Sheila didn’t plan on being out that Friday night. She'd had a long week pitching PR campaigns to men who still called her “darling” in meetings, and all she wanted was wine, Netflix, and a good face mask. But the city skyline shimmered in that sultry way that whispered, “You’re 28, not 80,” so she slipped into a slinky emerald dress and heels that said, “Don’t waste my time.”

She ended up at Sapphire Room, a rooftop nightclub at the top of Marina Bay Sands. Neon lights. Deep house beats. The kind of place where people didn’t check the time — or their inhibitions.

Sheila wasn’t looking for anyone. That’s when the universe, like the petty little matchmaker it is, sent in the two French men. They were impossible to ignore.

Tall. Sharp-jawed. Perfectly rumpled linen shirts with that “I don’t try hard; I’m just born like this” vibe. One had tousled chestnut hair and dark eyes that looked like trouble; the other, blonde with a mischievous grin and an accent that could melt iced kopi.

Sheila raised her glass of rosé. “Cheers to me,” she said aloud, mostly for herself.

But they heard.

“To you?” the brunette said, sliding in next to her like it was the most natural thing in the world. “That’s a toast we’d like to join.”

“Depends,” she replied, arching a brow. “Are you worth clinking glasses with?”

The blonde laughed. “I’m Jules. That’s Marc. And absolument, we are.”

Charmed but not conquered, Sheila smirked. “Alright, Frenchies. Impress me.”

And oh, they did.

They danced like they knew rhythm was a weapon, slow and teasing, hands respectful but suggestive. Marc whispered stories of Paris rooftops at sunrise. Jules recited a French poem in her ear that he claimed was about “a beautiful woman and the men who tried to deserve her.”

Three cocktails and a stolen cherry from Marc’s Old Fashioned later, she was twirling between them under a sky full of stars, breathless and laughing.

“You know,” Jules murmured, brushing a lock of her hair back, “we came to Singapore for business…”

“…but we didn’t expect to find you,” Marc finished, pressing a hand gently against the small of her back.

Sheila didn’t need saving. She didn’t need a fairytale. But for one night, with the skyline sparkling and two men who made her feel like the centre of the universe — she decided she could play the main character.

At 2:43 AM, heels in hand and hair windswept, Sheila walked barefoot along the edge of the infinity pool with her arms around both of them. The air smelled of jasmine and heat.

“What happens now?” Marc asked.

Sheila looked between them — Marc, steady and watchful, and Jules, who wore mischief like cologne — and took a long breath, letting the warm breeze slip over her bare shoulders.

She didn’t usually do this. She wasn’t reckless, not anymore. But something about the night — the water glittering like glass, the hush between beats of the DJ’s set, the way Marc’s voice dipped when he said her name and made her want to stretch the moment just a little further.

She leaned in close, just enough for Marc to catch a hint of her perfume. “Now,” she said, voice velvet-soft, “I steal one more drink from your minibar and see if the charm continues upstairs.”

Marc raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re inviting yourself to our room?”

“I’m offering myself,” she replied, eyes flicking to Jules, “as your last bit of Singapore magic. If you can behave.”

Jules whistled low, clearly delighted. “I make no promises.”

Sheila smiled, but turned to Marc, her fingers brushing his. “Only if it’s alright with you.”

There it was — the flicker of tension she’d sensed all night. Jules was playful, but Marc… he was the one who made her skin hum. He’d said less but looked more. When he spoke, it felt like he was letting her in on something private.

Marc smiled then — really smiled — and opened the door.

They slipped into the room like they were crossing into a dream. She shed her heels at the threshold. He poured two fingers of cognac, handed her one. Neither spoke for a while.

From the window, the skyline glimmered like the edge of possibility.

Sheila curled up beside him on the couch, resting her legs over his. “Tell me again about Paris rooftops at sunrise.”

Marc leaned in, breath warm against her neck. “Only if you promise to see one with me.”

And when he kissed her, slow, tender, like he meant every second, for once, she didn’t feel like the main character.

Marc dimmed the lights in the hotel room, casting the city’s glow across the floor like molten silver. Outside, the skyline shimmered like it knew all the secrets of the night. Inside, the air buzzed with laughter and something far more electric.

Sheila wasn’t drunk, not exactly. But the alcohol had softened her edges — made her limbs loose, her inhibitions slippery. Her cheeks were warm, her eyes glossy with mischief. She cradled the last of her cognac, stretching out across the bed like a lounging cat.

“Okay,” she said, pointing a finger at Marc. “But this is your idea. If it gets weird, I blame the French.”

Marc, now in nothing but boxer briefs and his watch, gave a mock bow. “Then we play with honour. But not too much.”

Jules returned from the minibar with a deck of cards he found in the drawer. “No poker faces. Only beautiful losses.”

“Ground rules,” Sheila declared, sitting up. “No weird dares. No crying. And no actual poker. I want something trashy.”

Jules grinned. “Strip blackjack?”

Marc smirked. “Or ‘Truth or Strip.’”

Sheila clapped once. “Even better.”

The game spiraled quickly. Questions turned daring. Garments disappeared. They took turns with cards, bluffing, teasing, surrendering layers of clothing like secrets.

At first, Sheila was on fire. She called every bluff, guessed every hand, and slipped her arms behind her head like a queen surveying her kingdom, still mostly clothed while the two men were down to bare skin and charm.

“I warned you,” she said, leaning back against the headboard. “I win campaigns for a living. You really thought I couldn’t win at undressing men?”

Marc, half-smiling, lifted his last card. “Final round. You ready to gamble everything, mademoiselle?”

Sheila narrowed her eyes, then looked down at her hand.

Bad. So bad.

The room swayed just a little when she reached for her drink. She giggled — the soft, unguarded kind that slipped out when she forgot to filter herself. “Okay, okay. Just... wait. I think I’m seeing double. Is that two of the same cards, or am I already naked?”

“You’re wearing Marc’s shirt,” Jules said, lounging in a chair. “And you’ve got socks. Which offends me, by the way.”

She looked down. “Damn it.”

Marc leaned in, his voice quieter now, his fingers gently brushing her knee. “You sure you want to keep playing?”

Sheila considered, blinking slowly. Her head was light and her heart full — not of love exactly, but of the freedom that came from feeling safe, seen, and just a little reckless.

“I lose,” she whispered, smiling.

She peeled off the shirt with theatrical flair, tossing it onto Marc’s head.

They laughed, all three, but the sound softened into something else — something quieter.

Marc reached for her hand. “Still sure about not saying goodbye yet?”

She nodded. Her voice, barely a breath now. “Stay with me. Just for a little while.”

Jules stood, stretching. “I’ll give you two some quiet,” he said with a wink, and padded toward the balcony with one of the hotel robes slung over his shoulder, humming again.

Marc drew the sheets over her slowly, reverently, as if she were something precious.

He lay beside her, brushing a damp curl from her forehead. “You were incredible tonight.”

“I always am,” she mumbled, already slipping toward sleep, a satisfied smile on her lips.

And in the silence that followed — only the faint sound of city life far below and the breath of a man who stayed when he didn’t have to — Sheila felt something she hadn’t in a long time.

Jules hadn’t left.

When Sheila jokingly invited him to join — “If you’re going to complain, might as well contribute” — she expected him to roll his eyes, say something flirty, and decline. But he hadn’t. He just stood there, looking at them both in the soft, golden lamplight, his mouth parted slightly like he was reading something in the space between them.

And then he said, quietly: “Only if it’s both of you. Or neither.”

Sheila glanced at Marc, unsure, but Marc just gave a lazy shrug, his lips curving upward. “Fair’s fair.”

That was all the permission Jules needed.

Now, the sheets were a mess. Skin met skin, tangled and sweat-slicked. Laughter had become gasps. Moans. The kind of sounds only darkness permits — unselfconscious, reverent.

They kissed in turns and in threes, not out of desperation, but something else. Something softer. It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t even drunk, not anymore. It was something more dangerous: honest.

Sheila let herself fall into it. The warmth of Marc’s chest behind her. The gentle weight of Jules pressing kisses along her collarbone. Hands tracing lines that had never been mapped. Their mouths were careful. Not greedy — exploring, not claiming.

It shouldn’t have felt this safe.

She should’ve felt awkward. Exposed.

Instead, she felt… held. By both of them.

And it didn’t stop when the rush of bodies stilled.

They stayed close, the three of them beneath the covers, breath slowing, skin cooling. Jules lay on one side, his fingers gently tracing circles on Sheila’s hip. Marc on the other, his arm draped around her, hand resting on Jules’s forearm.

None of them spoke.

But then, almost too softly to hear, Jules whispered, “I don’t want this to end.”

Sheila opened her eyes. His face was half-shadow, half-silver from the window light.

“It doesn’t have to,” she said, though she didn’t believe herself.

He smiled, and it almost looked real. “It always does.”

Marc was quiet for a moment, then said, “We just write our own ending, then.”

Sheila smiled faintly, but the knot was forming in her chest. That twist, low and quiet — the knowledge that this moment was perfect because it couldn’t last.

The room was still warm, charged with the energy of what had just happened. Sheila lay between them, her body relaxed, her breath steady. Jules’s hand traced lazy patterns on her hip, while Marc’s arm wrapped around her waist, his fingers trailing lightly up Jules’s forearm. The silence was comfortable, but there was a tension in it—something unspoken, something hungry.

Jules shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, his gaze flickering between Sheila and Marc. His eyes were dark, intense, and the faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips. “We’re not done,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. It wasn’t a question.

Sheila glanced at Marc, who met her eyes with a slow, knowing grin. “No,” Marc agreed.

She could feel the heat building inside her again, that familiar ache returning as Jules’s hand slid down her body, brushing against her thigh. She parted her legs instinctively, inviting him in, and he didn’t hesitate. His fingers found her wetness, teasing her with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Fuck,” she breathed, as Marc moved his hand to her breast. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, pinching gently as she moaned.

Jules leaned down, his mouth replacing his fingers, tasting her with a slow, savouring lick that made her hips buck. Sheila gasped, tangling her fingers in his hair as he worked her with his tongue, his movements deliberate and unhurried. She could feel Marc watching, his breath hot against her skin as he kissed her neck, his hand still teasing her breast.

“I want to watch you fuck her,” Jules said, pulling away to look at Marc. His voice was thick with desire, and Sheila felt a shiver run through her at the thought.

Marc grinned, sliding out from behind her and positioning himself between her legs. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh before guiding himself inside her, stretching her with a groan that made her gasp. He moved slowly at first, savouring the feeling of her tight heat around him, but soon his pace quickened, his thrusts deep and steady.

Sheila’s moans filled the room, her hands grasping at the sheets as Marc drove into her. She watched Jules, his eyes fixed on where Marc’s cock disappeared inside her, his hand moving lazily over his own length. He was hard, achingly so, and Sheila reached for him, guiding him to her mouth.

He groaned as she took him in, her lips closing around his thick length as she sucked him with slow, deliberate strokes. Her tongue swirled around the head, tasting the salty pre-cum that had gathered there, and Jules let out a low growl, his hips jerking forward.

Marc’s thrusts became more urgent, his hands gripping her hips as he fucked her harder, driving her closer to the edge. Sheila’s moans were muffled around Jules’s cock as she focused on taking him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate him. She could feel Marc’s orgasm building, his movements becoming erratic as he neared his peak.

Jules pulled away from her mouth, his breathing ragged as he looked down at her. “I want both of you,” he said, his voice rough with need.

Sheila nodded, too lost in sensation to speak. Jules positioned himself behind her, his hands gripping her hips as he lined himself up with her other entrance. He pressed in slowly, stretching her even further as Marc continued to thrust into her from the front.

The sensation was overwhelming, the fullness almost too much to bear as they moved in tandem, filling her completely. Sheila cried out, her body trembling with pleasure as they took turns thrusting into her. Jules’s breath was hot against her back, his hands gripping her hips tightly as he fucked her with deep, steady strokes.

Marc leaned down, capturing her lips in a searing kiss as he continued to drive into her. Their moans mingled as they moved together, the three of them caught in a rhythm that was both chaotic and perfectly in sync.

Sheila could feel herself nearing the edge, the pressure building inside her as Jules’s cock rubbed against that sensitive spot inside her. She reached down, rubbing her clit in quick circles as they fucked her, and it was all she needed to send her over. Her body convulsed around them, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over her as she cried out their names.

Jules followed shortly after, his thrusts growing erratic as he buried himself inside her one last time, spilling deep within her with a groan. Marc wasn’t far behind, his own release pulsing inside her as he pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling as they came down from the high together.

They stayed like that for a moment, tangled together and breathless, before Jules pulled out and collapsed beside them. Marc followed suit, lying down on the other side of Sheila as they all caught their breath.