The brunch was in full swing, the table laden with mimosas and smoked salmon, but Marcus was barely eating.
For a man like Marcus, a room filled with three stunning, intelligent, and mysterious women was better than any meal.
He was the classic "Playboy" of the group—charming, slightly arrogant, and convinced that he was the main character in every story.
He didn't see the tactical scars hidden by the silk sleeves; he only saw a challenge. He decided to start with Lucy, thinking the "quiet one" next to the tech-focused Chris would be the easiest to impress.
Marcus leaned against the marble island where Lucy was sipping a glass of chilled juice. He gave her his "Level 7"smoulderr—the one he usually reserved for runway models.
"So, Lucy," Marcus began, his voice dropping into a smooth, practised baritone.
"Chris tells me you're the brains behind the analytical wing. That's a lot of pressure for someone so... delicate. Don't you find all that data a bit cold? A girl like you should be focusing on the finer things. I have a villa in Tuscany that's practically begging for someone with your aesthetic."
Lucy didn't even blink. She tilted her head, her analytical mind already stripping Marcus down to his basic components.
"Actually, Marcus, I find the coldness of data quite refreshing. It doesn't lie to you, and it doesn't try to use outdated pick-up lines from a 2012 lifestyle blog to get attention."
Chris, standing nearby, choked on his champagne. Marcus's smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
"Ouch," Marcus laughed it off, leaning closer.
"Sharp. I like that. But seriously, a villa, the sun, no servers in sight. Just you and a man who knows how to appreciate the... finer details."
"Statistically speaking," Lucy replied, her voice sweet but surgical, "there is a 94% chance that I would be bored within twenty minutes of arrival. And a 100% chance that I would find your security system laughably easy to bypass. But thanks for the offer. It's very... vintage."
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Defeated but not discouraged, Marcus pivoted toward Kristen. She was leaning against the sofa, watching Jake with an expression of pure, relaxed adoration.
"Now you," Marcus said, sliding into the seat next to her.
"Kristen, right? You have this energy. Very... intense. Like a panther. I bet you're the type who likes a man who can handle a bit of danger. I just picked up a limited-edition Italian superbike. 200 miles per hour on the coastal highway. Does that sound like your kind of thrill?"
Kristen turned her gaze toward him. It was the look of a predator watching a particularly loud beetle. She didn't look at his bike; she looked at the way his pulse was jumping in his neck.
"200 miles per hour?" Kristen asked, her voice dangerously soft.
"That's cute, Marcus. But speed is easy. It's the stopping that's hard. And I don't like being a passenger."
"I could teach you," Marcus offered, reaching out to playfully touch her shoulder.
Before his fingers could even graze the fabric of her shirt, Kristen's hand moved. It was a blur. One second Marcus was reaching out; the next, Kristen had his wrist in a grip that felt like a steel vice, her thumb pressed precisely against a pressure point that made his whole arm go numb.
"I don't need lessons, Marcus," she smiled, her eyes twinkling with a dark, playful light.
"And Jake is very protective of his 'panther.' You might want to keep your hands on your drink."
Jake, standing behind Marcus, didn't even say a word. He just placed a massive hand on Marcus's other shoulder and squeezed gently.
Marcus turned pale. "Right. Hands on the drink. Safety first. Got it."
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Finally, Marcus retreated to the relative 'safety' of Jason and Alicia. He figured that since Jason was the leader, Alicia would be the most traditional "First Lady" of the group—composed, polite, and perhaps susceptible to a bit of high-society flattery.
"Jason, old pal, you've done well for yourself," Marcus said, holding up his glass to Alicia.
"Alicia, I've seen the way you carry yourself. You have the poise of a diplomat. I'm hosting a charity gala next month—very exclusive. I need someone with your... grace to help me navigate the sharks. Jason won't mind sharing you for one evening, will you, buddy?"
Jason just grinned, leaning back and pulling Alicia closer into his side. "She's not mine to 'share,' Marcus. But feel free to try your luck."
Alicia laughed, a sound that was light and genuinely happy. She leaned forward, her eyes locked on Marcus's. "A charity gala? That sounds lovely, Marcus. Truly. However, I spent many years being exactly what people wanted me to be. These days, I only go where I'm wanted as myself."
"And I want you there!" Marcus insisted, feeling like he was finally making progress.
"No," Alicia said, her voice dropping into that "Ghost" register—cold, clear, and absolute.
"You want a trophy. You want someone to make you look important. I've killed men more important than you for less than that, Marcus."
The room went dead silent. Marcus's glass stopped halfway to his mouth. Alicia paused, then broke into a wide, charming grin, patting Marcus's hand.
"I'm joking, of course! You should see your face. It's the champagne talking."
Jason burst out laughing, and soon Chris and Jake joined in. The ladies were beaming, enjoying the sport of dismantling the Playboy.
Marcus, for the first time in his life, looked completely out of his depth. He sat back, looking at his three friends. He had come here thinking they were "settling down."
He realised now they hadn't settled at all—they had levelled up.
"You guys," Marcus muttered, taking a long drink.
"I don't know where you found them, but I think I'm going to need a lot more alcohol to survive this brunch. They're terrifying."
"No," Jason said, pulling Alicia into a deep, lingering kiss right in front of him. "They're perfect."
The sisters shared a glance, a secret silent bond between them. They had defeated the Master's darkness, and now they were having the time of their lives dismantling a civilian's ego.
They were happy. They were safe. And they were definitely the ones in charge.