Bisexual Blaze

I’m not supposed to be here.

That’s the first thought that cuts through the champagne buzz in my head as I step through the sliding glass doors of the De Vere estate. The air hits me, cool and salt-tinged from the ocean, and I stop dead on the marble threshold. The party is already a living thing, spilling from the main house onto the manicured lawn where fairy lights twinkle like captured stars. Laughter and the clink of glasses form a rhythm, a heartbeat.

My sister Helen is holding court near the infinity pool, a glass of red wine dangling from her fingers like a scepter. She’s laughing at something a man in a linen suit has said, her head tilted back, that platinum hair catching the light. She’s a predator in elegant clothing, all sharp angles and soft curves wrapped in a black silk dress that hugs every inch of her 5'8" frame. She spots me the second I step into the glow.

Her smile doesn’t waver. It deepens.

“Amy.” My name, spoken like a command and a welcome all at once. She excuses herself from the man with a touch to his arm, a dismissal so graceful he doesn’t even realize he’s been dropped. She glides toward me, barefoot on the warm stone, and I feel the familiar pull in my gut. The one that’s been there since I was sixteen and first understood what the heat in her gaze really meant.

“You came,” she says, stopping inches from me. She smells like jasmine and something darker, something I can’t name. She always smells like that.

“You said it was important.” I try to keep my voice light, but it comes out rough. I’m still in my travel clothes, a fitted white tank top and black leggings, my blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. I look like I just got off a plane. Because I did. She knows that.

She reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Her fingers linger on my jaw. “It is.”

The touch sends a current straight down my spine. I hate how easily she does this. How my body responds before my brain can catch up. I’m not a shy girl anymore. I’ve been around the world. I’ve had lovers in five different countries, men and women who knew what they were doing. But Helen is the only one who can make me feel like I’m sixteen again, trembling and curious and terrified of how much I want.

“You’re tense,” she says. Her thumb brushes my collarbone. “Come inside. I’ll get you a drink.”

I follow her because that’s what I always do. Through the crowd of beautiful people, past the bar where a man in a vest is shaking cocktails with theatrical flair, into the house. The music shifts as we move, from the thumping bass outside to something smoother, jazzier, coming from the living room. The house is a monument to taste, minimal but warm, with floor-to-ceiling windows that make the ocean feel like a painting on the wall.

She leads me to a study off the main hall. The door clicks shut behind us, and the party becomes a muffled hum.

“Sit.” She gestures to a leather armchair.

I don’t sit. I cross my arms. “What’s going on, Helen? You don’t summon me across the Atlantic for a party.”

She sets her wine glass down on the mahogany desk and turns to face me. Her hazel eyes catch the lamplight, and there’s something new in them. Something I haven’t seen before. Nerves. Barely there, but I know her. I know every micro-expression she’s ever made.

“I’m getting married,” she says.

The words hit me like a serve to the chest. I blink. “What?”

“Married. To Jake.” She says his name like I should know it. Like it should mean something.

It doesn’t.

“Who the hell is Jake?”

A slow smile spreads across her face. The nervousness is gone, replaced by that familiar mischievous gleam. “You’ll meet him tonight. He’s... something else.”

“You’ve been engaged for how long? And you didn’t tell me?”

“Three weeks.” She picks up her wine again, takes a sip. “I’m telling you now.”

“That’s bullshit.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “You don’t just drop a bomb like that and expect me to be fine.”

She sets the glass down and walks toward me. Each step is deliberate, measured. She stops when we’re chest to chest, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. Her hand comes up, fingers trailing along my jaw, tilting my face up to meet her gaze.

“I’m not asking you to be fine,” she says, her voice low. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Trust you?” My voice cracks. “You ghosted me for six months. Six months, Helen. I thought you were dead. I thought you’d finally gone too far with one of your clients.”

She flinches. It’s small, but I catch it. Good.

“I had to,” she says. “There were things I needed to handle. Things I couldn’t tell you about until they were settled.”

“Like a fiancé?”

“Like a partner.” She steps back, and the space between us feels electric. “Jake isn’t just some man I met. He’s... we have an arrangement. An understanding.”

I stare at her. “What kind of understanding?”

The door opens before she can answer.

He walks in like he owns the room. Tall, 6'2" easy, with a build that speaks to hours in a gym. Dark hair, a little messy, and warm brown skin that glows under the soft light. He’s wearing a black leather jacket over a simple white t-shirt, jeans that fit him like they were made for his body. His eyes find me first, dark and curious, and there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It’s not a polite smile. It’s the kind of smile that says he already knows something I don’t.

“You must be Amy,” he says. His voice is deep, smooth, with a British accent that softens the edges. “Helen’s told me everything about you.”

Everything. The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication.

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

He steps into the room, and the space shrinks. He moves with an easy confidence, the kind that comes from never having to prove anything. He stops beside Helen and puts a hand on her lower back. The gesture is possessive, intimate. She leans into it.

“I was just telling her about the wedding,” Helen says.

Jake’s eyes don’t leave mine. “And how did she take it?”

“About as well as expected.”

He laughs, a low, warm sound. “Fair enough.” He extends a hand to me. “It’s good to finally meet you, Amy. For real.”

I take his hand. His grip is firm, warm. His thumb brushes across my knuckles, and there’s something deliberate in the touch. A question. A test.

“You’ve heard about me?” I ask.

“Helen doesn’t shut up about you.” He glances at her, and the look they share is loaded. “She talks about you like you’re the one who got away.”

The air in the room changes. Thickens.

Helen steps closer to me, her hand finding my waist. “Because you are.”

I should push her away. I should walk out of this room, out of this house, and get on the next flight back to wherever I came from. But I don’t. I stand there, caught between them, feeling the heat from both their bodies, the weight of their gazes.

Jake moves to my other side, and suddenly I’m bracketed. Trapped. And I don’t want to escape.

“We have a proposition for you,” Helen says, her lips brushing my ear.

My heart is hammering. “What kind of proposition?”

Jake’s hand lands on my shoulder, warm and heavy. “The kind that changes everything.”

I look at Helen. Then at him. The fairy lights outside flicker through the window, casting dancing shadows across their faces. I should say no. I should run.

But I’ve never been good at running from what I want.

And right now, standing between them, I want something I don’t even have words for yet.