The Collector | NEON LIT

Four men stand in Claire's living room.

They share the same jawline, the same dark eyes, the same stunned expression. Father and son on one side. Uncle and nephew on the other. A family united by blood and, now, by her.

"Someone needs to explain," Daniel says. His voice is tight. He's the youngest, twenty-eight, the one who walked in on her with his father two hours ago. "Someone needs to tell me what the fuck is happening."

Claire sits on her couch, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. She's wearing a silk robe, nothing underneath. Her curves fill it generously — full breasts, soft belly, wide hips. The body that drew each of them in.

"I think you know what's happening," she says calmly.

"You're sleeping with my father." Daniel's voice cracks. "And my uncle. And my—" He looks at Marcus, his cousin, who won't meet his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

Richard steps forward. Fifty-five, silver at the temples, the first one she took. "Claire. Tell me this isn't true."

"I can't tell you that."

"How long?" Thomas demands. He's Richard's older brother, fifty-eight, the second to fall. "How long have you been... with all of us?"

Claire considers the question. "Fourteen months with Richard. Eleven with you. Eight with Marcus. Three with Daniel."

Silence. The math sinks in.

"You've been lying to all of us," Marcus says. Thirty-two, Thomas's son, the one who knew about his father and slept with her anyway. "This whole time."

"I never lied." Claire's voice is gentle. "I just didn't tell you about each other."

"That's the same thing!"

"Is it?"

She remembers each of them.

Not in guilt — she doesn't feel guilty. In satisfaction. Each one was a choice. Each one was a hunger fed.

It started, as these things do, with loneliness.

Richard — Fourteen Months Ago

The retirement party was for Thomas, but Richard was the one who caught her eye.

Claire was there as a plus-one for a coworker who promptly abandoned her for the bar. She stood by the appetizers, nursing a glass of wine, watching the crowd. Families. Couples. People who belonged to each other.

Richard was watching her too.

He was handsome in that distinguished way — gray streaking through dark hair, laugh lines around his eyes, a wedding ring he kept touching like a wound. His wife was across the room, talking to someone else, not looking at him.

Claire recognized that look. The look of a man who'd stopped being seen.

She crossed to him. "You seem about as thrilled to be here as I am."

He laughed — surprised, genuine. "That obvious?"

"Only to someone equally unenthusiastic." She extended her hand. "Claire."

"Richard." His handshake was warm, lingering. "My brother's the guest of honor. I'm obligated."

"Obligation. The foundation of all good parties."

They talked for an hour. Then two. His wife never came looking.

When the party ended, Claire handed him a business card with her number on the back. "In case you ever want to be somewhere you actually want to be."

He called three days later.

Their first time was at a hotel.

Richard was nervous — guilty, fumbling, apologizing. Claire didn't mind. She understood what he needed.

"Stop thinking," she told him, pulling his hands to her body. "Just feel."

He felt. Her curves under his palms, her softness against his hardness. She was nothing like his wife — generous where his marriage was stingy, warm where home was cold.

When he finally pushed inside her, he made a sound like something breaking free.

"God," he breathed. "God, Claire—"

"I know." She pulled him deeper. "I know."

Afterward, he tried to apologize again. She put a finger to his lips.

"You needed this. I wanted this. No apologies."

He came back the next week. And the next. And the next.

Thomas — Eleven Months Ago

She met Richard's brother at a family dinner she wasn't supposed to attend.

Richard had slipped up — mentioned her to his sister-in-law, called her a "friend." Suddenly she was invited, and refusing would have raised more questions.

Thomas was there. Older than Richard, broader, more serious. His wife had died two years earlier, and he wore his grief like a coat that didn't quite fit anymore.

He noticed Claire immediately. Not with lust — with recognition. The same loneliness she'd seen in Richard.

"You're Richard's friend," he said, shaking her hand.

"Something like that."

"He seems happier lately." Thomas's eyes were knowing. "I wondered why."

She held his gaze. "Did you?"

He looked away first.

She took her time with Thomas.

Coffee first. Then lunch. Then dinner at his place — he cooked, she brought wine. They talked about his wife, his grief, the emptiness that wouldn't fill.

"I don't know how to be alone," he admitted. "Forty years married. I don't know who I am without her."

"Maybe you don't have to be alone."

"I'm too old to start dating."

"Who said anything about dating?"

She kissed him. He froze, then melted.

"Richard—" he started.

"Isn't here." She unbuttoned his shirt. "And he doesn't need to know."

Thomas convinced himself it was different. She was helping him grieve, that was all. It wasn't the same thing as what she had with his brother.

He believed that for almost a year.

Marcus — Eight Months Ago

Thomas's son was an accident.

Not the sex — Claire didn't do accidents. But she hadn't planned on him. He'd come to pick up something his father had left at her apartment, and she'd answered the door in a robe, fresh from the shower.

Marcus was thirty-two, fit, handsome in a younger version of his father's face. His eyes dropped to her cleavage before he caught himself.

"Sorry," he said. "Dad said he left his reading glasses."

"Come in. I'll find them."

She didn't bother to change. Just walked through the apartment, aware of his eyes on her, the robe clinging to her damp body.

"So you're my dad's... friend."

"Something like that."

"He talks about you. A lot."

She found the glasses, turned to face him. He was closer than she expected. Close enough to touch.

"Does that bother you?"

"Should it?"

"I don't know." She stepped closer. "You tell me."

Marcus was rougher than his father. Hungrier.

He pushed her against the wall, kissed her like he was trying to prove something. She let him — then took control back.

"Slow down," she murmured against his mouth. "We have time."

"This is insane. You're fucking my dad."

"I know."

"I should leave."

"But you won't."

He didn't.

Afterward, he lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. "What am I doing?"

"Whatever you want." She traced a finger down his chest. "Same as me."

"He can't find out."

"He won't. Unless you tell him."

Marcus kept coming back. Guilt and hunger in equal measure. He convinced himself it was just sex, that it didn't mean anything, that his father would never know.

Three of them now. Same family. Same bloodline. Same secret.

Daniel — Three Months Ago

Richard's son was the hardest.

Daniel was suspicious from the start. Something about Claire set off alarms — the way she watched the family, the way she seemed to know too much.

"I don't trust her," he told his father.

"You don't know her."

"Neither do you. Not really."

He was wrong about that. But he was right to be wary.

Claire enjoyed the challenge. She'd never had to work for it before — Richard fell easy, Thomas fell easier, Marcus fell hardest but still fell. Daniel resisted.

She wore him down slowly. Friendly conversations. Accidental touches. Being everywhere he was, just enough to notice, never enough to alarm.

"You're always around," he said one night at a family gathering.

"I'm dating your father. Where else would I be?"

"Dating." He laughed. "Is that what you call it?"

"What would you call it?"

He looked at her — really looked. She met his gaze and let him see a fraction of what was underneath.

"I don't know," he said finally. "But I don't think it's that simple."

"Nothing ever is."

The night he gave in, she made him come to her.

A text: I can't stop thinking about you.

He showed up at her door angry. "What game are you playing?"

"No game. Just the truth."

"You're with my father."

"Yes."

"And you want me."

"Yes."

"That's fucked up."

"Yes." She stepped closer. "And you want me too. That's the fucked up part you're not saying."

He kissed her like a man drowning.

Daniel was different from the others. Younger, angrier, more conflicted. He didn't just want sex — he wanted to understand.

"Why?" he asked afterward. "Why all of us? Why this family?"

"Why not?"

"That's not an answer."

She considered telling him the truth. That she'd never planned this, that it just happened, that each of them filled a different void.

Instead she said: "Because you all need something. And I have it to give."

"That's arrogant."

"Is it wrong?"

He couldn't say it was.

The Confrontation — Present

"So now you know," Claire says.

The four men stare at her. Father and son, uncle and nephew. The whole male line of one family, tangled up in the same woman.

"This ends now," Daniel says. "Whatever this is — it's over."

"Is it?" Claire stands, lets the robe fall open slightly. Not a seduction — a reminder. "Walk out that door, then. Go home. Forget about me."

He doesn't move.

"That's what I thought."

"You manipulated us," Thomas says. "All of us."

"I gave you what you wanted. You chose to take it."

"You should have told us—"

"And what? Watched you all leave?" She shakes her head. "You wouldn't have stayed. Not if you knew. But now you know, and you're still here."

Silence.

"So here's how this works," Claire continues. "I'm not choosing. I want all of you. Different things, different needs, different hungers. You can share me, or you can leave. But I'm not giving anyone up."

"That's insane," Marcus says.

"Probably. But it's also the only option I'm offering."

They stand there. Four men, one choice.

Richard speaks first. "I'm not leaving."

"Dad—" Daniel starts.

"I've been happier these fourteen months than I've been in twenty years." Richard moves to Claire, takes her hand. "I'm not giving that up."

Thomas sighs. "Neither am I."

Marcus looks at his father, his uncle, his cousin. Something shifts in his face — resignation, acceptance, maybe relief.

"Fuck it," he says. "I'm in."

They all look at Daniel.

He's the youngest. The angriest. The one with the most reason to walk away.

"This is fucked," he says.

"Yes."

"We're family. This is—"

"Fucked. You said." Claire crosses to him, cups his face. "But you're still here. So what does that tell you?"

He closes his eyes. When he opens them, the fight is gone.

"Fine. But we need rules."

They make rules.

Schedules. Boundaries. No lying about who's been with her when. No jealousy, or at least no acting on it.

It's awkward at first. Family dinners where everyone knows, where glances carry weight. But slowly, it becomes normal. A new kind of family.

Richard gets Sunday mornings. Soft, slow, making up for the affection he never had.

Thomas gets Tuesday evenings. Dinner and conversation and the warmth he lost when his wife died.

Marcus gets Thursday nights. Rough, hungry, working out demons he doesn't understand.

Daniel gets Saturday afternoons. Still angry, still conflicted, still unable to stay away.

And Claire gets all of them. Four men, same blood, hers.

Six months later, Richard's wife files for divorce.

He moves into Claire's apartment. The others still have their schedules, but now Richard is there every day. A live-in lover. A partner.

"Doesn't this bother you?" Daniel asks his father. "Knowing she's with all of us?"

"Does it bother you?"

Daniel doesn't answer.

"I spent thirty years in a marriage where I was invisible," Richard says. "Claire sees me. I'll share her with whoever I have to if it means I get to keep that."

One night, they're all there.

It wasn't planned — Thomas brought wine, Marcus showed up early, Daniel was already there. Four men in Claire's living room, awkward and aware.

"This is weird," Marcus says.

"Very," Daniel agrees.

Richard shrugs. "Is it?"

They look at him.

"We all want the same thing. We're all willing to share. What's weird about that?"

Thomas laughs. "Everything, brother. Everything."

But they stay. They drink the wine. They talk — about work, about life, about nothing. Like a family, which they are. Like rivals, which they were. Like something new, which they're becoming.

Claire watches them from the kitchen doorway. Her collection. Her men. Her family.

When she walks into the room, they all look up. Same eyes, same hunger.

"Bedroom," she says. "All of you."

Afterward, they lie tangled together.

Richard on her left, Thomas on her right. Marcus at the foot of the bed, Daniel beside him. Four men, one woman, a mess of limbs and satisfaction.

"This is insane," Daniel says. Again.

"You keep saying that," Claire murmurs. "And yet."

"And yet."

She looks at them — father and son, uncle and nephew. Men who should never share this, sharing everything.

"Any regrets?" she asks.

Silence. Then Richard: "No."

Thomas: "No."

Marcus: "Fuck no."

Daniel hesitates. Then: "Ask me tomorrow."

Claire laughs. Pulls them all closer.

Tomorrow, he'll still be here. They all will.

She collected them. Now they're hers.

And she has no intention of letting go.