The quarterback doesn't even look where he's going. He just falls into step beside me like he owns the aisle, like the cafeteria and everyone in it are his stage and I'm the next act he's about to introduce. His shoulder brushes mine—deliberately, I'd bet my law degree on it—and I catch the faint smell of expensive cologne layered over whatever he'd been doing in the gym this morning.

"Kira, right?"

His grin is wide and easy, the kind that's probably gotten him everything he's ever wanted. I keep my eyes forward, tray balanced in my left hand, watching the salad bar shrink behind me as I keep walking.

"Heard you're coming to the party Saturday." His voice isn't quiet. It carries, the way a quarterback's voice would, pitched to reach the back of a huddle. "Gonna be awesome now that everyone who matters will be there."

I feel the table behind us go quiet. Or maybe that's just my imagination, the paranoia that's been living in my chest since I started lying to everyone I know. Either way, I don't turn around. I don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

"That right?" I say, flat as I can make it.

He doesn't take the hint. Of course he doesn't. Guys like him never do.

His eyes drop—I feel it more than see it, the weight of his gaze sliding down my neck, catching on the collar of my shirt. The thin silver chain Justin put around my throat this morning sits there, warm against my skin, hidden by the fabric. But I know what he's looking at. I know what he sees when he looks at me.

And I feel it like a brand.

He leans in. Close. Closer than he has any right to. His breath ghosts my ear, warm and intrusive, and I smell mint and something sour underneath.

"Wish it was already Saturday," he murmurs.

Then he straightens, winks—actually winks, like we're in some kind of movie—and strides off toward his friends at the far table. I watch him go for half a second before forcing my eyes forward again. My hands are steady. My breathing is even. That's what matters.

But I'm frozen. Standing in the middle of the cafeteria aisle with a tray in my hand and the echo of his words hanging in the air like smoke.

Wish it was already Saturday.

Like I'm something he's waiting for. Like I'm a prize at the end of a game he's already decided he's going to win.

And underneath that, the memory of Justin's hand on my throat this morning. The weight of it. The way his thumb had pressed just there, against my pulse, and how I'd leaned into it without thinking. How I'd wanted him to squeeze harder.

I swallow. Start walking again.

The rest of the cafeteria blurs past me—tables of students I don't know, conversations I don't hear. I'm thinking about Justin. About the way he'd looked at me over breakfast, that quiet satisfaction in his eyes when I'd called him Daddy without being prompted. About the way he'd said, You know what to do if anyone gets too close, like it was simple. Like it was easy.

It's not easy. It's never been easy. But I'm learning.

I find a table near the window, set my tray down, and slide into the seat. The plastic chair is cold through my jeans. Outside, the quad is bright with morning sun, students walking in clusters, laughing, carrying coffee cups and backpacks. Normal. Everything looks so fucking normal.

I pull out my phone. Justin's name is at the top of my recent calls—I'd texted him before my first class, a quick Morning, Daddy that he'd answered with a single word: Good girl. The memory of it sends a small thrill down my spine, even now, even in the middle of the cafeteria with the quarterback's words still buzzing in my ears.

I type: We need to talk. That quarterback. He knows about the party.

I stare at the message for a long moment. Then I delete it.

Too vague. Too much like I'm scared.

I type again: The quarterback approached me in the cafeteria. He knows I'm going Saturday. He made it clear he's expecting something.

Delete.

He leaned in. He whispered in my ear. He thinks he has a chance.

Delete.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I don't know how to explain it—the way he'd looked at me, the way his eyes had dropped to my collar like he could see through the fabric, like he knew something was there. The way I'd felt exposed. Claimed. Not by him. By the secret I'm carrying.

I settle on: Need to talk about Saturday. He approached me.

Send.

I put the phone face-down on the table and pick up my fork. The salad in front of me suddenly looks unappetizing, the greens wilted, the dressing congealed. I push it around anyway. I need to eat. I have Property Law at eleven, and I can't afford to be distracted.

But I can't stop thinking about it.

The way he'd said my name. Like he had a right to it. Like he'd already claimed it somehow, the way guys like him claim everything—through sheer confidence, through the assumption that the world will give them what they want because it always has.

Justin isn't like that. Justin takes. But he earns it first. He watches. He learns. He finds the cracks in people and presses until they open.

I've seen him do it to my mother. I've seen him do it to me.

The thought should terrify me. Maybe it used to. But now it just makes me feel something else—something warm and complicated that I don't have a name for yet. Something that makes me want to be the one he's watching. The one he's pressing.

My phone buzzes. I flip it over.

Details. Now.

I glance around the cafeteria. No one's looking at me. The quarterback is at his table, laughing with his friends, probably already telling them about the hot blonde he's going to see Saturday. I type quickly, my thumbs moving before I can second-guess myself.

He came up to me by the salad bar. Said he heard I'm coming to the party. Said it's gonna be awesome now that everyone who matters will be there. Then he leaned in and whispered he wished it was already Saturday.

I pause. Then add: He looked at my collar.

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Then: He knows nothing. He's fishing. But he's bold. I'll handle it.

My chest tightens. How?

You'll see. Wear what I picked for you. Trust me.

I stare at the words. Trust me. Two words that should mean nothing from a man who kidnapped my mother and made her call him husband. Two words that should make me run in the opposite direction.

Instead, I feel something loosen in my chest. Something that's been wound tight since the quarterback leaned in.

I trust you, I type. And I mean it.

He doesn't respond. I don't expect him to. Justin says what he needs to say and lets the silence do the rest.

I put the phone down and pick up my fork again. The salad still looks terrible, but I eat it anyway. I chew. I swallow. I think about Saturday.

I think about Chloe's face when I walk in on Justin's arm. I think about the quarterback's expression when he realizes I'm not there for him. I think about the way Justin will look at me across the room—that quiet possessiveness in his eyes that makes my knees weak even when I'm sitting down.

And I think about the collar around my throat. The one no one can see. The one that marks me as his.

My phone buzzes again. I pick it up, expecting Justin.

It's Chloe.

Hey! So excited for Saturday!! What are you wearing?? Should we coordinate? I'm thinking something blue. Or maybe red. Ooh, what about black? You'd look amazing in black.

I smile despite myself. Chloe's enthusiasm is infectious, even when I'm not sure I deserve it. Even when I'm not sure I'm the person she thinks I am anymore.

I type back: Justin's picking out my outfit.

The three dots appear immediately. Then: OMG he's coming?? You're bringing him?? This is HUGE. I can't wait to meet him properly.

I hesitate. I haven't told Chloe the full truth—not about the collar, not about the rules, not about any of it. She thinks I'm dating someone mysterious and intense. She doesn't know he's the reason I flinch when someone touches me unexpectedly. She doesn't know he's the reason I'm learning to like it.

Yeah, I type. He's coming.

Yesss!! This is going to be the best party ever. I'm telling everyone.

My stomach drops. Everyone?

Well, not EVERYONE everyone. Just the people who matter. You know how it is.

I do know. That's the problem. Chloe's version of "people who matter" includes half the student body, and by Saturday night, everyone will know that Kira Vance is bringing someone. That Kira Vance is taken.

The quarterback will know before I even walk in the door.

I type: Okay. See you Saturday.

Can't wait!!! 💕💕

I put the phone down and stare out the window. The quad is still bright, still full of normal people living normal lives. I used to be one of them. I used to be the girl with the perfect GPA and the perfect reputation and the perfectly controlled life.

Now I'm the girl with the collar. The girl who calls her boyfriend Daddy. The girl who watched her mother swallow his cum and felt something dark and hungry twist in her chest.

I don't know who I am anymore. But I know whose I am.

And I know that on Saturday, I'm going to walk into that party with Justin's mark on my throat and let the whole world see it.

The quarterback thinks he's waiting for something. He doesn't know what's coming.

I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

I finish my salad—mechanically, without tasting it—and gather my tray. Property Law starts in twenty minutes, and I need to be sharp. I need to be the girl who can argue circles around anyone in that room, the girl who doesn't flinch when the professor calls on her, the girl who wins.

Because that's what Justin needs. That's what I have to be.

I'm halfway to the tray return when I see her. Anna Lindqvist, Priya's best friend, sitting alone at a table near the door. She's got a textbook open in front of her, but she's not reading it—she's staring at her phone, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed thin.

I slow down. I've only met Anna a handful of times, always in passing, always in the context of Priya. But I know she's been asking questions. I know she's been pushing.

And I know she's coming to the house tomorrow.

Our eyes meet for half a second. She looks away first, back at her phone, and I keep walking. I don't have the energy for that conversation. Not today.

Today, I have Property Law. I have the memory of a quarterback's breath on my ear. I have the weight of a collar around my throat.

I have enough.

The lecture hall is half-full when I slide into my usual seat near the back. I pull out my notebook, my pen, my highlighter—the tools of the person I used to be, the person I'm pretending to still be. The professor starts talking about easements and encumbrances, and I take notes like it matters, like any of this will matter once Justin's done with this university.

But my mind keeps drifting. To the cafeteria. To the quarterback's grin. To the way he'd looked at my collar like he could see through it.

To Justin's text: I'll handle it.

I don't know what that means. I don't know how he plans to handle a quarterback who's used to getting whatever he wants. But I know Justin. I know he doesn't make promises he can't keep.

And I know that on Saturday, something is going to change.

I just don't know what.

The lecture ends. I pack up my things and head for the door, my mind already turning toward the afternoon—toward the house, toward Justin, toward whatever he has planned.

My phone buzzes as I step into the hallway. I pull it out.

Justin: Come home. We need to talk about Saturday.

I stop in the middle of the hallway, students flowing around me like water around a stone. My heart is beating too fast. My palms are slightly damp.

I type: On my way.

Then I start walking.

The walk home is a blur of pavement and afternoon shadows. I move on autopilot, my bag cutting into my shoulder, my mind already ahead of me—already in the kitchen of Elena's house, already standing in front of Justin, already trying to read whatever's behind those hazel eyes of his. The quarterback's grin keeps surfacing like something I can't scrub off. The way he'd leaned in. The way he'd breathed against my ear like I was already his.

I shove the thought down. Saturday isn't his. Saturday is Justin's. Saturday is when I stop being the girl who hides.

Priya's waiting at the corner of our street when I round it, her arms wrapped around a paper bag of groceries, her dark hair escaping from a messy ponytail. She looks tired—there's a tightness around her mouth that wasn't there a week ago—but she smiles when she sees me, and it almost reaches her eyes.

"Hey," she says, falling into step beside me. "You're out early. Property Law get cancelled?"

"Ended early. Professor had a meeting." I glance at the bag. "You went shopping?"

"Anna's coming tomorrow. I wanted to make something nice." Her voice is careful, measured. The way she talks now, like she's editing every word before it leaves her mouth. "I thought maybe—I don't know. A curry. Something that feels normal."

I don't say what I'm thinking—that nothing about this is normal, that Anna will walk into a house where three women wear underwear and call the same man different versions of the same name. I just nod and take the bag from her, lightening her load.

"It'll be fine," I say, because I don't know what else to offer.

"Will it?" She asks it quietly, almost to herself. Then she shakes her head, forces another smile. "Sorry. I'm just—it's been a lot. The lecture, Marchetti, Anna. I keep feeling like I'm one wrong word away from everything falling apart."

"You're not." I say it firmly, the way I'd argue a case. "You chose this. You keep choosing it. That's not nothing."

Priya looks at me for a long moment. Then something in her face softens. "Look at us. Two girls lying to everyone they know."

"Three," I correct. "Mom's in there too."

She laughs—a real one, surprising us both. "Three. Right. The family that lies together stays together."

We walk the rest of the way in silence. The house looms ahead of us, white siding and a neat lawn, the kind of house that looks like it belongs to a professor with a quiet life and a steady marriage. No one driving past would ever guess what happens behind that door. No one would ever guess what I feel when I step through it.

Priya opens the front door. And then we both stop.

The sound reaches us before the sight does—a wet, rhythmic sound, soft and obscene. My body knows it before my brain does. I've heard it before, once, and the memory of it is burned into me so deep that I can't unhear it, can't unsee the image that comes with it.

Priya's hand finds my arm. I don't move.

We step into the hallway together, and through the open kitchen doorway, I see them.

Justin is leaning against the counter, his head tipped back, his hands buried in my mother's hair. His shirt is still on, but his jeans are undone, pushed down just enough to free him. And my mother—Dr. Elena Vance, the woman who taught me physics in high school, the woman who raised me, the woman who still flinches when Justin touches her without warning—is on her knees in front of him.

Her mouth is stretched around him. Her eyes are closed. Her hands are braced on his thighs like she's steadying herself, and she's moving—slow, deliberate, her head bobbing in a rhythm that looks like she's been doing it for a while.

I can't breathe.

It's the second time I've seen this. The first time was in the kitchen of this same house, when Justin made her show me the cum in her mouth. But that was a performance, a lesson for me. This is different. This is—she's still going. Even though she must have heard us come in. Even though she must know we're standing here.

She doesn't stop.

Her head moves faster. Her hand comes up to cup him, to guide him deeper, and I hear a sound come out of her—a small, desperate moan that vibrates around him. Justin's eyes open. They find me across the room. And there's something in them—satisfaction, maybe. Or just quiet watchfulness. The way he looks at everything, like he's cataloguing my reaction for later.

"Kira," he says, and my name sounds like a command.

My mother's rhythm falters. Just for a second. Then she keeps going, her mouth sliding down him again, and I see her throat work as she takes him deeper. Her hands tighten on his thighs. Her mascara is smudged—just a little, at the corner of one eye—and her cheeks are flushed, and she looks like she's trying very hard not to look at me.

Priya moves first. She tugs my arm, pulling me back toward the hallway, her voice low and urgent. "Come on. Let's—we should give them—"

But I can't move. I'm rooted to the spot, watching my mother's head move in that steady rhythm, watching her lips stretch around him. I'm supposed to feel disgusted. I'm supposed to feel angry, or betrayed, or something. Instead, I feel the heat climbing up my own neck, the familiar ache between my legs that I've learned to recognize over these past weeks with Justin.

I know what she's feeling. I know what it's like to have him in your mouth, to taste him, to want to please him even when part of you hates him for making you want it.

Justin's hand tightens in her hair. Not hard—just enough to guide her. "Elena. You didn't greet our daughter."

My mother freezes. For a long moment, she doesn't move. Then she pulls off him—slowly, deliberately, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock—and looks up at me. Her eyes are glassy. Her lips are swollen. There's a smear of something at the corner of her mouth that might be pre-cum, might be spit.

"Kira," she says. Her voice is hoarse. "I didn't hear you come in."

She doesn't look ashamed. She looks—focused. Like she's decided something. Like she's choosing this, even now, even with her daughter watching.

And then she turns back to Justin and takes him in her mouth again.

I watch her do it. I watch her close her eyes and relax her throat and slide down over him until her nose brushes the coarse hair at the base. I watch her hold there for a moment, breathing through her nose, before she pulls back up and does it again. She's good at this. She's learned. She's been learning.

"Priya," Justin says, without looking away from me. "Put the groceries away. Then go upstairs."

Priya doesn't argue. She takes the bag from me and moves past us into the kitchen, averting her eyes as she opens the fridge and starts putting things away. I hear the sounds of her moving—jars clinking, the fridge door closing—and then her footsteps on the stairs, and then silence, except for the wet, rhythmic sound of my mother's mouth on Justin's cock.

He watches me the whole time. His eyes don't leave my face. And I can't look away from his.

"You said we needed to talk about Saturday," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"We do." He doesn't move. His hands are still in her hair, but he's not guiding her anymore—she's doing it on her own, her head moving in that steady rhythm, her hands on his thighs. "But I wanted to see you first. Wanted to see how you handled yourself."

"I handled it."

"Did you?"

My mother makes a sound—a low, humming moan that vibrates around him. Justin's jaw tightens. His hips shift forward, just slightly, and I watch her take him deeper.

"He knows about the party," I say. "He knows I'm going. He thinks he has a chance."

"He doesn't."

"I know that. You know that. He doesn't know that."

Justin's lips curve into something that isn't quite a smile. "He will."

My mother pulls off him again, gasping, a line of spit connecting her to him. She looks up at Justin, her eyes pleading. "Please," she whispers. "I need—"

"You need what?" His voice is calm. Gentle, almost. But there's steel under it.

"I need to finish," she says, and her voice cracks on the word. "Please. Let me finish."

He looks at her for a long moment. Then he strokes her hair, a surprisingly tender gesture. "You'll finish when I say you can. Not before."

She doesn't argue. She just nods and takes him back in her mouth, her eyes closing, her hands tightening on his thighs. And I watch her—this brilliant woman, this professor, this mother—kneel there and accept it. Accept him. Accept that her pleasure belongs to him now.

I know how she feels. I know it so well it scares me.

"Saturday," Justin says, and my attention snaps back to him. "You're going to walk in on my arm. You're going to let everyone see you. And when the quarterback approaches you—and he will—you're going to tell him exactly who you belong to."

"I know."

"Do you?" His eyes are dark now, serious. "Because I need you to understand something, Kira. I'm not worried about the quarterback. I'm not worried about Chloe, or anyone else at that party. I'm only worried about you—about whether you remember who you are when you're standing in a room full of people who want you to be someone else."

I feel something loosen in my chest. Something I didn't know was wound tight. He's not threatened by the quarterback. He's not threatened by anyone. He's asking me if I'm sure. He's giving me a chance to back out.

And I don't want to.

"I know who I am," I say. "I know whose I am."

He smiles then—a real smile, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Good girl."

My mother moans around him, and I watch his hand tighten in her hair. He's getting close—I can see it in the way his hips move, the way his breathing changes. But he doesn't push her. He lets her set the pace. He lets her choose.

And she does. She takes him deeper, faster, her hands gripping his thighs, her head bobbing with an urgency that looks almost desperate. I watch her throat work around him. I watch her eyes squeeze shut. I watch her give herself to him, completely, without reservation.

I should leave. I should go upstairs and give them privacy. But I can't move. I'm frozen, watching my mother do something I've done a hundred times, feeling the echo of it in my own body, the phantom weight of him on my tongue.

Justin's eyes find mine again. There's a question in them—not a demand, but an invitation. He wants me to see this. He wants me to understand what he has with my mother, what he has with me, what we all are to each other now.

And I do. I understand it. I've always understood it, even when I didn't want to.

He comes with a low groan, his hips thrusting forward, his hands fisting in her hair. I watch her swallow. I watch her throat work. I watch her pull off him, gasping, a smear of cum on her lower lip, and I watch her wipe it away with the back of her hand like it's nothing. Like it's normal.

For us, it is.

"Go to your room," Justin says, and for a moment I think he's talking to me. But he's looking down at my mother, stroking her hair, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "I'll be up soon."

She nods. She pushes herself to her feet, swaying slightly, and meets my eyes for a second. There's something in her gaze—shame, maybe, but also something else. Something that looks almost like pride. Like she's showing me she can do this. Like she's showing me she chose this.

Then she walks out of the kitchen, past me, up the stairs. I hear her bedroom door close.

Justin tucks himself back into his jeans, fastens them, and crosses the kitchen to where I'm standing. He doesn't touch me. He just looks at me, his hazel eyes searching my face.

"You should text Chloe," he says. "Tell her not to make a big deal out of Saturday. Tell her you're not sure I'm coming after all."

I blink. "What? But you said—"

"I said I'd handle the quarterback. I didn't say anything about Chloe." His voice is calm, measured. "If she tells everyone you're bringing someone, it changes the game. People will be watching us before we even walk in. I want to control when that happens."

I understand. It's not about hiding. It's about timing. It's about making sure that when we walk into that party, it's on his terms, not Chloe's.

"Okay," I say. "I'll text her."

He nods. Then he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my face, his fingers trailing down my cheek. The touch is light, almost tender, and it makes my breath catch.

"You did good today," he says. "Handling the quarterback. Coming home. Not running."

"I didn't want to run."

"I know." He drops his hand. "That's why I trust you."

He walks past me, toward the stairs, and I watch him go. I stand in the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of my mother's half-cooked dinner and the memory of what I just saw, and I pull out my phone.

Chloe's name is at the top of my recent texts. I open the thread, stare at her string of excited messages, and type:

Hey, don't tell everyone about Justin yet. He might not be able to make it after all. I'll let you know.

I send it before I can second-guess myself. Then I put the phone away and head upstairs, toward my room, toward the weight of the collar around my throat.

Saturday is still coming. The quarterback is still waiting. But Justin's not worried. And now I understand why.

He's not worried because he knows something the quarterback doesn't. He knows that I'm not a prize to be won. I'm a claim that's already been made.