The pale light through my curtains is thin, almost apologetic, as if the morning itself isn't sure it should be here yet. I lie still beneath the sheets, letting the quiet settle around me, and the first thing I register is the weight against my throat—that thin silver chain, cool from the night, resting against my collarbone like it's always been there. Like it belongs. I touch it with two fingers, tracing the links, and the metal has already warmed to my skin by the time my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

The screen glows in the dim room, the only brightness besides that pale slice of light cutting through the curtain's gap. I reach for it, and Justin's name is there, and beneath it, the words I read three times before I let them sink in:

Good morning, good girl. Make me proud tonight.

My chest tightens. Not from fear—I stopped being afraid of him weeks ago, or at least I stopped admitting it to myself—but from something sharper. Anticipation. The way his words settle into me like a key turning in a lock I didn't know I'd left open. I read it again, and again, until the glow of the screen is the only thing in the room that feels real.

I should respond. I know I should respond. He likes when I respond quickly, when I acknowledge him before he has to ask. But my thumb hovers over the keyboard, and I find myself just lying there, letting the weight of his words press down on me, warm and certain.

The house is silent. Somewhere below me, a radiator clanks, a distant, mechanical sound that reminds me I'm not alone in this world—that my mother is somewhere in this house, and Priya, and the girl in the guest room who doesn't know yet what she's become. The thought should unsettle me. It doesn't. It settles into me like a fact I've already accepted, like the chain around my neck, like the faint ache between my thighs that I feel when I shift beneath the sheets.

I sit up slowly, and the fabric of my nightshirt slides across my skin, catching on the bruise he left last night. I inhale sharply through my teeth, my hand pressing against the spot through the cotton. It's tender, a deep and possessive ache that radiates from the curve of my hip where his fingers dug in, holding me still while he took what he wanted. I don't move my hand away. I press harder, testing the edge of it, and the pain blooms beneath my palm like something I've earned.

The mirror in the corner catches my reflection, and I look at her—the girl sitting up in bed with her hair mussed and her eyes still heavy with sleep. She looks different than she did a month ago. I can see it in the set of her jaw, the way she holds her shoulders, the quiet certainty that's crept into her gaze like a slow tide. She looks like someone who knows what she wants. She looks like someone who's been chosen.

I look away before I can think too hard about it.

My phone is still glowing on the nightstand. I pick it up again, and my thumb moves before I've decided what to say.

Good morning, Daddy. I'll make you proud.

I send it before I can second-guess myself, and the screen dims for a moment before brightening again with his reply.

I know you will. Wear the black dress. The one I picked.

I look across the room to the chair where the dress hangs, draped over the back like a promise I haven't yet kept. It's fitted, the kind of dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, that clings to every curve and dip and demands to be noticed. He picked it out two days ago, holding it up against me in the bedroom while my mother watched from the doorway with that careful, unreadable expression she's been wearing lately.

"This one," he'd said, his eyes running down my body like he was already undressing me. "You'll wear this Saturday."

And I'd nodded, because that's what I do now. I nod, and I obey, and somewhere beneath the obedience there's a hunger I'm still learning to name.

The bruise on my hip throbs as I swing my legs out of bed, and I hiss again, pressing my palm flat against it through the cotton of my nightshirt. The fabric is thin, worn soft from years of washing, and I can feel the heat of my own skin beneath it. I wonder if he left marks like this on purpose—if he wanted me to feel him all day, every time I moved, every time I sat down or reached for something or remembered the way his voice dropped when he told me I was his.

I think he did. I think that's the point.

The floor is cold against my bare feet as I stand, and I pad across the room to the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to look out at the street below. The city is beginning to stir—a car idling at the curb, a jogger moving at a steady pace, the first few students heading toward campus with backpacks slung over their shoulders. The team won yesterday. I saw the score flash across the screen in the kitchen while I was making coffee, and I felt something shift in my chest, a quiet satisfaction that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with what comes after.

Tonight, every name that matters will be in that house. Chloe, with her sharp eyes and her careful questions. Tessa, who believes the best in everyone and hasn't yet learned that some people don't deserve it. Nadia, who watches everything and says nothing, who I've never quite been able to read. And Jake Calloway, the quarterback who thinks he has a claim on me, who whispered in my ear that he wished it were already Saturday—who doesn't know that I'm wearing another man's collar beneath my shirt, that I answer to someone else now, that the girl he's been chasing has already been caught.

I let the curtain fall and turn back to the room. The dress hangs on the chair, black and sleek, waiting. The scarf he chose for me is draped beside it—silk, pale as cream, meant to cover the marks he left on my throat until I decide the night demands their reveal. I reach out and touch the fabric, letting it slide between my fingers, and I think about the moment I'll take it off.

I think about the look on Chloe's face when she sees the collar.

I think about the look on Jake's face when he realizes he never had a chance.

The thought sends a thrill down my spine, sharp and electric, and I catch my reflection in the mirror again. This time I don't look away. I meet my own eyes, and I see the girl I used to be—the student council president, the debate champion, the untouchable ice queen who never let anyone close enough to hurt her—and I see her fading, like a photograph left too long in the sun.

I don't miss her.

That should scare me. It doesn't.

The radiator clanks again, a distant sound that reminds me I'm not alone in this house. Somewhere down the hall, my mother is waking up to another day of pretending she chose this. Priya is probably already in the kitchen, making coffee the way Justin likes it, her movements careful and deliberate as she tries to prove she belongs. And in the guest room, behind the locked door, Anna is waiting—bound and collared and learning the first hard lessons of what it means to resist him.

I should feel something about that. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. But when I search for those feelings, I find only a quiet acceptance, a recognition that this is the way the world works now. Justin doesn't take what he wants by asking. He takes it by taking it, and the people who survive are the ones who learn to bend before they break.

I bent. I chose to bend. And somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting to stand back up.

My phone buzzes again in my hand, and I look down to see another message from Justin. A picture this time—a shot of his own hand resting on his thigh, the fabric of his trousers stretched tight over the unmistakable outline of his cock. Below it, a single line of text.

Thinking about you. Remember what I taught you.

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, and I press my thighs together, the ache between them sharpening into something more deliberate. I remember. Of course I remember. I remember the way his voice dropped when he told me to get on my knees, the way his fingers tangled in my hair, the way he held my gaze while I took him into my mouth and let him use me until I was gasping for air. I remember the way he called me his good girl, and the way those words made me feel like I'd won something even as I knelt at his feet.

I type back, my fingers moving faster now, the words coming without thought.

I remember everything, Daddy. I'll be ready tonight.

His reply comes almost immediately.

That's my girl.

I set the phone down on the nightstand, and the screen dims, and for a moment I just stand there in the quiet of my room, feeling the weight of what's about to happen settle over me like a second skin. Tonight, I walk into that party as someone new. Tonight, I tell Chloe the truth—or enough of it. Tonight, I claim Justin in front of everyone who ever thought they knew me.

And when I take off this scarf, when I let them see the collar around my throat, they'll understand exactly who I belong to.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the most honest thing I've done in months.

I reach up and touch the chain again, the silver cool against my fingers, and I let myself feel the weight of it. He put this on me a week ago, in the quiet of this very room, his fingers brushing against the nape of my neck as he fastened it. "So everyone knows," he'd said, his voice low and certain, "that you're mine."

And I'd let him. I'd tilted my head back and let him claim me, and when he'd kissed me afterward, soft and possessive, I'd felt something click into place inside me—something I didn't have words for then and still don't quite have words for now.

All I know is that when I look in the mirror, I see a girl who's finally stopped pretending she's in control.

And she's smiling.

The dress waits on the chair, black and sleek and patient. The scarf waits beside it, pale as cream, ready to hide the evidence of his claim until the moment is right. And outside, the city stirs to life, buzzing with the aftermath of a victory that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the night ahead.

I take a breath. I let it out slowly.

And I reach for the hem of my nightshirt, ready to become the girl he made me.

My phone screen dims on the nightstand, the glow fading until the room is quiet again, lit only by that pale slice of morning light. I don't look back at it. I don't need to. His words are already inside me, settled deep, and I'll carry them with me all day—through the shower, through the dress, through the hours of waiting until I finally step out into the city and let them all see who I've become.

The shower is scalding, almost punishing, and I let it beat against the back of my neck until the skin turns pink. Steam coils around me, thick and white, and I stand there with my palms flat against the tile, letting the water wash away the last of sleep. The bruise on my hip aches with each shift of my weight, a dull and pleasant reminder that I carry him with me even here, even naked and alone and dripping wet.

I take my time. I shave, I condition, I scrub until my skin is raw and clean and shining. When I finally step out, the mirror is fogged beyond recognition, and I wipe a clear circle in the center with my palm. The girl who looks back at me has flushed cheeks and dark lashes, water beading on her shoulders, and she doesn't look like someone who's about to walk into a room full of people who think they know her.

She looks like someone who's about to prove them all wrong.

I wrap a towel around myself and pad back to my room, and the dress is still there, waiting on the chair like it's been holding its breath. I run my fingers over the fabric—silk, he said, though I suspect it's something cheaper that just wants to feel like silk—and I lift it off the hanger, letting it fall against my body. It's cool at first, then warm, and it clings to every curve like it was made for me.

I don't wear a bra. He didn't pick one out, and I've learned that when he doesn't pick something out, he means for me to go without. The dress is cut low enough that it doesn't matter, and the fabric slides against my nipples as I move, sending small sparks of sensation through me. I catch my reflection and I look… dangerous. I look like someone who knows exactly what she's doing.

The scarf is next. Silk, pale as cream, and I wrap it around my throat carefully, covering the silver chain and the marks beneath it. It's soft against my skin, and I adjust it twice, three times, until it sits just right—high enough to hide everything, loose enough that one sharp tug could undo it all.

I'm putting on my earrings when my phone buzzes again. I expect Justin, but it's Chloe, her name lighting up the screen with a string of messages.

You ready?

Nadia and I are heading over soon. Tessa's already there, saving us a spot.

You better look hot. Jake's been asking about you all day.

I smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes. I type back:

I'm ready. Can you pick me up? I'll send you the address.

Chloe's reply comes almost instantly: Sending location now. Be ready in 20.

I set the phone down and take one last look in the mirror. The girl staring back at me has a collar around her throat and a bruise on her hip and a secret burning in her chest. She's about to walk into a party full of people who think they know her, and she's about to show them all how wrong they are.

I grab my clutch and head for the door.

The hallway is quiet, the house holding its breath around me. I can hear the faint murmur of voices from downstairs, and I pause at the top of the stairs, my hand on the railing. There's a part of me that wants to slip out without being seen, to keep this moment for myself, but I know better. I know this house runs on his rules now, and I know he'll want to see me before I go.

I descend the stairs slowly, my heels clicking against each step, and the voices grow clearer. Priya's voice first, light and warm, saying something I can't quite make out. Then a low murmur that I recognize as Justin's, and then—

I stop halfway down the stairs.

The living room is visible through the open archway, and I can see them clearly. Priya is in the kitchen, her back to me, pouring coffee. But Justin is on the couch, and my mother is on her knees between his legs, her head bobbing in his lap.

My mother. On her knees. Sucking his cock like she was born for it.

I freeze, my hand gripping the railing, and I watch for a moment too long. Her brown hair is loose around her shoulders, falling forward to frame her face as she takes him into her mouth. She doesn't see me. She doesn't see anything. Her eyes are closed, her cheeks hollowed, and there's a hunger in the way she moves that I've never seen in her before—not with my father, not with anyone. She's lost in it, in him, in the rhythm of her own mouth sliding up and down his length.

Justin's head is tilted back, his eyes half-closed, one hand resting on the back of my mother's head. He's not forcing her. He's not even guiding her. He's just letting her work, letting her worship him, and the look on his face is one of pure, lazy satisfaction.

I should look away. I should go back upstairs and wait for Chloe's text and pretend I didn't see this. But I can't move. I'm rooted to the stairs, watching my mother pleasure the man I call Daddy, and something twists in my chest—something I can't quite name.

"Slower," Justin says, his voice low and rough, and my mother obeys instantly. Her pace slows, her mouth dragging along his shaft with deliberate, teasing slowness, and she makes a sound—a small, desperate whimper—that I feel in my own throat.

Justin's eyes open, and they find me.

He doesn't startle. He doesn't even blink. He just looks at me, standing there frozen on the stairs, and a slow smile spreads across his face. His hand tightens in my mother's hair, and he tugs her off his cock with a wet sound. She gasps, her lips swollen and slick, and she looks up at him with dazed, hungry eyes.

"Say good morning to your daughter," he tells her, his voice gentle but firm. "Then you can finish."

My mother turns her head, and our eyes meet.

For a moment, I see it—the flicker of shame, the flash of something that looks like hatred, the desperate wish to be anywhere else. It's there and gone in an instant, buried beneath the mask she's learned to wear. She smiles at me, and there's cum on her lips, glistening in the morning light.

"Good morning, Kira," she says, her voice warm and steady, as if she's greeting me over breakfast. "You look beautiful."

I can't speak. I can only stare at her, at the evidence of what she's been doing smeared across her mouth, at the way she's smiling like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And then she turns back to Justin, and she takes him into her mouth again. Hungry. Eager. Like she can't get enough.

Justin watches her for a moment, then his gaze lifts back to me. "Have a good day, daughter," he says, and there's a weight in the word that I feel in my bones. "Make me proud."

I manage to nod. I manage to force my legs to move, to carry me down the last few stairs and toward the front door. My hand is on the handle when I hear Justin's voice again, low and amused.

"She's learning," he says, and I don't know if he's talking to my mother or to himself. "They all do, eventually."

I step outside into the cool morning air, and I take a shaky breath. The door closes behind me, muffling the sounds from inside, and I stand on the front step for a moment, letting the world settle around me. My mother's face is burned into my mind—her swollen lips, her dazed eyes, the cum on her chin. The way she smiled at me like it was nothing.

Maybe it is nothing, now. Maybe this is just what our family looks like.

My phone buzzes in my clutch, and I pull it out. Chloe's car is pulling up to the curb, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows. I can see Nadia in the passenger seat, her dark hair pulled back, her face unreadable. Chloe is behind the wheel, grinning at me through the windshield.

I paste a smile on my face and walk toward them, my heels clicking against the pavement. When I slide into the back seat, Chloe twists around to look at me, her eyes running over my dress, my hair, the scarf at my throat.

"Damn, Kira," she says, low and appreciative. "You look like trouble."

"That's the idea," I say, and I mean it.

Nadia turns to look at me too, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. She doesn't say anything, but I can feel her watching me, cataloguing every detail, filing it away for later. I meet her gaze and hold it, and after a moment, she looks away.

"The team's already at the house," Chloe says, pulling away from the curb. "Game ended hours ago, and they're getting a head start on the celebration. Tessa's there too, making sure no one drinks the good stuff before we arrive."

I nod, watching the familiar streets slide past the window. "Who else is coming?"

"Everyone," Chloe says, and there's a note of pride in her voice. "I mean it, Kira. Everyone who matters in this city is going to be at this party. The quarterback's throwing it at his parents' place—you know the one, that huge mansion on the hill."

I know the one. Everyone knows the one.

"There's going to be some interesting people there," Nadia adds, her voice quiet and thoughtful. "Not just the usual crowd. I heard the interim director's son is coming—the one who's still in high school."

"Ethan Oliver," Chloe supplies. "He's like, eighteen. Barely. His mom's been running the university since Rutherford took her leave."

I file that away, my mind already turning. Margaret Oliver's son. The woman who's been watching Justin, who suspects him, who's been poking around where she shouldn't. And her son is going to be at this party.

"And Professor Marchetti is coming too," Chloe adds, and I blink.

"The economics professor?"

"She's friends with Jake's mom or something. I don't know. But she's coming, and she's bringing some of her other faculty friends. It's going to be a whole thing."

I lean back against the seat, my mind racing. This isn't just a party. This is a gathering of everyone who matters in this city—the quarterback, the interim director's son, the professor who's been watching Justin with too much concern. And I'm walking into it wearing his collar beneath my scarf.

Chloe glances at me in the rearview mirror. "You okay? You look like you're thinking too hard."

"I'm fine," I say, and I force a smile. "Just excited."

Nadia turns to look at me again, and there's something in her eyes—a flicker of knowing that I don't like. "You've been different lately," she says, her voice neutral. "Calmer. More sure of yourself."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No," she says, and she turns back to face the road. "It's just interesting."

The rest of the drive passes in silence, the city sliding past the windows in a blur of gray and green. I watch the houses grow larger, the streets grow wider, and soon we're climbing the hill toward the mansion that dominates the skyline. It's a sprawling modern thing, all glass and steel, with lights blazing from every window and music already thrumming through the walls.

Chloe parks on the street, and we climb out, the three of us—Chloe in a red dress that hugs her curves, Nadia in something sleek and black, and me in the dress Justin picked. The night air is cool against my bare shoulders, and I can hear the bass from inside, feel it vibrating through the ground beneath my heels.

"Ready?" Chloe asks, and there's a challenge in her voice.

I smile, and I feel the collar against my throat, hidden beneath the silk. "Ready."

We walk up the driveway, and the front door is already open, spilling light and noise onto the lawn. People are everywhere—students I recognize, faces I've seen in lecture halls and libraries, all of them dressed up and buzzing with the energy of the night. The football team is nowhere in sight yet, but the party is already in full swing, bodies pressed together in the living room, drinks in hand, laughter rising above the music.

I scan the room, cataloguing faces, and I spot them almost immediately. Ethan Oliver is standing near the bar, looking young and slightly out of place, a drink in his hand that he's clearly not sure what to do with. He's wearing a button-down shirt that's too formal for the occasion, and his glasses keep slipping down his nose as he looks around the room with wide, uncertain eyes.

And there, by the window, is Professor Marchetti. She's dressed in a dark blouse and jeans, looking more like a graduate student than a professor, and she's deep in conversation with a woman I don't recognize. She's laughing at something, her head tilted back, and for a moment she looks almost human.

I watch them, and I feel a pull in my chest—a thread of curiosity that I can't quite ignore. Chloe and Nadia have already drifted toward the kitchen, grabbing drinks and falling into conversation with people I don't know. I could follow them. I could lose myself in the crowd and wait for the football team to arrive, wait for the moment when I take off this scarf and let everyone see who I belong to.

But I don't.

Instead, I walk toward the bar, toward the boy who looks like he's wandered into the wrong party, and I smile when he looks up at me with startled brown eyes.

"You look lost," I say, and his cheeks flush.

"I—yeah, I guess I am," he says, adjusting his glasses. "I'm Ethan. I'm, uh, I'm not really sure why I'm here, to be honest."

"Kira," I say, and I hold out my hand. "And you're here because someone thought you should be. That's how these things work."

He takes my hand, his grip hesitant. "You're the student council president, aren't you? I've seen you speak at assemblies."

"Former," I correct him, and I feel a small thrill at the word. "I stepped down."

"Oh." He blinks. "Why?"

I smile, and I can feel the collar against my throat, cool and certain. "Because I found something better to do with my time."

"What do you mean, something better?" Ethan asks, and there's genuine curiosity in his voice—the kind that comes from someone who hasn't yet learned to hide his interest. He adjusts his glasses again, a nervous habit I've already clocked. "Student council president is kind of a big deal. I've seen the way people talk about you."

"People talk about a lot of things," I say, letting my smile go a little sharp. "Most of it isn't true."

He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve. "That's cryptic."

"That's intentional."

A laugh escapes him, surprised and genuine, and he relaxes slightly, his shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch. "Okay. I can work with cryptic. Better than the girls who've been trying to get me to dance all night."

"Trying to get you to dance? Or trying to get you to talk to them?"

"Both? Neither?" He winces. "I'm not great at this."

"You're doing fine," I tell him, and I mean it. There's something disarming about Ethan Oliver—the way he doesn't try to impress me, the way he seems almost uncomfortable in his own skin. It's a far cry from the polished, confident men I've spent my life around. Men like Jake Calloway, who move through the world like they own it. Men like Justin, who actually do.

"So what brings you to a party like this?" I ask. "Seems a little loud for someone who looks like he'd rather be reading."

Ethan's cheeks flush again, and I watch the color creep up his neck. "My mom made me come. She said I needed to network, meet people outside of high school. She's—she's one of the professors at the university. Margaret Oliver."

I keep my face neutral, but something clicks in my chest. "English literature, right? I think I've heard of her."

"That's her." He sounds almost proud, and then a little embarrassed. "She's always pushing me to be more social. Says I spend too much time in my own head."

"And do you?"

"Probably." He shrugs. "But there's a lot in there worth exploring."

The answer is so earnest, so unguarded, that I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Because Margaret Oliver is the woman who's been sniffing around Justin, asking questions, watching him with suspicion. And her son is standing here in front of me, eighteen years old and easy to read, a potential lever I didn't know existed until tonight.

"Your mom's the acting director now, isn't she?" I ask, keeping my voice light. "Since Rutherford took leave?"

"Yeah." Ethan grimaces. "She's been stressed about it. Lots of late nights, lots of phone calls. She doesn't talk about it much, but I can tell it's wearing on her."

"I bet. Running a university can't be easy."

"Especially with everything that's been going on." He lowers his voice, leaning in slightly. "You heard about that professor who went missing? Dr. Vance? She was my mom's friend."

My heart skips a beat, but I keep my expression smooth. "I heard something about that. A family emergency, wasn't it?"

"That's what they're saying." Ethan's brow furrows. "But my mom doesn't buy it. She's been trying to get in touch with Dr. Vance for weeks, and she's not answering any of her calls. My mom's worried something bad happened."

Something bad did happen, I think. Something bad happened, and she's living in my house now, wearing underwear and serving coffee to the man I call Daddy.

"I'm sure she's fine," I say, the lie sliding off my tongue like honey. "People need space sometimes."

Ethan looks like he wants to argue, but before he can, a voice cuts through the noise behind us.

"Ethan! Kira!"

We both turn. Professor Marchetti is approaching, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her cat-eye glasses perched on her nose. She's smiling, but there's something careful in her eyes as they land on me—an assessing quality that I've seen before in people who are trying to figure out where I fit.

"Professor," I say, and Ethan blinks beside me, clearly thrown by my use of the title.

"Please, call me Elisa," she says, waving a hand. "I'm not on the clock tonight." She turns to Ethan, her smile widening. "You must be Margaret's son. She's told me so much about you."

Ethan's blush deepens. "You know my mom?"

"We're colleagues. She's been a mentor to me since I started teaching." Elisa's gaze flicks between us, curious. "I didn't expect to see you two here together. How do you know each other?"

"We just met," I say smoothly. "Ethan was looking lost, and I decided to rescue him."

"She did," Ethan confirms, and there's something almost grateful in his voice. "I was about to spend the whole night talking to the bartender."

Elisa laughs, a warm sound that makes her seem younger, more approachable. "I remember those days. The party circuit was never really my scene either." She glances at me, her expression softening. "Kira, I've been meaning to ask—how is Dr. Vance? Your mother?"

The question lands like a stone in my chest, but I don't let it show. "She's good. Taking some time off, resting."

"I'm glad to hear that." Elisa's voice is warm, but I catch the flicker in her eyes—the same suspicion that Ethan mentioned. "I was worried when I heard she was taking leave. She's always been so dedicated to her work. It seemed sudden."

"It was a family thing," I say, the lie growing smoother with repetition. "Nothing serious. She just needed a break."

Elisa nods slowly, but I can tell she doesn't fully believe me. "Well, I hope she comes back soon. The physics department misses her."

"I'll let her know you said that."

There's a pause—just a beat too long—and then Elisa's smile returns, brighter this time. "Anyway, I should go find my friends before they think I've ditched them. Ethan, it was lovely meeting you. Kira, take care of yourself."

"You too, Professor."

She walks away, disappearing into the crowd, and I let out a slow breath I didn't realize I was holding. Beside me, Ethan is watching her retreating figure with an intensity that makes me pause.

"She's different," he says quietly. "Most of the professors my mom introduces me to are… stiff. Formal. She seems like she'd be fun to have in class."

"She's new," I say. "Still figuring out the whole professor thing."

"Yeah." He's still staring, his gaze fixed on the curve of her hips as she disappears into the crowd. "She's really pretty, too."

I glance at him, and then I see it—the slight tenting in his trousers, the way his body is betraying the very thoughts he's trying to hide. It's subtle, barely noticeable under the dim lighting, but I've spent enough time around men to recognize the signs.

Interesting, I file it away, a useful piece of information about the acting director's son and his unexpected attraction to the new economics professor. You never know when a lever like that might come in handy.

"You should go talk to her," I suggest, keeping my voice light. "Before she gets away."

Ethan startles, his blush deepening as he realizes I've caught him staring. "I—no, I couldn't. She's a professor. That would be—"

"Inappropriate?" I supply, and there's something almost wicked in my smile. "Probably. But that doesn't mean you can't be friends."

He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a roar goes up from the other end of the house—a wave of cheers and hollers that drowns out the music. I turn toward the sound, and I see them: the football team, spilling through the front door like a tide of muscle and sweat, still in their jerseys, still buzzing with the high of their victory.

At the center of it all is Jake Calloway.

He's bigger in person than he looks on the field, broad-shouldered and golden-haired, with the kind of easy confidence that comes from being the best at something for your entire life. He's laughing at something one of his teammates said, his arm slung around a girl I don't recognize, and the crowd parts around him like he's walking on water.

"There he is!" someone shouts, and the whole room seems to surge toward him, eager to bask in his glow. He accepts it like it's his due, shaking hands, clapping backs, grinning that thousand-watt grin that's graced a dozen magazine covers.

I watch him, and I feel nothing. No flutter, no excitement, no pull toward the center of that gravity. Just a quiet satisfaction, knowing that when he finally notices me—when he finally realizes who's in his house tonight—I'll be the one walking away.

"He's the one who made the final point, right?" Ethan asks, craning his neck to see. "The quarterback?"

"Yeah." I keep my voice flat. "Jake Calloway. The golden boy."

"You don't sound impressed."

"I'm not."

Ethan looks at me, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Everyone else seems to be."

"Everyone else hasn't seen what I've seen." I take a sip of the drink I'd abandoned earlier, letting the ice clink against my teeth. "Trust me. The golden boy isn't as shiny up close."

Before Ethan can press further, the team starts to scatter, heading off to change out of their jerseys and into something more suited for the party. Jake lingers for a moment, exchanging words with a few people, and then his gaze sweeps the room—and lands on me.

His smile widens.

I hold his gaze, unflinching, and I feel the collar against my throat like a promise.

"I should go," Ethan says suddenly, and I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's shrinking away from the crowd. "Thanks for the rescue. Maybe I'll see you around?"

"Maybe," I say, and I watch him slip away into the crowd, a small fish darting through the sea of bodies.

And then Jake is there, cutting through the room like he owns it—because he does, tonight. He's changed out of his jersey, traded it for a fitted button-down that shows off the width of his shoulders, and his hair is still damp from a quick shower. He looks like he just stepped off a magazine cover, and he knows it.

"Kira." He says my name like it's a victory, his grin wide and wolfish. "I was hoping you'd make it."

"I told Chloe I would." I keep my voice cool, measured. "I'm a woman of my word."

"That's good to know." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine, designed to make women weak at the knees. It doesn't work on me. Not anymore. "You look incredible tonight. That dress—" He lets his gaze travel down my body, slow and deliberate. "You wore it for me, didn't you?"

"I wore it for myself," I say, and I can't help the small smile that plays at my lips. "But I'm glad you approve."

He laughs, a sound that's meant to be charming. "You know, I've been thinking about you all week. Ever since I saw you in the cafeteria, I couldn't get you out of my head."

"That's flattering."

"It's the truth." He moves even closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off him, the barely restrained energy of a man who's used to getting what he wants. "I meant what I said on Thursday. I wish it were already Saturday."

"Well, now it is." I tilt my head, meeting his gaze. "Here I am."

His grin widens, and I watch the calculation in his eyes—the certainty that this is the moment he's been waiting for. "So you're here alone tonight?"

The question is casual, but I hear the weight beneath it. "My boyfriend couldn't make it," I say, and I watch his expression flicker—just for a second—before smoothing back into that practiced charm.

"Boyfriend?" He echoes the word like it's foreign. "I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

"I do." I let my smile turn a little sharp. "He's very dedicated to me."

"That's a shame." The words are smooth, but there's a bite beneath them. "He's missing out."

"He knows what he's missing," I say, and I let my hand drift up to touch the scarf at my throat, a deliberate gesture I know he'll notice. "He's the one who picked this dress."

Jake's gaze follows my hand, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Must be a lucky guy."

"He is." I let my voice drop, low and intimate. "And he knows it."

There's a beat of silence between us—charged, electric, the kind of moment that either goes one way or the other. Jake's eyes are dark, his body angled toward mine, and I can see the thoughts churning behind that handsome face. He's not used to being denied. He's not used to hearing the word no.

But he's going to hear it tonight.

"You know," he says, stepping closer still, until there's barely a breath between us, "I don't think your boyfriend would have to know if something happened tonight." His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers trailing along my jaw. "Just between us."

"Jake." I say his name softly, almost kindly. And then I reach up, catch his wrist, and remove his hand from my face. "That's not going to happen."

His smile falters. "Kira—"

"I'm taken," I say, and I make sure the words carry. Around us, I can feel the attention shifting, a few heads turning toward the scene at the edges of the party. "Completely. Wholeheartedly. And I'm not interested in anything you're offering."

He blinks, and for a moment—just a moment—I see the crack in his armor. The raw, unvarnished shock of a man who's never been told no. His jaw tightens, his eyes hardening, and I can see him struggling to find his footing, to regain control of the situation.

"I see," he says finally, and the charm in his voice has gone brittle. "Well. I hope he knows how lucky he is."

"He does," I say. "Every day."

He holds my gaze for a long moment, and then he forces a smile—tight, unconvincing—and turns away. But I've seen it. The humiliation, the raw edge of wounded pride. And I know—I know—that everyone around us saw it too.

The crowd parts around him as he walks away, and I watch him go with a strange sense of satisfaction. Somewhere across the room, I catch a flash of red hair—Chloe, pushing through the crowd toward me, her eyes wide.

"Kira!" She reaches me, grabbing my arm. "What just happened? I saw Jake—he looked like someone who just killed his dog."

"I turned him down," I say, and I can't keep the note of triumph out of my voice.

Chloe's mouth falls open. "You what?"

"Turned him down," I repeat, savoring the words. "The golden boy finally heard no."

Behind Chloe, I see Tessa and Nadia approaching, their faces a mix of shock and curiosity. Tessa looks like she might cry. "But—but it's Jake," she says, as if that explains everything. "He's like… the most popular guy in school."

"He's not my guy," I say simply. "And he never will be."

"But—" Tessa's brow furrows in genuine confusion. "You could have had anyone. Everyone wants him. Why would you—"

"Because I don't want him." I cut through her babble with the simple truth. "I want someone else. Someone better."

The three of them stare at me like I've grown a second head. Chloe recovers first, her eyes narrowing. "Who? You've been so secretive lately. Is this about—who is it? A guy from another school? Someone online?"

I almost laugh. "Something like that."

"I don't get it," Tessa says, and she looks genuinely upset, like I've just revealed that the sky is green. "You had everything—Jake Calloway wanted you. You could be the queen of this whole campus."

"I don't want to be a queen," I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. "I want to be his."

Chloe looks at me for a long moment, her sharp eyes searching mine. I can see the questions forming behind them, the suspicion I've been dancing around all night. But I don't give her the chance to ask them. Instead, I raise my glass—the one I'd abandoned earlier, still cold and full—and I smile.

"Drinks?" I suggest, and without waiting for a response, I start walking toward the kitchen.

The night is far from over, and there's still so much work to do.

The kitchen is a blur of bodies and noise, someone's phone flashlight cutting through the dim like a beacon as a guy chugs from a bottle of something amber, his friends howling around him. I lean against the counter, my glass cold against my palm, and let the chaos wash over me. Chloe's beside me, refilling her cup from a plastic jug that's mostly ice now, and Tessa's laughing at something Nadia said, her head thrown back, carefree in a way I haven't felt in weeks.

"You're quiet tonight," Chloe says, bumping her shoulder against mine. "Even for you."

"Just taking it in." I take a sip of my drink—something sweet and sharp that someone mixed in a cooler, the taste of cheap vodka hidden under juice. "It's been a while since I've been out like this."

"That's because you've been holed up with your mystery man." She waggles her eyebrows. "You're never going to tell me who he is, are you?"

"Nope." I smile, and it feels almost genuine. "But I'll tell you this much—he's worth every secret."

Chloe groans, but she's laughing. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But when you finally bring him around, he better be spectacular."

"He is." The words come out softer than I intended, and I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. "He really is."

The night stretches on. Someone produces a beer pong setup, and the table becomes a battlefield of flying balls and screaming players. A girl with pink hair does a handstand against the wall while her boyfriend films it, her skirt pooling around her waist. There's a guy in the corner with a guitar who keeps starting songs and forgetting the chords, and everyone cheers when he finally gets one right.

I lose track of how many drinks I've had. Three? Four? The kitchen starts to feel like it's breathing, the walls pulsing with the bass, and I catch myself staring at the flickering string lights above the door like they're the most fascinating thing I've ever seen.

"You okay?" Nadia's voice cuts through the haze. She's beside me now, her dark hair tucked behind her ear, her eyes sharp and assessing. "You look a little out of it."

"I'm fine," I say, and the words feel thick on my tongue. "Just tired. Long week."

She studies me for a moment, and I can see the gears turning behind her eyes—the quiet observer, cataloguing everything. "You've been different lately, you know. Calmer. More sure of yourself." She pauses. "I think I like it."

"Thanks." I mean it. "I think I like it too."

She nods, and for a moment, I think she's going to say something else. But then Chloe's calling her name from across the room, waving a red solo cup, and she's gone, swallowed by the crowd.

The night blurs after that. I remember dancing—or trying to—with Tessa, our bodies moving to a beat I couldn't quite find. I remember someone daring someone else to jump off the balcony into the pool, and the splash that followed, and the roar of laughter that went with it. I remember a cop car crawling down the street outside, its lights off, patient and watchful, like a shark circling the edges of the party.

And I remember feeling—something. A pull. A heat. Like the air itself was charged, and every brush of skin against skin was electric. I caught myself watching a couple making out against the wall, their hands everywhere, and I felt a flush of something I couldn't name. Want. Longing. The ghost of Justin's hands on my body.

I blamed the drinks. I blamed the music. I blamed the crush of bodies pressing in around me.

I didn't blame the drink in my hand that tasted a little too sweet.

"Kira?" Chloe's voice, distant and fuzzy. "Kira, I think we're gonna head out. You coming?"

"Hmm?" I blink, and the room swims back into focus. Chloe's standing over me, her jacket on, her keys in her hand. Tessa and Nadia are behind her, bundled up and ready to go. "Already?"

"It's late," Tessa says, and she yawns, proving her point. "Or early. Depends on how you look at it."

"I'll catch up," I say, and the words feel like they're coming from somewhere far away. "Just gonna—sit for a minute."

Chloe frowns. "You sure? You look kinda pale."

"I'm fine." I wave her off, and I can hear the slur in my own voice, the way the syllables stretch and blur. "Go. I'll text you later."

She hesitates, and I can see the concern warring with the exhaustion on her face. But Nadia's already heading for the door, and Tessa's following, and after a moment, Chloe shrugs. "Alright. But text me when you get home, okay?"

"Promise."

And then they're gone, and I'm alone.

The party's thinned out. There's still a knot of people in the living room, but the energy's shifted—slower, drowsier, the last stragglers slumped on couches and floor cushions. Someone's turned the music down, and I can hear the low murmur of conversations, the clink of bottles being gathered.

I sink into a chair by the window, my head heavy, my limbs like lead. The street outside is quiet now, the cop car gone. The first gray light of dawn is creeping over the rooftops, painting the sky in shades of pearl and rose.

I close my eyes. Just for a moment. Just to rest them.

The last thing I feel is the soft brush of fingers against my throat, and the whisper of something being lifted away.

I wake to cold.

Not the cold of a draft or a window left open. The cold of bare skin against a hardwood floor. The cold of air moving across my body where there should be fabric.

My eyes snap open.

I'm on the floor. The party room is empty—truly empty now, the couches cleared, the bottles gone, the string lights dark. Pale light filters through the windows, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating every corner of the space.

And I'm naked.

I scramble upright, my hands flying to cover myself, and the movement sends a spike of pain through my body. Not a sharp pain—a deep, aching soreness, like I've been—

Like I've been used.

The thought hits me like a physical blow, and I freeze. My thighs are sticky. There's a residue on my skin, dried and flaking, and when I look down at my stomach, I can see it—white streaks, crusted, smeared across my hips and breasts like someone painted me with it.

Cum. Loads of it. Dried into my skin, matted in the hair between my legs, tacky against my inner thighs.

My stomach heaves, and I lurch to the side, but nothing comes up. I'm empty. Hollow.

I look around the room, my heart hammering, and I spot it—my dress, the one Justin picked out for me, the deep red one that made me feel like a queen. It's crumpled in the corner, tossed aside like garbage. I crawl toward it, my knees scraping against the floor, and I grab it, clutching it to my chest like a lifeline.

It's torn. The hem is ripped, the straps stretched. There's a stain on the bodice—something dark and viscous, dried now, but unmistakable.

I don't remember. I don't remember any of it.

I pull the dress on anyway, fighting with the torn fabric, my fingers clumsy and shaking. It hangs wrong, gaping where it should cling, but it covers me. Barely.

My scarf is gone. I search the room, my eyes darting wildly, but there's no sign of it. And my collar—

My hand flies to my throat.

It's gone. The thin silver chain, the one Justin placed there, the one I've worn every day since—it's gone. My fingers find nothing but bare skin, and the absence feels like a wound.

I need my phone. I pat the floor, searching, and I find it under a cushion—dead. The battery's drained, the screen black.

I need to call someone. I need—

The room spins. I lean against the wall, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The soreness between my legs throbs, a constant, aching reminder of something I can't remember. Something I don't want to remember.

I find a charger on the floor, half-hidden under a rug, and I plug my phone in, waiting for the screen to flicker to life. It takes forever—an eternity of staring at the black glass, my heart in my throat—and then the home screen appears, flooded with notifications.

Missed calls. Texts. All from Chloe. All from hours ago.

Where are you?

Kira, you there?

I'm worried. Text me when you get this.

I call her. It rings and rings and rings, and then it goes to voicemail. I call again. Nothing. I try Tessa. Nadia. Each one goes unanswered, the calls bouncing into the void like stones dropped into a deep, dark well.

Strange. They were worried about me. Why aren't they answering now?

I tell myself they're busy. Tired. Asleep after a long night. I tell myself it's fine, that I'll catch up with them later, that everything is fine.

But the soreness between my legs tells a different story.

I need to get out of here. I need to go home. I need—

I dial the one number I know by heart.

It rings once. Twice. And then his voice fills my ear, low and familiar, and I feel the tears I've been holding back finally spill over.

"Kira?"

"Daddy." My voice cracks on the word, raw and broken. "I need you to pick me up."

"Where are you?" His voice sharpens, alert. "What happened?"

"I don't—" I can't finish the sentence. I don't know how to say it. I don't know how to tell him that I woke up naked and sore and covered in someone else's cum, that my collar is gone, that something happened to me that I can't remember and can't undo.

"Kira." His voice is steady now, grounding. "Tell me where you are. I'm coming."

I give him the address, my voice barely a whisper. And then I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, my torn dress hanging off my shoulders, and I wait.

The sun climbs higher. The room fills with light. And I sit there, naked beneath a ruined dress, and I try not to think about what my body is telling me.

I try not to think about the dried cum on my skin.

I try not to think about the collar that's gone.

I try not to think about the fact that someone—someones—had me all night, and I can't remember a single second of it.

I just wait for my Daddy to come pick me up.

And I pray he can fix this.

The minutes crawl. Each one feels like hours, the sunlight shifting across the floor in lazy arcs while I stay pressed against the wall, my knees pulled to my chest. The torn dress does nothing to warm me. The air is cold against my bare arms, against my thighs, against the places where the dried cum still cakes my skin. I want to wash it off. I want to scrub myself raw until there's nothing left of whatever happened here. But I can't move. I can't make myself stand, can't make myself walk to the bathroom down the hall, because moving means acknowledging that this is real.

A car door slams outside. I hear footsteps—quick, purposeful, the tread of someone who knows where they're going. The front door opens, and then he's there.

Justin fills the doorway, backlit by the morning sun, and for a moment he's just a silhouette, tall and still. Then he steps inside, and the light catches his face, and I see his eyes sweep the room—the empty bottles, the scattered cushions, the corner where my dress was. They land on me, and something in his expression shifts. Hardens.

"Kira." He crosses the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees in front of me. His hands find my face, cupping it, tilting it up to meet his gaze. "Look at me."

I do. His hazel eyes are dark, intense, searching mine. "What happened?"

"I don't know." The words come out in a rush, broken and raw. "I don't—I was at the party, and I was drinking, and my friends left, and I sat down for a minute, and then I woke up—" My voice cracks. "I woke up like this."

His jaw tightens. I watch the muscle jump beneath his skin, the only tell of the fury I can feel radiating off him. "Like this?"

"Naked." I can barely say it. "On the floor. And there was—" I gesture at my own body, at the dried streaks on my skin, and I can't finish the sentence. I don't have to. His eyes follow my hand, and I see him take it in—the residue, the torn dress, the bruises I hadn't noticed until now, faint purple fingerprints on my hips.

For a long moment, he doesn't speak. His hands are still on my face, and I can feel the tension in them, the careful control it's taking for him not to break something. Then he exhales, slow and deliberate, and his thumbs stroke my cheekbones.

"Your collar," he says. It's not a question.

"Gone." The word is a sob. "I woke up and it was gone. I searched everywhere. It's not here."

He nods, a single, sharp motion. Then he's on his feet, and I watch him move through the room, his eyes cataloguing everything—the overturned chair, the discarded cups, the smeared trail on the hardwood floor that leads toward the hallway. He stops at the threshold, looking down at something I can't see. When he bends and picks it up, his hand closes around it, and I see the glint of silver.

He turns. In his palm is my scarf. Torn in half.

"They took it off you," he says, his voice flat. "They took your collar, and they tore your scarf, and they—" He stops. His jaw works. "Who was still here?"

"I don't know." I shake my head, helpless. "I passed out. I don't remember anything."

"Think." He's back in front of me now, crouching down to my level, his eyes boring into mine. "Before you fell asleep. Who was around? Who was watching you?"

I try to reach back through the fog of the night, through the blur of drinks and music and bodies. "There was a guy in the corner," I say slowly. "He kept starting songs on his guitar. And there was—a couple making out against the wall. The girl with pink hair who did the handstand." I stop. "I don't—I wasn't paying attention. I was tired."

"Who gave you your drinks?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

"Your drinks. Who poured them? Who handed them to you?"

I frown, trying to remember. "I—there was a cooler. Someone mixed a big batch. Chloe had some. Everyone had some."

"Did you ever set your cup down?"

The room tilts. I feel it, the slow dawning horror of what he's asking. "I—maybe. When I was dancing. I put it on the counter."

Justin's eyes close. Just for a second. When they open, they're colder than I've ever seen them. "Someone slipped something into your drink."

"No." The word is automatic, a denial I don't even believe. "That's not—Chloe wouldn't—"

"Not Chloe." His voice is hard. "Someone else. Someone who was watching you, waiting for your friends to leave. Someone who knew you'd be alone."

I shake my head, the tears spilling over now. "Why? Why would anyone—"

"Because you're mine." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. "And someone wanted to take that from you. From me."

He reaches for me, and I go into his arms, burying my face in his chest. He's warm, solid, real in a way nothing else has been since I woke up. His hand moves through my hair, gentle, grounding, even as his other arm wraps around me and holds me tight.

"I'm going to find out who did this," he says against my hair. "And when I do, they're going to regret the day they were born."

I don't doubt him. I don't doubt a single word. But I can't stop the question that rises in my throat, the one I've been too afraid to ask.

"Daddy?" My voice is small. "What if—what if I liked it?"

He goes still. Then he pulls back, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes searching mine. "What do you mean?"

"I don't remember it." The words come out in a rush. "I don't remember anything. But my body—" I can't look at him. "It feels like I came. Multiple times. Like my body enjoyed something my mind can't even remember."

He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "That doesn't mean you wanted it."

"But what if it does?" I look up at him, desperate. "What if something in me—what if the way I am, the way I am with you—what if I somehow—"

"Kira." His hand cups my face, firm, commanding. "Listen to me. What happened to you was not your fault. It was not something you asked for. It was not something you deserved." He holds my gaze, his voice dropping to something low and fierce. "You are mine. And nobody—nobody—gets to touch what's mine without my permission. Do you understand?"

I nod, the tears still falling. "Yes, Daddy."

"Good girl." He pulls me to my feet, and I stumble against him, my legs weak. He catches me easily, one arm around my waist, and I feel the strength in him, the steadiness. "We're going home. I'm going to draw you a bath, and I'm going to wash every trace of them off you. And then we're going to figure out who did this."

He leads me toward the door, and I let him. I let him guide me out of that room, out of that house, into the bright morning sun. The air is clean and cold, and I breathe it in like it's the first breath I've taken in hours.

He opens the passenger door of his car, and I climb in, the torn dress falling off my shoulder. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my throat, where my collar used to be.

"I'll replace it," he says softly. "A new one. One that means something."

I look up at him, and for the first time since I woke up, I feel something other than terror.

I feel safe.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."

He closes the door, and I watch him walk around the front of the car, his movements controlled, deliberate. When he gets in, he doesn't start the engine right away. He sits there, his hands on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the house we just left.

"Whoever did this," he says, his voice quiet, "they made a mistake."

I don't ask what he means. I don't have to. I can see it in the set of his jaw, in the cold fire in his eyes, in the way his hands tighten on the wheel until his knuckles go white.

Whoever did this to me is going to pay.

And I'll be there when they do.