The leather of the booth seat was cool against the backs of my thighs, a small shock that traveled up my spine as I settled in. The emerald silk of my dress whispered against the vinyl, riding up just enough that I felt the air on my skin. Across from me, Mom was already stirring her latte, watching me with that particular smile she got when she knew something I didn't.

"See?" She tilted her chin toward the counter, where the waiter was pretending to wipe down an already-clean espresso machine. His eyes kept flicking our way. Specifically, they kept dropping to the curve of my belly where the silk pulled tight, then to the exposed line of my thighs. "That's the power. They can't look away."

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, but I didn't look away from him. I held his gaze for a beat, letting him know I'd caught him, and watched the tips of his ears go red before he ducked back to his polishing.

"He's young," I said, reaching for my own cup. The ceramic was warm, almost too hot, and I wrapped both hands around it. "Probably my age."

"Probably." Mom took a sip of her latte, leaving a faint crescent of lipstick on the rim. "And he's never going to do anything about it. That's the other part of the power, baby. They look, they want, they imagine. But they don't touch."

"Because they're scared?"

"Because they know better." Her brown eyes glittered over the rim of her cup. "Because somewhere in that young man's head, he knows a woman like that is trouble. He knows he'd never be able to handle what he's asking for."

I laughed, and it came out lighter than I expected. The sound mingled with the low buzz of the café around us — the murmur of conversations at other tables, the hiss of the steam wand, the clink of cups being set down on saucers. The air smelled like roasted beans and something sweeter, a faint vanilla undertone that clung to the steam rising from my cup.

"And what exactly is he asking for?" I asked.

Mom set her cup down and leaned forward, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial register she used when she was about to say something deliciously filthy. "He's asking what it would be like to get between those thighs, sweetheart. He's wondering if you're as soft as you look, if you'd moan his name or if you'd be quiet. He's wondering if he could make you come."

The words hit me low in the belly, a pulse of something warm and familiar. I shifted on the leather seat, crossing my legs, and felt the silk slide against my skin.

"He's wondering," I said slowly, "if I'd let him."

"And would you?"

The question hung between us, playful but not entirely. I took a sip of my coffee — something dark and bitter, the way I'd learned to drink it these past weeks — and let the heat of it settle in my chest before I answered.

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe. If he asked nicely."

Mom's laugh was a low, throaty thing that drew glances from the nearest tables. "That's my girl. Keep them guessing. It drives them mad."

I ducked my head, smiling into my cup. It still surprised me sometimes, how easy this had become. How natural it felt to sit here with my mother, trading jokes that would have made me blush six weeks ago, wearing a dress that showed exactly how pregnant I was getting. The little bump was just starting to round under the silk, a secret I carried that the whole room could see if they looked closely enough.

"Speaking of driving them mad," Mom said, her voice dropping again, "did you see the way Marcus looked at you this morning when you came down in that robe?"

"The black one?"

"The black one." She shook her head slowly, like the memory was something she was savoring. "I thought he was going to cancel his meeting right there and take you back upstairs."

"He did cancel his meeting," I reminded her. "Just not for that."

"No." Mom's smile softened around the edges. "He did it so we could have breakfast together. The three of us."

The warmth in her voice made something in my chest loosen. I remembered this morning — Marcus at the head of the table, larger than life in his tailored suit, watching us with that heavy, possessive gaze as he'd pushed the plate of pastries toward me and told me to eat for two. He hadn't touched me, hadn't even kissed me, but the way he'd looked at me had been its own kind of claiming.

"He's different now," I said. "Since we told him about the baby."

"They all are." Mom picked up her cup again, cradling it in both hands. "Luther's been walking around like he's got something to protect. John keeps talking about names."

"Names?"

"Mm. He's got a list. Wants a boy so he can teach him how to throw a punch."

I laughed, imagining it — John with his pressed shirts and his gold tooth, bouncing a baby on his knee. "What about a girl?"

"He says a girl's even better. Says he'd spoil her rotten and break the kneecaps of any boy who looked at her."

"That sounds like him."

We shared a look, the kind that had become second nature between us — the acknowledgment that we knew these men in ways that surprised even us. That we'd seen the softness under the steel, the way they could be brutal and tender in the same breath.

"Speaking of looking," Mom murmured, her eyes flicking past my shoulder, "your waiter friend is at it again."

I didn't turn around. Instead, I let my gaze drift to the window beside us, where the late afternoon sun was filtering through the grimy glass, catching dust motes in its beam. In the reflection, I could see him — the young waiter, frozen mid-step with a tray in his hands, staring at the back of my head like he was trying to memorize the shape of it.

"He's cute," I said.

"He's harmless."

"That's what makes him cute."

Mom snorted into her latte. "You've been corrupted, baby."

"By you."

"By life." She set her cup down and reached across the table, her fingers brushing mine. "By men who know how to touch a woman. By learning what your body can do. That's not corruption, sweetheart. That's education."

I turned my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers. Her skin was warm, smooth, the same hands that had braided my hair this morning, that had smoothed lotion over my growing belly before I'd gotten dressed. The same hands that had taught me how to hold a man's gaze, how to make my voice go low and honeyed, how to tighten around a cock just before he finished.

"I love you," I said, and the words came out simpler than I meant them to.

Mom's eyes went soft. "I love you too, baby. More than you'll ever know."

For a moment, we just sat there, hands linked across the table, the café's noise fading to a distant hum. Then Mom squeezed my fingers and pulled back, reaching for her cup.

"Now." Her voice was brisk again, teasing. "Tell me what you thought about last night. When John had you up against the wall."

I felt the blush rise again, hotter this time. "Mom."

"What? I'm curious. He said you were noisy."

"He said that?"

"He said you were very noisy. And very wet."

I pressed my thighs together under the table, the memory flooding back — John's hands on my hips, lifting me like I weighed nothing, the wall cold against my back and his cock hot inside me. I'd been loud. I'd been so loud that Luther had come to the door to check on us, and John had just laughed and kept going, slower, deeper, making me scream his name until my throat was raw.

"He's got a big one," I said finally, keeping my voice low. "Bigger than I expected."

Mom's eyes lit up. "Right? The first time I had him, I thought he was going to split me in half."

"He almost did." I took a sip of my coffee to cool my throat. "But he's careful. He knows how to use it."

"That's the scary part." Mom leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The quiet ones always know how to use it. Luther's the same way. He doesn't say much, but when he's inside you, he's listening. He knows exactly what you need before you do."

The image rose unbidden — Luther's pale gray eyes watching me from between my thighs, his mouth curved in that rare, slow smile. I'd only had him once, that first night, and even now the memory made my pulse skip.

"I want to try again," I said. "With Luther. Properly."

Mom raised an eyebrow. "Properly?"

"Not as part of a group thing. Just... him. And me." I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I want to learn what he likes. What makes him tick."

"That's a good instinct." Mom nodded slowly. "Learning each of them individually. That's how you become indispensable."

"Is that what you did?"

"I had fourteen years, baby. I know every one of them better than they know themselves." She smiled, a little wicked. "I know which spot makes Marcus groan. I know how Luther likes his balls kissed. I know that John goes weak when you whisper his real name while he's inside you."

"His real name?"

"Jonathan. Only I call him that. Well —" She tilted her head. "Now you can too, if you want."

I filed that away, a small piece of ammunition for later. The café hummed around us, and I let myself sink into the moment — the warmth of the coffee, the weight of the silk dress, the low thrum of belonging that had become my new baseline. This was my life now. Sitting in cafés with my mother, talking about men's cocks and the best way to make them come, my belly round with a child who would grow up in that house, surrounded by those men.

It should have felt wrong. It didn't.

The young waiter was making his way toward us, a pot of coffee in his hand. I watched him approach, watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his eyes kept darting to my chest before snapping back to my face.

"More coffee?" His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"Please," Mom said, sliding her cup toward him. He filled it with hands that trembled just a little, then turned to me.

I held my cup out, letting my arm rise slowly, letting the neckline of my dress gape just slightly with the movement. His eyes dropped. His breath caught.

"Thank you," I said, and I put a little honey in it, the way Mom had taught me.

He swallowed again. "Can I — is there anything else you need?"

I met his eyes and held them. "Not right now."

He nodded, retreated, and nearly collided with a chair on his way back to the counter. I watched him go, feeling Mom's approving gaze on me.

"Perfect," she said. "You've got him wrapped around your finger and you didn't even have to touch him."

"It's the dress," I said. "And the belly."

"It's not the dress, baby." Mom's voice was warm. "It's you. The way you move now. The way you hold yourself. You've got that thing — that knowledge in your eyes that says you've been touched, you've been claimed, and nothing he could do would ever compare to what you've already had."

I let that settle in me, the truth of it. Six weeks ago, I was a college student who'd never even kissed a boy properly. Now I was here, pregnant by one of three men who owned me, sitting across from my mother who was also pregnant by them, trading secrets about the way they fucked.

"I think I'm getting used to it," I said. "This life."

"Good." Mom reached for her cup. "Because it's yours now. All of it."

I looked down at my hands, at the gold key necklace resting against my collarbone, catching the light. The weight of it was familiar now, a constant presence against my skin. The weight of belonging.

A movement at the counter caught my eye. The waiter wasn't alone anymore — there was a man standing beside him, older, broad-shouldered, in a coat that looked too heavy for the weather. He wasn't looking at the waiter, though. He was looking at us.

Not the way the young waiter had looked, all nervous hunger and barely contained want. This was different. This was assessment. This was a man who was used to looking at women and knowing exactly what he was seeing.

Mom must have felt it too, because she went still, her cup pausing halfway to her lips.

"Don't turn around," she said softly. "But we've got company."

"I see him." I kept my voice low, my eyes on the window's reflection. "Do you know him?"

"No." A pause. "But he knows us. Or he thinks he does."

The man was still staring. Not at my chest, not at my thighs. At my face. At Mom's face. Like he was trying to place us, trying to figure out where he'd seen us before.

"He might have seen us at the estate," I murmured. "One of the clients."

"Maybe." Mom's voice was carefully neutral. "Or maybe he's just a man who likes what he sees."

I watched his reflection in the window — the way he shifted his weight, the way his hand moved to adjust his collar. He was handsome, in a rough sort of way. Older than the waiter, probably around Marcus's age. Built like he'd done physical work at some point in his life, even if he'd traded it in for something else now.

"He's still staring," I said.

"Let him." Mom's voice dropped, warm and wicked again. "Let him look. He'll never touch what's theirs."

The words sent a thrill through me, sharp and electric. Theirs. The men who owned me. The men who'd put this child in my belly. The men who were waiting for me back at the estate, who would want to hear every detail of my afternoon when I got home.

My hand moved without thinking, finding the neckline of my dress. I tugged it down, just a little, just enough that the curve of my breasts showed above the silk. The man's eyes followed the movement. His jaw tightened.

Mom laughed, low and pleased. "That's my girl."

I held the man's gaze in the window's reflection, letting him see me see him. Letting him wonder. Letting him want.

He would never touch what was theirs.

But he could look.

And I could let him.

I let my fingers find the strap of my dress, hooking one finger under the silk and pulling it down slow — an inch, then another — until the curve of my left breast was almost fully bare above the neckline. The nipple grazed the fabric with every breath I took, a small, deliberate tease that I could feel in my own pulse.

"Jesus, baby," Mom breathed, half-laughing. "You're going to give that man a heart attack."

"He's still watching?"

"He hasn't blinked in about thirty seconds."

I shifted in my seat, letting my thighs part just slightly beneath the table, then reached down and gathered the hem of my dress in my fingers. The emerald silk rode up my legs an inch at a time, climbing past my knees, past the tops of my thighs, until I could feel the cool air of the café against the bare skin of my hips.

No panties. I hadn't worn any today — a choice Mom had made for me this morning, sliding her hand up my thigh as I'd stood in front of the mirror and telling me that a woman who belonged to three men didn't need to hide anything.

The stranger's reflection in the window shifted. His jaw tightened. His hand, resting on the counter, curled into a fist.

"He saw," I murmured.

"Of course he saw." Mom's voice was honey and smoke. "He's a man. He's probably wondering what you taste like."

"You think he's imagining it?"

"I know he is, sweetheart. He's imagining spreading your legs right here on this table and burying his face between them. He's wondering if you're shaved or hairy, if you're tight or loose, if you'd soak his chin the way you're soaking the seat of that booth right now."

I pressed my thighs together, and she was right — I was wet. The thought of being watched, of being wanted by a stranger who couldn't touch me, had my cunt clenching around nothing.

"Maybe I should give him a show," I said.

Mom's eyes glittered. "What kind of show?"

"The kind where he goes home and jerks off in the shower thinking about me."

"That's my girl." She leaned back, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, settling in to watch. "Go on then, baby. Show him what he can't have."

I let my knees fall open beneath the table, just enough that if the stranger moved closer, if he craned his neck just right, he might catch a glimpse of the dark triangle between my thighs. The silk of my dress pooled around my hips, and I felt the air on my bare cunt, cool and teasing.

The stranger's reflection moved. He was walking toward us.

"He's coming over," I said, not taking my eyes off the window.

"I see that." Mom didn't move. "Let him."

His footsteps approached — heavy, deliberate, the tread of a man who didn't hurry for anyone. I kept my legs where they were, open and bare beneath the table, and reached for my coffee cup as if I hadn't a care in the world.

He stopped at the edge of our booth. Up close, he was even bigger than he'd looked in the reflection — broad shoulders under that heavy coat, a jaw that looked like it had been carved from stone, eyes the color of old whiskey that swept over me once, slow and thorough, before settling on my face.

"Ladies." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "I don't mean to intrude."

"Then don't," Mom said sweetly, not looking up from her cup.

A ghost of a smile crossed his mouth. "I just had to come over. Had to see if you were real."

"Real?" I tilted my head, letting my hair fall over my shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"A woman like you —" He gestured vaguely at me, at the dress, at the bare curve of my breast still showing above the silk. "You don't see that every day. Especially not —" His eyes dropped to my belly, where the bump rounded the fabric. "Especially not like that."

"Like what?"

"Pregnant." He said the word like it was something precious. "And still so beautiful. That's rare."

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, but I didn't look away. "Thank you."

"My name's Dominic." He held out a hand, and I took it — his palm was rough, calloused, warm. "I own the cigar shop two doors down. I come here every afternoon for the espresso."

"Martha." I let my fingers linger in his. "This is my mother, Anna."

His eyes flicked to Mom, then back to me. Something shifted in his expression — not surprise, exactly. More like appreciation. Like he'd just been given a gift he hadn't expected.

"Mother," he repeated. "You don't look old enough to have a daughter this grown."

Mom laughed, that low, throaty sound. "Flattery will get you everywhere, sugar."

"I'm not flattering. I'm stating facts." He was still holding my hand. I could feel his thumb moving against my palm, slow and deliberate. "A man would be lucky to have either of you. To have both —" He shook his head. "That's not luck. That's a blessing."

"We're already spoken for," I said, and I watched his eyes darken at the words.

"I figured as much. A woman like you doesn't stay unclaimed for long." He released my hand, but he didn't step back. "Your men — they treat you well?"

"Very well." I let my knees fall open a fraction wider, just enough that he might catch the glint of wetness between my thighs. "They take care of us. All of us."

"All of you?" His brow furrowed.

"Me and Mom." I let the words hang. "We share them."

Something flickered in his eyes — surprise, then hunger, then something darker. He looked at Mom, then back at me, and I could see him putting the pieces together, imagining what that must look like. Mother and daughter. Same men.

"That's —" He cleared his throat. "That's something."

"It is," Mom agreed. She set down her cup and leaned forward, letting the neckline of her burgundy dress gape just slightly. "We're very well taken care of. We want for nothing."

"Except maybe a little entertainment," I added, and I watched his throat work as he swallowed.

"What kind of entertainment?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I reached down and gathered the hem of my dress again, pulling it up slow, inch by inch, until the tops of my thighs were bare and I could feel his eyes on my skin like a physical touch.

"The kind where a man watches," I said, "and knows he'll never touch."

His breath caught. I saw it — the way his chest stilled, the way his pupils blew wide. He was imagining it now, I could tell. Imagining what it would be like to get between my legs, to taste the wetness he could probably smell from where he stood.

"You're a cruel woman, Martha," he said, and his voice was rougher now. "Showing a man something he can't have."

"I'm not showing you anything." I let the dress fall back into place, smoothing it over my thighs. "You're looking. That's your choice."

"And if I chose to look a little longer?"

"Then you'd be wasting your time." I reached for my coffee, took a sip, let the warmth settle in my chest. "Because I belong to three men who wouldn't hesitate to break your hands if they found out you were looking at me like that."

Something shifted in his expression — a flicker of caution, maybe even fear. But he didn't step back.

"Three men," he repeated. "That's a lot of cock for one woman."

Mom laughed, delighted. "She handles it well, sugar. Better than I did at her age."

"I've had practice," I said, and I let my voice drop, let it go low and honeyed. "They keep me full."

Dominic's jaw tightened. I could see the bulge forming in his trousers, could see the way he was fighting to keep his composure.

"You're trying to torture me," he said.

"I'm not trying anything." I set down my cup and leaned back in the booth, letting my hands rest on the curve of my belly. "I'm just sitting here with my mother, having a cup of coffee. You're the one who came over."

"I came over because I couldn't help myself." He took a step closer, and now he was close enough that I could smell him — expensive cologne, cigar smoke, something warm and masculine underneath. "Because I saw you sitting here, all that bare skin and that round belly, and I thought to myself: that's a woman who knows exactly what she wants."

"And what do you think I want?"

"I think you want to be watched." His voice was low, intimate. "I think you like the feeling of a man's eyes on you, knowing he wants you but can't have you. I think it makes you wet."

My breath caught. He was right, and he knew it.

"Maybe I do," I said. "But that doesn't mean you get to do anything about it."

"I know." He held up his hands, a gesture of surrender. "I'm not asking for anything. I just —" He paused, searching for words. "I just wanted to tell you that you're beautiful. Both of you. And that your men are lucky bastards."

Mom smiled, warm and genuine. "Thank you, Dominic. That's very sweet."

"Sweet isn't usually my style." He glanced at me, and there was something almost vulnerable in his eyes. "But you bring it out in me."

I felt a flutter in my chest — not desire, exactly, but something softer. Something almost tender.

"You should go," I said gently. "Before you say something you'll regret."

He nodded, stepping back. "It was a pleasure, ladies. Truly."

He turned and walked away, and I watched him go — the broad shoulders, the confident stride, the way he didn't look back even though I could tell he wanted to.

"Well," Mom said, picking up her cup. "That was interesting."

"He was nice."

"He was horny."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

Mom laughed. "True. But he's not for us, baby. He's a one-woman man, and we belong to three."

"I know." I reached for my coffee, took a sip. "I wasn't thinking about taking him home. I was just —" I paused, searching for the right word. "Enjoying the attention."

"That's fair." Mom's eyes softened. "It's nice to be wanted, isn't it? Even if you can't act on it."

"Especially then." I set down my cup, ran my hand over the curve of my belly. "Knowing they want you and can't have you — that's its own kind of power."

"That's what I've been trying to teach you." Mom reached across the table, squeezed my hand. "Power doesn't always mean saying yes. Sometimes it means saying no. Sometimes it means letting them look and knowing they'll never touch."

I nodded, letting her words settle in me. The café hummed around us, the afternoon light slanting through the grimy windows, and I felt — for the first time in weeks — like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I watched Dominic walk away, the sway of his shoulders, the way his hands stayed loose at his sides even though I could tell he was wound tight. The bulge in his trousers hadn't fully settled, and I felt a small, wicked thrill knowing I'd put it there.

"He's going to think about that all day," Mom said, her voice low and amused. "Probably tonight too."

"Good." I picked up my coffee, let the warmth seep through the ceramic. "Let him."

"You're a natural, you know that?" She leaned back in the booth, the burgundy silk of her dress shifting over her curves. "The way you let him look, let him think he had a chance. That's the game, baby. The tease is the whole point."

"I learned from the best." I smiled at her over the rim of my cup. "You taught me everything I know about making a man ache."

Mom's eyes glittered. "Not everything. There's still a few tricks I haven't shown you yet."

"Like what?"

She reached for her own cup, took a slow sip, and I watched her throat work as she swallowed. "Like how to make them beg. Not just want — beg. There's a difference."

"Show me."

"Not here." She set the cup down, ran a finger along the rim. "But I can tell you a story. About a man who thought he was in charge, thought he was the one calling the shots. And how I had him on his knees by the end of the night."

I leaned in, my elbows on the table. "Tell me."

Mom's smile widened, slow and knowing. "It was about three years ago. Marcus had a business associate — a man named Vincent. Big man, loud, always had his hand on his gun like he was expecting a fight. He came to the estate to discuss a deal, and Marcus wanted me to keep him company while they talked business."

"Keep him company."

"You know what that means." She shrugged, a small, elegant motion. "I was wearing a black dress that night. Short, tight, showed off everything. Vincent couldn't stop staring at my legs. Every time I crossed them, his eyes would go dark."

"And?"

"And nothing. For the first hour, I just sat there. Let him look. Let him imagine. Every time he got too bold, I'd pull back. Give him a little, then take it away." She paused, took another sip of coffee. "By the time Marcus left the room to take a phone call, Vincent was practically vibrating."

"What did you do?"

"I stood up. Walked over to the bar. Poured myself a drink. And I let my dress ride up just a little when I bent over." Mom's eyes were far away now, lost in the memory. "He was on me before I could turn around. Hands on my hips, breath hot on my neck. He thought he was going to take me right there, bent over the bar."

"But you didn't let him."

"I didn't let him." She smiled, slow and satisfied. "I turned around, put my hand on his chest, and pushed him back. Just a little. Just enough to make him stop. And I said, 'Not yet.'"

"What did he do?"

"He nearly lost his mind. He was so used to getting what he wanted, so used to women who spread their legs the moment he snapped his fingers. And here I was, telling him no. Telling him to wait." Mom's voice dropped, low and honeyed. "I made him wait two hours. Two hours of teasing, of giving him just enough to keep him hard, of pulling away before he could take more. By the time Marcus came back, Vincent was on his knees, begging me to let him taste me."

I felt a warmth spread through me, low and insistent. "And did you let him?"

"I let him earn it." Mom's smile was sharp. "I made him say please. Made him tell me I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Made him promise he'd do anything I asked. And then — only then — I let him put his mouth on me."

I shifted in my seat, the heat between my thighs growing. "And Marcus? What did he think?"

"He watched. The whole time. And when Vincent came up for air, Marcus just looked at me and said, 'That's my girl.'" Mom reached across the table, took my hand. "That's the power, baby. It's not about giving them what they want. It's about making them wait for it. Making them prove they deserve it."

"I want to learn that."

"You already have it in you." She squeezed my hand. "I saw it tonight, the way you handled Dominic. You didn't give him anything, and he was ready to crawl across the floor for you. That's a gift, Martha. Not every woman has it."

"I had a good teacher."

"And you'll be better than me." Mom's eyes softened. "You've got something I didn't have at your age. You're not afraid of your own hunger."

I felt a blush creep up my cheeks, but I didn't look away. "I'm not."

"Good." Mom released my hand, leaned back. "Because we're going to need that hunger tonight. Marcus texted me while you were torturing Dominic."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"He wants us home by eight. Says he's got a surprise for us." Mom's smile turned wicked. "And he said to wear something… comfortable."

"Comfortable." I laughed, low and knowing. "That's code for easy to take off."

"That's exactly what it's code for." Mom picked up her cup, drained the last of her coffee. "And I have a feeling it's going to be a long night."

I finished my own coffee, set the cup down with a soft click. The afternoon light had shifted, growing golden, the café emptying out around us. The waitress had stopped glancing our way, and the only sound was the hiss of the espresso machine and the low murmur of conversation from the few remaining patrons.

"What kind of surprise?" I asked, watching Mom's face.

"I don't know." She shrugged, but there was a glint in her eye. "But it's not every day Marcus uses the word 'surprise.' He's more of a 'here's what's happening' kind of man."

"You think it's something good?"

"I think it's something." Mom stood, smoothing her dress over her hips. "And I think we're going to find out."

I rose too, grabbing my purse. The gold key necklace shifted against my collarbone, warm from my skin. I touched it without thinking, the familiar weight grounding me.

"You ready for whatever he's got planned?" I asked.

Mom looked at me, and for a moment, I saw something flicker in her eyes — something that might have been nerves, or excitement, or both. Then it was gone, replaced by her usual confident mask.

"I'm ready for anything," she said. "Are you?"

I thought about it — really thought about it. About the men who owned us, about the babies growing in our bellies, about the life we'd chosen, the life we were still choosing, every single day.

And I smiled.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm ready."