Femme Sanctuary No. 3, Little Rock, Arkansas

  Perspective: Naomi, age 27, second wife in a polygamous marriage.

  The hall smelled like vender and cloves tonight—burned incense provided by the 6C Ministry of Domestic Purity. Naomi pulled the sheer curtain shut behind her, sealing off Pod 14. The glow of the candlelight—one per pod, as per Sanctuary standards—cast long shadows across her journal, lying open on the bed beside her.

  She wasn’t here for the bed, not really. She was here for Esmé.

  Esmé was already curled up on the corner mattress, her locs loose for the first time since they’d met on Safaara. Naomi noticed her cross pendant still tucked under her tunic, hidden—carefully, quietly, like a sin that still breathed.

  "You tell him?" Esmé asked, not looking up.

  Naomi exhaled slowly. "Yeah. He nodded and opened the Qur’an. Didn’t say a word."

  A short pause.

  "At least he nodded," Esmé murmured. "Mine said I was 'breaking the sanctity of submission.' Then he asked if she was prettier than me."

  Naomi chuckled softly. "Was she?"

  Esmé grinned, just barely. "Obviously."

  They both ughed, the sound muffled by the heavy velvet lining of the pod walls. It felt good to ugh here. In these government-funded spaces where irony and intimacy blurred, where their sexuality was monitored, permitted, even celebrated—so long as men weren’t threatened.

  Naomi thought about the app update that dropped st week—“Now with spiritual compatibility AI!”—and how she'd matched with two girls in Conway and one in Pine Bluff. The Ministry of Faithful Femininity cimed the algorithm factored in menstrual cycles and modesty scores. It made her skin crawl and her heart ache—because it almost worked.

  She reached for Esmé’s hand.

  "You ever think this is… just another kind of leash?" Naomi whispered.

  Esmé turned her head, met her eyes. “Leash, cage, garden—what’s the difference if they keep feeding you roses?”

  Outside, the call to prayer echoed through government-issued loudspeakers—melodic and eerie. A familiar voice followed it: Zara Lin, quoting Commandment #3 over ambient harp music.

  “Women may share beds. Love each other—serve your husbands—honor the God that rules you.”

  Esmé blew out the candle.

  Darkness fell.

  And in it, Naomi felt something like freedom, even if it was forbidden. Even if it was curated.

  Even if it was borrowed.

  ...

  Naomi’s Secret Journal:

  Location: Hidden compartment, Femme Sanctuary No. 3, Little Rock.

  -Entry 146: My Lover

  I went out again. My husband didn’t notice. He was too busy arguing with Wife One about prayer schedules and trying to convince Wife Three to delete her old OnlyFans archive. (She won’t. She told me she prints the screenshots and hides them in her prayer mat.)

  Sometimes I think we’re all in one long, state-funded cospy. The robes. The rules. The bedtime stories recited from hybrid scriptures. A little Jesus, a little Mohammed, a little Zara Lin podcast to tuck us in. All sanctified by candlelight and codified by a girlboss with a ring light.

  -Entry 147: I Miss Paul

  Not the man. The letters.

  Back when I was Pentecostal, I used to read them under the covers. That thorn in his flesh. The prison epistles. The whispered notion that grace meant something.

  Now Paul is contraband.

  Now grace is conditional, handed out like hygiene kits and ration cards, stamped with a crescent moon and an algorithm.

  But I still have my grandma’s Bible. The one with the pink tabs and the margin notes. I tore out the Corinthians passage st week and slipped it under Esmé’s pillow.

  “Love is patient. Love is kind…”

  She didn’t say anything when she found it. Just kissed me harder than she ever had before.

  -Entry 148: If They Find This

  If they find this, they’ll call me ungrateful.

  They’ll call me disordered.

  They’ll say I abused the gift of feminine freedom.

  They’ll show this to my husband.

  Then they’ll show it to the Tribunal.

  Then I’ll be sent to the Correction Cottages in Mississippi.

  Or worse—made Wife Five to a Regional Cleric with a purity podcast.

  But maybe someone will find this before then.

  Maybe someone will read these pages and remember that we were more than wombs, more than data points in a "divine matchmaking network."

  Maybe they’ll remember that we loved—

  not for doctrine,

  not for duty,

  but because we were still human,

  and hadn’t forgotten how.

  ***

  Esmé’s Perspective — Internal Monologue

  Location: Femme Sanctuary No. 3, Pod 14

  Time: Just after curfew, rain hitting the roof like static.

  They say the sanctuaries are “sacred spaces”.

  In the femme matchmaking app, when I matched with Naomi, the algorithm said 98% “emotional alignment,” 77% “hormonal resonance,” and a “faith-affirming match score” of 91.2. They pushed her to the top of my queue. Not a coincidence—our husbands both attend the same Friday lecture series on “Managing Femme Retions.”

  She showed up to our first meet in a jacket over her old cross tattoo. I didn’t ask. I just reached out, touched it lightly, and said, “Tell me what they made you leave behind.”

  She didn’t answer.

  But that night, she whispered the name Paul like it was an ex-lover. I pretended not to care. But it stuck with me.

  I still go to the Sanctuary Reflection Sessions like a good girl. I hold hands in the circle. I recite Commandment #3 while the Chapin pys harp music and hands out rose water. I even cp during Zara Lin’s live broadcasts when she says things like:

  “Every woman you love is a mirror of your own submission. Do not let your reflections become rivals.”

  They call it empowerment through obedience.

  I call it well-lit surrender.

  Still, I come back to Pod 14.

  Every night.

  Naomi pretends like she’s still navigating all this. I pretend like I’m okay. That I’m free. That I’m not thinking about the girl I kissed behind a Methodist church at 15 before my mother made me fast for 30 days as penance.

  I’ve stopped praying. I stopped when they burned my old church and said the cross was “divisive iconography.”

  Now I just lie here, counting the seconds between Naomi’s breaths, listening to the Sanctuary walls hum with algorithms and lies.

  But when she pced that torn page under my pillow, I almost broke.

  “Love is patient. Love is kind…”

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to kiss her and run and rip the veil off this whole stage py of holy feminism.

  Instead, I kissed her and cried into her hair.

  And then I smiled.

  ...

  “The Page and the Fme”

  Location: Femme Sanctuary No. 3, Pod 14

  Time: Midnight—post-curfew quiet, the world humming behind velvet walls.

  Naomi was asleep when Esmé got up. She moved like a ghost—quiet, barefoot, half-numb.

  The page was still there, under the pillow. The one with Paul’s words. 1 Corinthians 13.

  She read it again. Slowly. Tenderly.

  “It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud…”

  Her fingers trembled. Not from fear. From rage.

  She rolled the page between her palms like a scroll. Then, in one clean motion, she tore it down the middle. Then again. Then again.

  Naomi stirred.

  “Esmé—what are you doing?”

  The pieces fluttered like dying butterflies to the pod floor.

  “I can’t keep pretending,” Esmé whispered. “That man—Paul—he doesn’t live here anymore. Not in this state. Not in me.”

  Naomi sat up, her voice low, soft. “You loved his words.”

  “I did. But love can’t survive in a book we’re both supposed to burn.”

  Esmé crossed the space between them in two steps, knelt at Naomi’s side, and kissed her. It wasn’t gentle—not at first. It was an exorcism. A letting go.

  And Naomi let her.

  The tension between them didn’t colpse—it converted. Into rhythm. Into skin. Into heat between state-issued sheets.

  Outside, the loudspeaker murmured Zara Lin’s midnight prayer for “obedient women and fertile homes.”

  Inside, they ignored it completely.

  ...

  Later, Esmé y tangled with Naomi beneath the bnket, breath still unsteady, fingers ced.

  “Do you still think about her?” Esmé asked.

  Naomi blinked. “Who?”

  “The girl from Safaara—the one in Conway. The redhead.”

  Naomi smiled faintly. “You jealous?”

  “No. I’m curious. I want to meet her.”

  Naomi sat up. “You mean—bring her in?”

  Esmé nodded. “The Sanctuary permits triads now. As long as the husband signs the emotional alignment contract.”

  Naomi raised an eyebrow. “You really think he’ll go for that?”

  Esmé ughed bitterly. “He’ll sign anything if it means showing off at the next Tribunal dinner. ‘My wife has two bed-partners—all within divine code.’ Makes him feel progressive.”

  Naomi was silent for a moment, then asked, “What’s her name?”

  Esmé kissed her on the forehead. “Hannah. I think you’ll like her. She’s not afraid of fire.”

  Naomi gnced at the floor, at the tiny ashes where scripture once y.

  “Neither are we.”

  ...

  “Enter Hannah”

  Location: Femme Sanctuary No. 3, Visitor’s Lounge

  Time: The next evening, post-dusk, beneath filtered golden light.

  Hannah arrived barefoot. Not because of some divine modesty ritual—she just said shoes made her feel fake.

  She walked into the lounge like she’d been there before, though it was her first official visit. Naomi watched from across the room, draped over a velvet armrest, while Esmé stood just behind her, arms folded like a bouncer in silk.

  Hannah’s red hair was tied back in a messy braid. Her sanctuary ID was clipped to her robe, but she wore it sideways, like she didn’t care. Her gaze moved straight to Naomi, then to Esmé, then to the nearest security camera.

  “Should we pretend we’re talking about scripture first?” she asked, with a half-smile.

  Naomi raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to?”

  “No,” Hannah said. “I came to be wanted, not worshipped.”

  Esmé couldn’t help it—she ughed. Loud, unholy, and absolutely perfect.

  Later, in Pod 14.

  The candlelight flickered over three shadows now. Naomi sat in the middle, legs tucked under her. Esmé leaned against the headboard, arms draped zily around them both. Hannah y on her side, propped up on an elbow, watching Naomi with the curiosity of someone flipping to the middle of a storybook.

  “They told me about you,” Naomi said. “You’re still a believer?”

  Hannah shrugged. “Of something. Not them. Not Zara. But… I like the idea of sanctuaries. Just not the rules.”

  “Then why’d you come?” Esmé asked.

  “Because you invited me. Because Safaara said our ‘spiritual chemistry was above 94%.’ Because I saw Naomi’s eyes in your match photo, and I wanted to know if they looked that sad up close.”

  Naomi didn’t flinch. She smiled.

  “They don’t,” Esmé said. “Not anymore.”

  That Night

  The three of them didn’t sleep right away. They talked. Whispered. Touched each other like learning a new nguage. Naomi read from memory—Psalms, not Paul. Esmé recited forbidden poetry she had tattooed between her shoulder bdes in invisible ink. Hannah brought stories—darkly comic tales from her time in the PolyWife Prep Academy in Conway.

  They ughed until they were shushed through the walls.

  And then, when the lights dimmed completely, when the state’s eyes blinked slower, they intertwined like vines—three women blooming where they were never meant to grow.

  ....

  Confidential Profile: HANNAH LECLAIRE

  Compiled by 6C Internal Harmony Division, Section IV: Sanctuary Intelligence.

  Legal Name: Hannah Ruth LeCire

  Age: 26

  Assigned Marital Status: “Single Femme, Pre-Approval Phase” (Pending Polygamy Assignment)

  Current Location: Femme Sanctuary No. 3, Little Rock, AR

  Public Faith Score: 89.4%

  App Alignment Score: 94% compatibility with Naomi J. / 88% with Esmé T.

  Authorized for Triad Application: Conditionally Approved

  Fgged Observations:

  Former theology student at Hendrix College, expelled during “Academic Purge Week” (Year 1, Post-Restructuring)

  Father: Daniel LeCire, former Southern Baptist pastor, currently detained in Tennessee for preaching banned Pauline content

  Mother: Unknown, possibly deceased. One arrest record linked to a woman with same surname at a Virginia border protest

  Known association with early “Red-Thread Network” (underground queer Christian women’s resistance group)

  Last known activity before entering Safaara system: delivering banned literature to a Unitarian safehouse in Missouri disguised as a Divine Purity fashion shipment

  ....

  "The Revetion"

  Location: Femme Sanctuary No. 3, Pod 14

  Time: Late evening.

  Hannah sat on the edge of the mattress, her fingers absently twisting a lock of her red hair. The soft, almost hypnotic hum of the security system filled the silence as Naomi and Esmé settled in around her, the candlelight dancing in their eyes.

  Naomi noticed that tonight, Hannah seemed… different. More distant. Her usual pyful smirk was repced by something more like hesitation, a weight she hadn’t carried before.

  "You've been quiet tonight," Naomi said, breaking the silence.

  Hannah looked at her, eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion. Then she leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling, her voice low but steady.

  “I'm not the girl you think I am.”

  Naomi and Esmé exchanged a gnce, the air suddenly thick with unspoken questions. Esmé’s hand found Naomi’s in the dark, a subtle squeeze.

  “Go on,” Esmé said softly. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. She was intrigued, cautious.

  Hannah’s gaze drifted from the ceiling down to the floor, as if gathering the courage to continue. “Before this—before the Sanctuary, before Safaara—I used to be… part of something else.”

  Naomi tilted her head. “What do you mean? You’re from Conway, right? Were you involved in the community there?”

  Hannah ughed bitterly. “Community? Yeah. I guess you could call it that. But it wasn’t the kind of community you’re used to. I wasn’t always this... agreeable.”

  She paused, letting the words hang between them, and Naomi sensed the guardedness in her tone. Esmé leaned in slightly, her eyes narrowing in quiet curiosity.

  "I used to be part of a group. A network," Hannah said, her voice barely above a whisper now. "Red-Thread Network. It was small—just a few of us at first. A mix of women. We didn’t just fight the rules... we fought the idea that they could rewrite our entire history. We kept the books, the texts, the stories they wanted erased.”

  Naomi and Esmé stayed quiet, letting the weight of Hannah's words settle. Her hands trembled slightly as she continued.

  "We passed around banned scriptures. You know, the ones they burned when they took over—Paul’s letters, the Gospels. We believed in the old ways. In something bigger than these walls." Hannah’s voice cracked, and she quickly swallowed, as if trying to keep herself from breaking.

  “You were…” Naomi started, unsure whether she wanted to say the words aloud.

  “A resistance,” Hannah finished for her. “Not in the way they talk about it now, in the media, with the speeches and the ‘heroes.’ We didn’t make speeches. We were quiet. We were shadows. And then I got caught.”

  Esmé shifted, her expression unreadable. “Caught by who?”

  “By people like you,” Hannah said, a dry ugh escaping her. “Your precious 6C.”

  The weight of the moment hung in the air. Naomi felt her heart twist in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was empathy or something else—something darker—that crept through her.

  “Do they know you’re here?” Naomi asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Hannah shook her head, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “They have no idea. I signed up for the Sanctuary program after I escaped a… situation. A man they wanted me to marry. Someone they thought would control me. So, I came here. Pyed the part. They made me a good little submissive."

  Naomi’s stomach churned. She could sense the duality in Hannah—the one who still pyed the game and the one who had never fully bowed.

  “Why tell us this?” Esmé asked, her voice sharp but calm.

  Hannah met her gaze, eyes defiant. “Because I’m not sure how much longer I can keep pretending that I don’t want to burn this whole pce down.”

  The words hung heavy in the air.

  Naomi’s heart raced. “Then why are you here? Why are you even with us?”

  Hannah’s lips twisted into something closer to a grimace than a smile. “Because I’m trying to figure out who I want to burn it down with.”

  She looked at both of them, eyes flickering between Naomi and Esmé. “Because you’re not like them. And maybe… just maybe... you could understand why this is all bullshit.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. The words didn’t need to be said. Naomi and Esmé both understood something in that moment: Hannah had been a fighter before this. And now, in this room, the fight was not over. It was only just beginning.

  ....

  "The Fourth"

  Location: Femme Sanctuary No. 3, Pod 14

  Time: Midweek, just after the first light of dawn.

  It was becoming an intricate dance—this slow, tender ritual between the three of them.

  At first, it was Naomi and Esmé who seemed to understand each other’s unspoken needs. They shared the same tension, the same hunger for something more than the 6C's structure. But with Hannah, it was different. The chemistry was raw and electric, born of a history that neither of the others had shared. She came to them with a darkness they hadn’t fully seen, and in return, they offered what they could—care, love, even rebellion in the quietest form possible.

  The touches were softer now, more trusting. Hannah, for all her defiance, let herself be taken in a way that felt almost like surrender. And Naomi? Naomi had always been a force unto herself, but with Hannah, she was learning to rex, to not be the one in control. Esmé, ever the observer, found herself torn between her own desires and the nagging feeling that this new closeness was too dangerous to st forever.

  One night, Hannah's gaze lingered on Naomi and Esmé, lying together under the soft glow of the candlelight, their limbs tangled, faces flushed from their love.

  Hannah’s heart had been wavering for some time, caught between the shadow of her past and the warmth of the present. It was hard to ignore the tug that kept her coming back to this room, to them. But the more she gave, the more she felt herself unraveling. She wasn’t sure if it was the sex, the comfort, or the sense of connection that made it so difficult to stay grounded.

  They had talked about it—about adding someone new. A fourth. Naomi had mentioned it pyfully at first, but Esmé… Esmé had been the one to lean into the idea, her eyes fshing with the thrill of the unknown.

  “You want a new partner,” Hannah said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken truths. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her bnket, fidgeting. “I can feel it.”

  Naomi didn’t look away from Hannah, her face unreadable. “We do. But not just anyone. We’ve thought about it.”

  Hannah’s lips twisted slightly. “You’ve thought about it, huh?”

  Esmé, who had been sitting cross-legged near the foot of the bed, leaned forward. “We think you need someone. Someone to help us finish what we started.”

  The words hung between them. Hannah bit her lip, feeling a strange pulse of jealousy that she hadn’t anticipated. She was part of them. She had to be. But she couldn’t shake the fear that with a fourth, she might be left behind.

  “We don’t need someone to repce you,” Naomi said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. “We need someone who can keep up. Who understands this… freedom we’ve built. We can’t do it without the right person.”

  The room fell quiet, and for the first time, Hannah saw them both as partners in this strange rebellion, not just lovers. They weren’t just seeking to expand their love, they were seeking strength. Something deeper. Something that would give them the courage to defy everything else.

  Hannah exhaled slowly, her heart sinking as the weight of it all settled in. "Who do you have in mind?"

  A Week Later,

  The fourth arrived.

  Her name was Amara. She was different—cooler, more collected, a woman who carried herself with an elegance that contrasted with the raw edges of their lives. Her eyes were dark, almost too dark, and she wore the air of someone who had survived far more than she let on. The first time they met, Naomi and Esmé were both taken by her strength.

  Amara didn’t need to be coaxed. She understood the unspoken nguage of rebellion in a way that only someone who had lived it could.

  “You all think you’ve got this figured out,” Amara said, sitting on the edge of the bed that night. Her fingers traced the edge of a bible they had hidden under the mattress, its pages stained with the history of rebellion. “But you haven’t seen what happens when you start to believe it’s real. When you let it consume you.”

  Naomi reached out, her touch deliberate. “We’re already consumed. We’re all already here, together.”

  Amara’s lips curled into a smile, but it was sharp, as though she were sizing them up. “Then let’s see how far we’re willing to go.”

  The next few days were a whirlwind—flesh and heat, words of seduction and whispers of trust. Amara slid easily into their dynamic, but it wasn’t without friction. It was the kind of friction that sparked something stronger than desire—urgency. They moved faster now, more recklessly. Every kiss, every touch, every word felt like an act of defiance.

  Hannah’s heart wavered again, but now it was different. She was starting to realize that the battle wasn’t just about them—it was about what they could become. They could tear apart the walls they had been forced into. Together, they were stronger than any rule.

  One night, after Amara had left to meet with a contact, the three of them y together, tangled beneath the sheets.

  “I think we’ve crossed a line,” Esmé whispered into the darkness.

  Naomi’s hand found hers in the quiet. “Maybe. But there’s no going back now.”

  Hannah swallowed hard. “No going back from what?”

  Naomi's eyes locked onto hers in the low light. "From building something bigger than all of us. Bigger than this system. It's us, now. It’s always been us."

  The four of them—Hannah, Naomi, Esmé, and Amara—began to blur the lines of everything they had once known. They created their own rules, their own sanctuary. In a world that demanded submission, they built a kingdom of their own. And in that space, for a while, they were free.

  "The Fifth"

  Location: Femme Sanctuary No. 3, Pod 14

  Time: Early morning.

  The fifth woman entered their lives with purpose. Her name was Is—a striking figure with sharp features, eyes that glinted with confidence, and a mind that was always five steps ahead of the conversation. She had the kind of presence that demanded attention, and she wore it like a second skin.

  She wasn’t like the others. While Naomi, Esmé, and even Hannah had entered the Sanctuary with a desire for freedom or rebellion, Is came with a mission. She had been part of the 6C institution, once a propagator and influencer, someone who had helped shape the public narrative. She knew the doctrines, the ws, the stories they sold. She had even been a voice on the media channels, her face pstered on every screen, guiding the youth of the 6C revolution with ease.

  But now? Now she was here, with them. There were no speeches, no broadcasts. Just Is—a brilliant mind caught in the same system she once helped promoting.

  -The First Night Together.

  The room was heavy with the mingling scent of vender and sweat as the four women sprawled out in a tangled mass of limbs. Naomi, Esmé, and Hannah had found a rhythm, their bodies familiar with each other’s touch, their desires in sync. Amara was still a mystery in many ways—her sharp, quiet strength and the unspoken tension she carried.

  Then there was Is.

  She didn’t hesitate when she entered the room. No need for introductions or cautious gnces. She knew what was expected. And what followed was not just sex, but a battle of wills—a power struggle beneath the surface that no one acknowledged, but everyone could feel.

  Amara watched Is closely, her lips pressed into a tight line. Hannah, ever the skeptic, was on guard, her body tense as she y beside Naomi. Is moved between them like she belonged, her touch sure, but always calcuting. It was clear from the way she touched Naomi that she had been trained for this, her movements precise, controlled.

  “You think you can py the rebel and still win?” Is whispered into Naomi’s ear as she kissed her neck. “You think this is what freedom looks like?”

  Naomi’s lips parted, but before she could respond, Amara’s voice cut through the tension.

  "Don't pretend you don't know what you’re doing," Amara said, her voice ced with accusation. "You were never on our side."

  Is’s smile never wavered. “I’ve always been on the side of power. Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about who’s winning this game.”

  -Over the Next Few Days

  The dynamic between them shifted. Amara and Hannah couldn’t seem to accept Is’s presence without friction. Every word she spoke, every move she made, was met with resistance.

  "You're here for control, not love," Hannah said one night, her eyes narrowing as she watched Is share an intimate moment with Naomi.

  Is turned to her, unphased. “Control is an illusion. You should know that better than anyone. The world you thought you were fighting against doesn’t even know how to control itself. I’m just here to enjoy the chaos.”

  Esmé, ever the observer, took note of the growing tension. Her eyes flicked between Amara and Is, watching as they butted heads over doctrine, over ideology, over the smallest things.

  “You don’t belong here,” Amara said one night after an argument that had nearly gone too far. “You’ve always been a part of them. You helped promoting this system.”

  Is’s eyes fshed with something cold, almost calcuting. “You think you’re the only ones who’ve suffered under the system? I was its architect, and now I’m stuck in the wreckage, just like you. You think I’m here to ruin your little rebellion? I’m here because I’m trapped too.”

  -The Next Evening: Tensions Escate.

  The group was together again in the familiar glow of candlelight. Naomi and Esmé were already entwined, the room heavy with desire. But Hannah and Amara were still on edge, casting sidelong gnces at Is as she moved between them.

  “I don’t need you to save me,” Amara snapped when Is approached her.

  Is gave her a zy smile, leaning in just close enough to whisper, “You’ve never needed saving. You’ve always needed someone to challenge you.”

  The words hung in the air, like a spark about to ignite a fire.

  Hannah’s lips parted. “You think we need your challenge? Your ‘wisdom’? You don’t belong here, Is. You’re just looking for power.”

  Is’s eyes glinted with amusement. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not looking for power. I’m looking for something real.”

  And just like that, the tension cracked.

  Hannah pulled Is in for a kiss, more out of defiance than desire, while Amara watched them both with cold eyes. The kiss was hard, insistent—an act of dominance. Amara and Is were two sides of the same coin: both knew how to control a room, how to manipute the situation to their advantage. The battle between them was unspoken but ever-present.

  ....

  Days Later: A Shift in Power.

  The tension never fully dissipated. Is didn’t care for the constant power struggle, but it didn’t stop her from winning, time and time again. Every argument she had with Amara, every challenge from Hannah, ended with her coming out on top, her logic too sharp to cut through, her composure too cold to break.

  The group was different now. The air was electric with power, but it was no longer just about the love they shared. There was a bance of dominance, of control, of influence. Hannah and Amara fought it, but they couldn’t escape Is’s sway.

  -One Quiet Night.

  Is sat on the edge of the bed, her back to the others. Naomi, Esmé, Amara, and Hannah y beside each other, a mix of tangled limbs and heated gazes. The room was still, the quiet before another storm.

  “You’ll never really win,” Amara whispered, her voice low but firm. “You’re just a tool. A puppet in their game.”

  Is turned, her eyes dark with amusement. “I’m not their puppet. I’m just pying a different game. One that works in my favor.”

  Hannah, still furious with her, sat up from the bed, meeting Is’s gaze. “We’ll see who wins in the end.”

  Is smirked, unfazed. “We will, won’t we?”

  The weight of their words hung heavy in the air as the four women y in the quiet darkness, the power shifting, evolving, and the bonds growing ever more complex.

  ....