much he wants me, how badly and for how long. He doesn't tell me I'm beautiful, and I'm glad. I don't think I'm very beautiful now, my back scraping the wall and my hair in disarray and my makeup almost certainly smeared across my face, and this isn't about beauty, anyway. It's harder, more aggressive than I'm used to, but it feels like the right thing for right now. It feels like the pressure and the friction I've been living under the last few days is finally set to burn, and at the moment, I'm happy to let it.

11:38 a.m.: There are no frills to this sex. He fucks me, truly, and I come as he's pounding into me without much softness, without much gentleness at all, and he lets out a yell as I bury my teeth his shoulder, biting down hard. He comes shortly after—I love the way he comes, the way his face goes so blank and he doesn't fight it, he doesn't restrict it the way that I do; he throws his head back and comes, letting me see the marks I've left all over the spare inches of his neck and throat and jaw that I could find—and we slide slowly to the floor, somehow twisting around to lie on our backs and stare at his ceiling.

11:43 a.m.: A long time passes before I have any idea what to say. "Why were you at Gringotts?" I attempt hoarsely, and he turns his head to look at me. I do the same. "I needed to finalize the conditions of my business loan," he says, and adds, "I'm trying to get them to lower the interest rate. It's absurd." I blink. "What business loan?" I demand, sitting up slightly.

11:44 a.m.: He lies still on the ground as I shift to look at him, and then he reaches up, drawing his index finger slowly along the line of my clavicle. "I design racing brooms," he says. I make a sound of disbelief. A scoff, one might say. "Didn't you know that?" he asks. Of course I didn't. "I thought you were independently wealthy," I say. "I am," he says, and then clears his throat. "Well, my parents are wealthy," he amends, "but I want to do this on my own. I designed that," he adds, pointing over his head to a broom that's sitting out on a table. "Now I just need the money to mass produce it," he adds with a shrug, "because I can't make the orders on my own anymore."

11:46 a.m.: I am positively flabbergasted. "I was thinking of calling this model the Nymph," he adds, which is a sly reference to me, and now I'm so speechless the lack of words actually hurts. It seems to rattle forcefully in my chest. "Oh," I say quietly, and his hand slides up my neck to cup around the edge of my jaw, curling around my cheek.

11:49 p.m.: "He wants me to be with him," I tell Ajax, referring to Paris. "He's leaving his wife for me," I add, and Ajax sighs. "I realize I'm new to this whole thing and I don't get a vote," he tells me, "but I vote you don't destroy this thing yet."

11:50 a.m.: "Just because it doesn't look the way you thought it would doesn't mean it isn't real," Ajax says. "Give me a chance to fall in love with you," he asks me with a grave, regal solemnity, "and give yourself a chance to fall in love with me."

12:01 p.m.: I lie down beside him again, glad of the discomfort of being on the floor. It seems the least that I deserve. After all, I'm pretty sure I just cheated on someone, but I'm genuinely not sure who. I don't understand what I'm doing. I'm losing control of my own life.

12:07 p.m.: "Hungry?" I ask after a while, and Ajax laughs. "Starving," he says, "but I can't. I have to actually discuss that loan at the bank," he reminds me, "and I have meetings with my investors for the rest of the day." He leans over, kissing my forehead, and adjusts his tie. I can't believe it never occurred to me that he had a job. He clearly dresses for one. "I want to see you more," he admits quietly, "but Odysseus is—" He falters. "He's hard to get close to," Ajax says, and I feel impossibly sad for him.

12:09 p.m.: I sit up and adjust Ajax's tie for him, removing my wand to fix the smudge of lipstick on his cheek. "Good luck with the bank and the investors," I say. He gives me his princely grin and I immediately regret having said anything, only it's in a way that makes me feel very fond. "Don't need luck," he says, shrugging with his inconceivable arrogance, and then he leads me to the Floo.

3:45 p.m.: I want very badly to tell Odysseus everything when he gets home, but he looks exhausted. Being part of a pureblood family can be a very challenging thing; we have generations of expectations to live up to and cultural parameters to abide by, but genuine closeness is a very rare thing. I remember my mother's many lessons more than I really remember her touch, and in general, pureblood families are conditional. Follow the rules, and you'll be accepted; break the rules, and they'll break you. I find I have a hard time saying anything to Odysseus now, and for that matter—even if I did feel selfish enough to unload my problems—I'd have no idea where to start.

8:15 p.m.: The rest of the evening passes as it usually does. I cook, we eat together, we read. He's reading the Daily Prophet again, which seems to be reporting non-stop about the looming World Cup tournament. I let Odysseus have his silence, since it seems like he needs it. I try to contact Cassandra, but she sends me an owl that merely says 'Some shit's going down. Will call soon. Get me that article, bitch!' she adds at the bottom. Helpful, Cassandra. Very helpful.

8:45 p.m.: For a minute I consider trying to write something, but seeing as I barely even know what to say to my own husband, I don't know what I could possibly say in an article. It seems pointless, and I transition almost immediately from the blank page to my bed. If Odysseus finds it odd, he says nothing. He kisses my forehead, and eventually I fall asleep in silence.

---

DAY SIX

6:35 a.m.: This time I'm awake before Odysseus wakes up, having been staring at the ceiling for at least an hour. He glances over and I see a crease of concern in his brow. "Go back to sleep," he says, "I'm going for a r-" "I know," I snap, and both of us are immediately startled. We're not familiar with this sort of temperament, as we were both raised in pristine environments of passive-aggression and carefully withheld rage. He blinks, opens his mouth, and then closes it. "Do you not want me to go?" he asks—a little bluntly, as if he thinks I might argue and he's preparing himself for a fight—but if something is bubbling over, it hasn't exploded quite yet. I snap my mouth around a retort and shake my head. "Go," I say gruffly, though I get out of bed when he does, wandering downstairs.

7:04 a.m.: I stand in my kitchen and decide that I want something to eat, but I don't want to make it. I turn around with a sigh, heading back upstairs. I change into a pair of trousers and a silk shirt I should probably give back to Cassandra and I toss my hair into a ponytail, heading through the Floo.

7:13 a.m.: Diagon is a sleepy place this early on a Sunday (Sunday being the day that Cassandra wanted her article, I remember, growling to myself) and I make my way to the Leaky Cauldron, considering that a greasy breakfast sandwich would be ideal right about now. I pull open the door, stifling a yawn, and immediately see something that stops me in my tracks.

7:15 a.m.: It's Achilles. He's talking to someone that I can't see from where I'm standing; I see the occasional hand motion of someone else, but I don't know who it is. I haven't seen Achilles in over a year, and I'm startled by two things: firstly, by how much he hasn't changed, and then, ironically, by how starkly different he looks. He's dressed the same as I remember, his hair its usual swept-off self, but there's a different look on his face. It's so different, actually, that I don't recognize until I see him laugh that the look on his face is happiness.

7:16 a.m.: He's telling a story. I don't know what story it is, but you could always tell with Achilles. He's very expressive, and he's always in motion, all his limbs flailing when he's crafting one of his impeccable narratives. He was never conventionally handsome—too weedy for that, really—but I always liked him best when he was sharing a little wild piece of his brain with me. The person he's with seems to like it, too; I hear a laugh—a man's laugh? confusing, but okay—and then someone's hands slide around Achilles' face, pulling him close.

7:17 a.m.: I think I'm breathing too loudly, or I've been standing here too long. Whatever it is, Achilles glances up when he breaks the kiss, and his eyes find mine. Hi, he mouths, his brow furrowing with something that's more confusion-surprise than anything, and I try to wave, but only manage a smile. He smiles back, sort of, and gives me a nod. Naturally, I immediately turn and run.

8:35 a.m.: "What's wrong?" Odysseus asks tentatively, his footsteps quiet as he stands behind me. I turn from where I'm sitting in the living room and look up at him, at his sweaty t-shirt and the way his dark hair's been slicked back from his face, and try something I haven't been very good at up to this point. "Why did you start running in the mornings?" I ask him, and he nods slowly, gesturing for me to sit. I think I always knew there was something bigger about it, and I think, strangely, that we're both relieved that I finally asked.

8:40 a.m.: "I didn't exactly tell you the truth a few weeks ago," he says uncomfortably, his voice clipped and defensive. I say nothing, but I gesture for him to continue. He nods, sitting down next to me, and continues. "I was sleeping with Ajax," he says carefully, "but he wasn't the one I was with that night I stayed at the Leaky Cauldron."

8:45 a.m.: Odysseus tells me about a past love—an actual love, not an affair, which shocks me—who plays for the Scottish national team now, and I recall the way the quidditch sections of the Daily Prophet are always out somewhere on his desk or on the table, folded over and carefully creased, as if he might come back to them later. He has a mix of sadness and fury to his voice as he talks about his ex; not that he's angry with me. By the sound of it, he seems angry with the world, or with himself. "I chose you," he says brusquely in explanation, and clears his throat. "I chose us," he says again, an offering this time, "but if I'm being honest, it hasn't been an easy choice."

8:49 a.m.: The running is about being better, Odysseus explains. This other person, this man that he's loved but that I've never known, used to make him better, and Odysseus says now he wants to be better for me. At that—the audacity of his hesitant goodness—I can no longer hold it in; I spill out in a hasty stream of panic that Paris has asked me to be with him, and oh, yeah, I slept with Ajax. "I don't know if that's breaking the rules," I add hastily. "I didn't mean to, I just—" I stammer to a halt, and Odysseus sighs, pressing his hand to his temple. "Stop," he says, rising to his feet. "Just stop for a minute," he suggests, "because whatever I say next is probably hugely fucking important, and I need to think before I do."

8:56 a.m.: It takes a few minutes of Odysseus pacing, scraping a hand through his hair, before he turns to face me, nodding as if he's arrived at something. "I love you," he says, and I open my mouth, but he holds up a hand to stop me. "I chose you," he says, "and I will keep choosing you if given the opportunity, but there are parallel versions of our lives here." He pauses, swallowing, and nods again, to himself this time.

8:58 a.m.: He says that if I want to choose Paris, then he'll go back to his ex. He loves him that much, he says, even though he doesn't think love itself will fix anything. "Sometimes, I don't think love is ever as much as we build it up to be," Odysseus says gruffly, and I think I know what he means. We aren't people raised to believe we could ever follow our hearts. "But if you choose me," he says slowly, "then we can make this work. I love you, I will love you the way you deserve, I will make a family with you, even if it isn't a conventional one. I will love you," he promises again, with all the fierceness of his coiled anger, and I feel my eyes well up. "Can you love me?" he asks, dropping to look me in the eye, and it is not lost on me that he's on his knees when he says it. "If you can love me," he says, "then we can still make this work, and it won't have been for nothing."

9:04 a.m.: "Are you mad about Ajax?" I ask, and he tilts his head, considering it. "I've slept with him many times before without you," he says neutrally, with his very particular gift for saying things flatly, and I nod blankly. "And if we move forward," he says, "then we'll just have to decide on the rules that work for us, because there aren't any good ones right now."

9:35 a.m.: I tell him I don't know, that I need time, and he agrees that I should think about it, and about everything he's said. He seems to mean it, even though I wouldn't if I were him. I think I'd be furious with myself for not having an answer, and coincidentally, I am. But this house is big enough that we don't have to see each other if we don't want to, so we don't. I wander out to the garden and he stays inside.

10:24 a.m.: It occurs to me after almost an hour of staring into space that I'm starving, so I go back into the house. Odysseus is gone, but there's a tray sitting on the kitchen counter that has some toast, some sliced fruit, and some parchment and a quill. I frown, wondering what I'm meant to do with it, but I levitate the tray outside anyway, settling myself in the grass.

10:56 a.m.: There's too much butter on the toast—it's fairly greasy, and the jam is sort of falling off the sides—but it tastes pretty good anyway. Maybe because Odysseus made it for me. I start thinking about what Ajax said about how I focus so much on how things should look. I lick the jam from my fingers and pick up the quill, still thinking.

11:15 a.m.: I don't really know what I'm writing until I've already started. Beauty serves even less purpose than art, because it's only meant to be looked at, I write. Beauty provides no value to the bearer on its own. The Venus doesn't care how many lives she affects when she is seen; only that someone sees her. Beauty does not equal goodness, and I would know, being both beautiful and not very good.

11:25 a.m.: Why are the stories we tell our daughters only the ones boasting triumphs of prettiness? The ones with the maidens who are good and pure and virtuous are also fair of face, and they are the ones who find their handsome princes, who ride off into the sunsets. Meanwhile, I have never known a beautiful woman who wasn't also a little bit selfish, or at least a little bit vain. And it's not only us we're hurting with the misconception, are we? Because men start to think that beauty means goodness, too. The Trojan War happened because Aphrodite offered Paris the love of the most beautiful woman on earth. What were his other choices, you might ask? Well, Hera offered Paris the conquests of the earth: riches and power. Athena offered him skill in warfare, that he would never lose any battle he fought. So, given that, what arsing lunatic would choose the love of a beautiful woman? Sure, love is meaningful. Love is the most divine thing we can offer one another. But why not the love of the cleverest woman, or the kindest? Why not the most daring woman, or the best in bed? Why not the love of the woman who can most successfully perform a blow job to completion, and who never says she's too tired for sex?

12:13 p.m.: Beauty is not goodness; beauty is simply beauty, and to choose it above all else is to choose a life that's always fractured beneath the surface. We are flawed creatures, and when we don't wear our flaws like a second skin, you can bet they are hiding elsewhere. A beautiful girl is a creature all her own, and a series of terrible risks. She's a liar by trade, a flimsy piece of jewelry, a carefully constructed mask, and if you cannot see the ugliness of her pain or the disturbances of her soul, then you shouldn't trust her. Chances are, she doesn't know what it is to decide to let you see what's underneath. I've spent most of my life hiding most of myself, in fact, and shortly I will be forced to reveal something sinister. How sinister, you ask? Oh, only my innermost thoughts. Distressingly, they're not as lovely as my lipstick.

12:48 p.m.: I pause for a moment, thinking about Achilles. I'd been wondering if I made the wrong choice by marrying Odysseus when my parents wanted me to, but I think I'm starting to understand that there is no wrong choice. There is no dead end. There's no single right path, but there's life that goes on, and resiliency. Achilles found happiness again, didn't he? He looked happier today than he even did with me. So maybe he and I might have been a good choice in a parallel universe, and maybe we might have been happy, but maybe this is a good choice, too. Maybe the path he's on will bring him something better, and I'll find my happiness too.

12:56 p.m.: If life is a function of choices—which I've come to learn that it is—then don't choose beauty unless you merely want something to look at. Don't assume that the facets of beauty that you see are all that exist underneath. I thought once that my life had to be beautiful in a conventional sort of way, without realizing how beautiful it already was. I have been lucky enough to know friendship and love, and in the moments they are the most pure, I have been at my ugliest. I have been at my least certain, and least secure, and least apt at playing pretend. In the moments my life is its most perfect version, it also looks the least like perfection, because beauty is not goodness, and perfection is a lie. And by the way, Paris should have chosen Athena, because if Helen was ever going to love him, then he definitely needed the ability to win a war. But then, nobody asked me, did they?

1:45 p.m.: I fold the parchment up and send it to Cassandra, and then I start cleaning up the messy plate of now-eaten toast, piling everything back onto the tray and carrying it inside.

1:55 p.m.: My owl returns with a reply from Cassandra. 'You fucking talented bitch,' it says, which means she's pleased. I scribble a note to Odysseus. 'Come home,' I say. In truth, it doesn't feel much like home when he's not here.

2:24 p.m.: Odysseus walks through the Floo with my note in his hand, but the way he pauses indicates that he plans to let me speak first. Unfortunately, I have no idea where to begin. "Did you know Ajax has a company?" I ask him, and Odysseus frowns. "What?" he asks. "Ajax designs racing brooms," I tell him, and he looks positively gobsmacked. "Fuck," he says, "I had no idea he even had any marketable skills."

2:36 p.m.: We ease into conversation. Firstly, I ask Odysseus something I forgot to ask this morning, which is why he's put so much space between Ajax's visits. He grimaces. "Because I wasn't sure this was what you really wanted," he said slowly, "and I wasn't ready to get invested again if there was still a possibility you might want something else."

2:40 p.m.: I think both of us understand that this only really works as a three person deal, which we seem to have equal hesitation about. "Do you have feelings for Ajax?" I ask him, and Odysseus' grimace deepens. "I wish I didn't," he says under his breath, and strangely, I'm relieved. There's a spark there—I know I feel it, even if I seem to be feeling entirely too much these days—and I think that if Odysseus can feel it, then there's definitely something fruitful here. "I think we should give ourselves the opportunity to fall in love with him," I say, parroting Ajax back to Odysseus, "and give him an opportunity to fall in love with us."

3:01 p.m.: Odysseus tucks one of my loose tendrils of hair behind my ear. "Does this mean no more Paris?" he asks. I bite my lip, struggling a bit. I would miss Paris badly; I do have feelings for him, even if those feelings, like all my other feelings, are impossible to name. I know there is a version of my life where I'm happy with Paris, but I don't know if it's this one. I don't seem to know very much at all. "I—" I start to say, but Odysseus cuts me off, bringing my lips to his. It's a bit more forceful than usual, his fingers tight in my hair, but I understand that it's an offering.

3:05 p.m.: "Call Ajax," I say when we part, and he nods breathlessly, turning to the Floo as I stand with my fingers pressed to my lips. "Odysseus," I call after him, and when he turns, the words come easily. "I love you," I say. His mouth twitches slightly. "I know," he says, and tosses some emerald powder onto the flames.

3:45 p.m.: "What the—" Ajax says when Odysseus yanks him inside, kissing him hard. "Finally," Odysseus growls impatiently. "My goodness," Ajax purrs, "you two are awfully—" He breaks off again when I take his face next, kissing his lips while Odysseus' tongue traces a line down the side of his neck. "Fuck, I forgot what I was saying," Ajax announces when we break apart, promptly stripping off his shirt.

10:45 p.m.: The three of us end the night in bed together, the sheets twisted around us, and maybe this isn't the love story I dreamed of as a child, but I don't think children have the requisite imagination for this. It's hard not to feel like I have everything I need when I have Ajax and Odysseus in my arms.

11:04 p.m.: I slip out when Odysseus and Ajax fall asleep. 'I need to talk to you tomorrow,' I say to Paris, but I don't wait for a response. I pull on a soft cashmere jumper that Cassandra is never getting back and I crawl back into my bed, curling myself around a sprawled-out Ajax and immediately falling asleep.

---

DAY SEVEN

6:45 a.m.: "You can take days off, you know," I mutter to Odysseus, but it's Ajax who's woken me up. "There's an owl at the window," he complains, and hands me two things: a copy of The Interest, which must have gone to press this morning, and a note from Cassandra: 'Come over as soon as you can. It's urgent.'

7:01 a.m.: I hurry to look reasonably presentable—and also manage to read the return note from Paris suggesting I come to his office again—and then slip through the Floo, completely forgetting to brush my teeth. Cassandra isn't a very needy friend; she doesn't ask for much. Since she asked for me today, I have to assume it's something relatively apocalyptic.

7:05 a.m.: At first glance: it is. Her house is in utter disarray, and she has a series of packing charms putting things into boxes. "You're moving?" I ask when I find her in her bedroom, and the look she gives me is thoroughly unreadable. She's not wearing any makeup or beauty charms and aside from her father's signet ring that she usually wears around her neck, she doesn't have any jewelry on. "I just did something terrible," she says.

7:25 a.m.: I make us some tea and Cassandra tells me the whole story. She has a friend, the person assigned to audit her (one of Paris' many brothers) that she's kept in contact with. "The audit is about to conclude," Cassandra says, "and there's a possibility I could go to Azkaban for financial crimes." I open my mouth to protest that there's no way in hell I'd allow it, but she holds up a hand to stop me. "He already told me that if I make a deal to disclose what I know about the money that's being hidden from multiple pureblood accounts, I can avoid prison time. I'll lose everything," she adds, gesturing wryly to her house, "but at least I won't, you know. Get my soul sucked."

7:35 a.m.: I gape at her. "Who's been hiding the money?" I ask, and one look from her tells me. "No," I gasp, because it means that if she turns him in, then one of our friends is going to be just as ruined as she is, and her earlier guilt makes vast amounts of sense to me. "You can't tell him," she warns me, and I wouldn't, but still. It's alarming. "What else did the Gringotts auditor say?" I press, and she shrugs. "He's a curse-breaker now, so he isn't handling my audit anymore," she tells me, and adds, anecdotally, that his brother's French wife has asked for a divorce from her husband so she can be a dragonologist in Romania. Apparently the two of them have been in love for some time. "Can you believe it?" Cassandra asks me, chuckling a little, and suddenly my heart drops into my stomach.

9:01 a.m.: Paris looks up when I walk into his office. "Good morn-" "Your wife is leaving you," I say flatly, and he opens his mouth to reply, but seems to find himself immediately empty-handed. "Your wife is leaving you and you didn't tell me," I snap, and I don't exactly know why I'm so angry, but gratifyingly, he recognizes my seething rage. "Listen," Paris offers, "does it matter who is doing the leaving? It's over with her," he tells me, stepping out from behind his desk to try to take me in his arms. "Now we can be together," he says, and that's when I realize what's made me so upset.

9:03 a.m.: I thought Paris had chosen me, but now I see he's chosen nothing, just as I had for so long. We're two beautiful people for whom life has been so easy we've never had to fight for what we want, and if I have been in torment over this, I have clearly been alone in that. Maybe I do deserve him, then, and he certainly deserves me, but for once in my life I'm realizing that that is not a good thing. I wish I could have been a little less beautiful if it meant I could be a little more strong.

9:05 a.m.: "You didn't choose me," I say hoarsely, as it occurs to me, finally, that I'm actually a very stupid idiot. But at least I figure it out with enough time to spare, so that I can save us both. "Maybe your marriage can't be saved," I remind him, "but mine can, and I don't want to settle for being your consolation prize."

9:15 a.m.: Paris holds me tighter, trying to pull me close and persisting that it's me he wants, but I shake my head. "I hope you find someone you would do something terrible for," I whisper to him. "I hope you find someone who makes you want to throw everything away for love of them," I say, "and I hope you feel nothing less than terror when you do." "Is that supposed to be some sort of curse?" he asks me drily, and I shake my head. "No," I tell him honestly, "but I think love is supposed to be ugly, or at least a little messy, because if it looks too perfect, then maybe there's something missing underneath."

9:34 a.m.: I wipe the tears from my eyes knowing my face is swollen, and that I am not a particularly lovely crier. Still, I think I look a little braver than I did before, and if I don't look it, then at least I feel it. I steady myself, taking a breath, and point myself home.

9:45 a.m.: "This is hysterical," Ajax is saying to Odysseus when I walk in. "I mean, it's poignant and shit, but whoever wrote this is definitely funny," he adds, taking a sip of his coffee. Odysseus looks up, noticing me in the frame and sparing me a small smile. "What are you reading?" he asks Ajax innocently, and I notice it's a copy of The Interest that's in his hand. "It's just this editorial," Ajax says, glancing over it, "but there's no author. It just says—" He breaks off, pausing, and a smile pulls at his lips before he glances up at me.

9:46 a.m.: "What?" I ask innocently, and Ajax gives me his cockiest grin. "The Nymph," he says, and gathers me in his arms, wrapping them around my ribs and lifting me up with a loud, growling yell. "You spectacular minx!" he shouts, and when he puts me down, I stumble back into Odysseus, who brushes his lips against my cheek. "I'm glad you wrote it," he tells me, and I turn to take his face in my hands.

9:51 a.m.: "I love you," I say to Odysseus, and then I reach around for Ajax, who's still ranting about how clever I've been. "And you," I tell him, pulling him close, "I choose you. Both of you." Odysseus gives me a questioning look, and I shake my head. "No one else," I promise, and he exhales, nodding with what I can now see has been hard-fought relief.

9:54 a.m.: "Lucky you have us for muses," Ajax tells me, his hands on my hips as I set my arms around Odysseus' neck. It's a moment that is both beautiful and good, and one that I want to revel in for as long as possible.

9:55 a.m.: Maybe there are other versions of my life that are prettier or more like a fairytale, but I find that this is the one I choose. "Lucky for me," I agree, and for once, every word of it is true.

---

a/n: Some new things: Nobility is now complete, and you can also find my book, Masters of Death, on Amazon, or by clicking the link at olivieblake dot com. Dedications for: karriebrook, kyonomiko, witchwing107, inizhay, 2009Lee. Thank you for reading!