The Crushing Call

***Bryony Hinsley POV***

Warm, heavy hands jostle my shoulder, breaking through the dark, heavy fog of my exhaustion. I jerk upright on the brown leather lounge, gasping for air as if I had just breached the surface of a deep pool. The sudden movement sends the thick manila files resting on my lap sliding off my legs. Paper spills across the carpet, the documents scattering in a messy pile around my bare feet.

Shit. I fell asleep.

I scramble to my feet, my pulse hammering against my ribs in a sudden spike of panic. Darius stands over my disheveled form, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the coffee table. He looks taken aback by my chaotic appearance. My hair is a tangled mess, my clothes are wrinkled beyond salvation, and my skin feels sticky with dried sweat. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head at me. I fight a desperate urge to yawn and stretch my stiff spine.

"You were supposed to head home," Darius scolds, his deep voice vibrating in the quiet office. "Have you been working all night?"

"Shit," I breathe out, my hands leaping up to cover my mouth at the curse word slipping out in front of my boss. "I must have dozed off... Just give me a minute. I will get cleaned up for the meeting."

Before I can make a move toward the bathroom, the heavy oak doors of the office swing open. Dorian steps into the room, looking immaculate. He wears a tailored grey suit that hugs his broad shoulders perfectly, his hair styled without a single strand out of place. The sharp contrast between his pristine appearance and my raccoon-eyed, sleep-deprived state makes my stomach twist. He stops, taking in my appearance. He raises a single, dark eyebrow at Darius.

"She fell asleep working," Darius states, his tone laced with clear disapproval over my failure to go home.

If only they knew the truth. I sleep here every single night, just not up here in this luxurious executive suite. I force a bitter smile to my lips at the thought. If they think finding me asleep on their leather couch is crazy, they would lose their minds if they knew the underground concrete car park is my current residence.

Dorian does not say a word. He closes the distance between us in three long strides. He moves with a fluid, predatory grace that always puts me on edge. Coming to a halt right in front of me, he reaches out and grips the hem of my wrinkled blouse.

I squeak at the sudden invasion of my personal space and try to step back, but he is faster. Without a shred of hesitation, Dorian grips the bottom of the fabric tightly. His cold knuckles brush against the bare skin of my stomach, sending a hard shiver up my spine. In one swift, unbroken motion, he pulls the blouse right over my head.

The cool air conditioning of the office bites into my heated skin. I stand there, wide-eyed and exposed in nothing but my purple lace bra and my work skirt. My jaw drops in shock. I bring my hands up frantically, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the sheer lace and the deep plunge of my cleavage from his lingering gaze. I have great breasts, but that does not mean I want them displayed to my billionaire bosses in the middle of a workday.

Dorian just stares, an unreadable expression flashing through his eyes, while Darius moves toward the far wall. Darius presses his hand against a seemingly seamless wood panel. A hidden door pops open, revealing a built-in closet. No matter the massive amount of time I have spent working inside this specific room, I never knew that wall held a hidden compartment. A row of crisp men's dress shirts hangs neatly on a metal rail inside.

Grabbing a white shirt off a hanger, Darius walks back over and stops right in front of me. Dorian shifts to my side, crossing his arms over his chest, simply watching the exchange. Darius reaches down to pull my hands away from my chest. I pull back hard, stepping out of his reach, refusing to uncover my breasts.

Darius steps closer, crowding my space. His eyes grow darker under the harsh fluorescent lighting, the golden flecks in his irises swirling with an intense, commanding authority that makes me squirm.

"We have a meeting in five minutes, and you cannot go in there looking like that," Darius states, reaching for my wrists again.

"I can dress myself," I shoot back, reaching for the white shirt with one hand while keeping my other arm clamped tightly over my purple lace bra.

The second my hand leaves my chest, Darius moves. He grabs my wrist in a firm, unyielding grip, shoves my arm straight through the sleeve of the shirt, and spins me around so fast my head spins. Before I can process the movement, he forces my other arm through the second sleeve. Defeated by his sheer speed and strength, I drop my hands and let him finish dressing me. He pulls the lapels together over my exposed skin. I try to steady my racing heart. I am not their type anyway; it is not like they are going to stand here and gawk at my chest.

"I suppose it does not matter," I mutter, trying to justify my half-naked vulnerability and the intense embarrassment burning my cheeks. "With you both being gay and all."

Darius’s large hands freeze instantly. His knuckles rest right against the bare skin of my chest, his fingers stalled on the button located right between my breasts.

Dorian lets out a sudden snort from my side. He covers his mouth, stifling a laugh, a deeply amused grin breaking across his handsome face. I watch them in silence, feeling a spike of annoyance. They seem to find my statement hilarious, and I hate being left out of the joke. I raise an eyebrow at Darius, who still has his hand resting against my cleavage, his gaze focused intently on the white plastic button.

"What?" I ask, my tone sharper than intended.

"We aren't gay," Darius states, a slow, wicked smirk touching the corner of his lips. He finally meets my gaze, his dark eyes locking onto mine before he looks back down and finishes buttoning the shirt up to my collarbone.

My face burns. A rush of pure heat floods my neck and cheeks. My jaw drops. I have worked here for months, navigating their strange dynamic, fully convinced they were a couple. How did I read the situation so wrong?

"You're not gay?" I ask, incredulous, my eyebrows practically disappearing into my hairline.

"Definitely not gay," Dorian chimes in, stepping close enough to grab the long sleeves of the oversized shirt. He begins rolling the cuffs up my forearms, his cold fingers brushing my skin. "We both like women."

I just stood half-naked in front of my bosses. My purple lace bra was on full display. I feel mortified. This entire situation is a corporate nightmare, a lawsuit waiting to happen, though I would never actually sue them. I need this paycheck to keep my mother alive. But the sheer embarrassment makes me want to sink into the floorboards.

"But I saw you," I blurt out like word vomit, unable to stop my mouth from running. "I saw you kissing his neck."

Darius raises an eyebrow at me, letting his hands drop to his sides. "Not everything you see is what it appears to be, Bryony."

"Well, I am pretty sure I did not imagine that," I argue, taking a small step back. "And you both live together."

Dorian steps up right behind me. He moves so silently I do not hear his footsteps. His tall frame cages me in, and he leans his head down. "We share a home," Dorian whispers, his cold breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of my neck, making me shiver from head to toe. "But that's not all we like to share. We like women too."

My breath catches in my throat. I shake my head, unable to process the heavy, charged implication hanging in the air. Grabbing my scattered files from the floor, I turn and walk straight out of the office. As the door clicks shut behind me, I hear the distinct sound of two deep, rumbling chuckles trailing after me.

The budget meeting drags on for agonizing hours. I sit at the end of the long conference table, drowning in Darius’s oversized white shirt. A few executives turn their heads to stare at my unusual attire when I first walk in, but nobody dares to utter a single word. Darius and Dorian flank me, their presence casting a heavy, intimidating shadow over the entire boardroom. The sheer power they exude keeps the room in line.

By the time the meeting finally adjourns, my nerves are frayed. I gather my notes and practically flee back to the sanctuary of my desk. I drop the heavy binders onto the wood surface and let out a long sigh, running a hand over my tired face.

Then, my desk phone rings.

The caller ID flashes the hospital’s main line. I snatch the receiver off the cradle, my heart skipping a beat. I answer without hesitation. "Hello?"

"Bryony, it's me. Tessa," the voice on the other end says.

Her tone is tight, urgent, and she speaks in a rushed breath that sends an immediate spike of dread straight into my veins. I have been waiting for this call for weeks, dreading the eventual outcome, but I did not expect the hammer to fall today.

"What is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.

"The Bioethics Review Board ruled against you," Tessa says, the words spilling out in a devastating rush. "They have decided to turn your mother’s life support off. They ruled it is no longer medically viable to have her remain on the machines."

All the air vanishes from my lungs. A heavy, crushing pressure caves in my chest, pinning me to the chair. I prepared myself for this exact moment. I told myself I was ready to say goodbye. But hearing the finality of the decision, the cold, clinical ruling of a board of strangers dictating my mother’s death, shatters that illusion.

I cannot breathe. A loud ringing starts in my ears, drowning out the ambient noise of the office. I am hyperventilating. The room spins around me, the edges of my vision turning black. I cannot afford to pass out. I have to stay conscious. My mother needs me. My stomach drops, a sickening sensation of freefall taking over my body.

I grip the plastic phone receiver so hard my knuckles turn stark white, the joints aching from the pressure.

"Whee... When?" I stammer, my voice shaking so badly the word barely sounds human.

"Tonight, Bryony. I am so sorry," Tessa whispers.

I drop the phone. The receiver clatters onto the desk. Blind panic swallows me whole. I operate on pure, adrenaline-fueled autopilot. I grab my purse, my keys, and my phone, shoving them together in a messy pile. My hands shake uncontrollably. I stumble away from the desk, my legs feeling like lead as I practically run down the hallway toward the elevator bank.

I need to get to the hospital. I need to get to her side before they pull the plug.

I reach the polished steel doors and slam my palm against the call button, struggling to draw oxygen into my tight lungs. The digital display dings. The heavy doors slide apart.

Darius and Dorian stand inside the car. They are in the middle of a conversation, but the moment the doors open and they see me standing there, their words die in their throats. I step into the elevator, forcing my way between their large frames.

Dorian takes one look at my pale, tear-streaked face and the frantic, shallow way my chest heaves. He reaches out for me, his large hand extending toward my shoulder to offer comfort.

I throw my shaking hands up, shoving the empty air between us, rejecting the contact. The intense sexual vulnerability from this morning is entirely gone, replaced by world-ending grief.

"Don't touch me," I stammer, my voice cracking under the weight of my panic. "I... I need to go."

I spin around and frantically mash the ground floor button with my thumb, hitting the plastic panel over and over again. I step back, pressing my spine against the back wall of the elevator. Darius and Dorian step back as well, their faces etched with deep, heavy concern. They watch me in stunned silence as the metal doors slowly begin to slide shut. I do not care about explaining the situation. I do not care about their questions or their sudden worry. All I care about is watching the gap close, cutting them off, so I can escape this building and get to my mum.