Eleanor leans forward to pour herself a glass of water, and that's when I see it—a sliver of something dark peeking above her collar, just at the hollow of her throat. A mark. Not a bruise. Too deliberate for that. The shape of it catches the afternoon light, and my breath hitches before I can stop it.

She notices. Of course she notices. Her hand moves to cover it, a reflex she's clearly practiced, but something in me—some reckless, unspooling thread—reaches out before my brain catches up. My fingers brush the fabric of her blouse, pushing it aside just enough to reveal the full shape: a small, intricate tattoo. A crescent moon wrapped in thin vines, the kind of delicate work that must have taken hours. I've never seen it before. I've never been this close to her before.

"What's that?" My voice comes out raw, scraped thin. I can feel Marcus's eyes on us from his chair, his presence a low hum in my peripheral vision, but I can't look away from the ink on Eleanor's skin.

She doesn't pull back. Her hand hovers over mine, not quite touching, and her eyes darken in a way I haven't seen before—not clinical, not assessing. Something else. Something that makes my stomach tighten.

"I've always wanted to touch one." The words fall out of me, whisper-quiet, and I feel the heat crawl up my neck. I don't know where they came from. I don't know why I said them. But they're out now, hanging in the air between us, and Eleanor's breath catches almost imperceptibly.

Her gaze slides to Marcus, slow and deliberate, and I watch the silent conversation pass between them—something weighted, something that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Then she looks back at me, and her voice drops, low and honeyed.

"Then perhaps you should ask daddy's permission."

My hand freezes on her collar. The words land like a match dropped on dry grass, and I feel the shift in the room—the air thickening, Marcus's stillness turning electric. I turn to look at him, and he's watching me with that dark, hungry expression I'm beginning to recognize, the one that makes my thighs press together.

"Daddy?" The word comes out smaller than I meant it to, a question wrapped in a plea. I'm still touching Eleanor's collar, still feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric, and I can't tell if I'm asking his permission or hers.

Marcus rises from his chair, slow and deliberate, and crosses the room until he's standing behind me. I feel his hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm, and his voice rumbles low in my ear. "You heard her, Chloe. Ask me properly."

I swallow hard. My fingers are trembling against Eleanor's blouse, and I can feel the ache building low in my belly, that familiar, desperate heat that only seems to grow sharper with every session. I look up at Marcus, then back at Eleanor, and I let the question fall from my lips like a confession. "Daddy... can I touch her?"

Marcus looks at them and thinks...

The word hangs between us like a struck bell, and I feel the weight of it settle into my chest—my stepdaughter, my Chloe, asking permission to touch another woman. Not just any woman. Eleanor. The one who orchestrated all of this, who watched me come apart on her couch, who handed me a list of things I haven't dared to read. My hand tightens on Chloe's shoulder, and I can feel the fine tremor running through her, the same tremor that ran through her thighs when I was inside her yesterday.

"Yes." The word comes out rougher than I intended, gravel scraping against itself. "You can touch her."

Chloe's breath catches, a small, sharp sound that cuts through the quiet, and I watch her fingers move before I register what's happening—slow, reverent, the way she touched me that first time in the dark. She traces the edge of the crescent moon, the thin vines curling around it, and Eleanor's eyes flutter closed for just a second. A second too long. I know that look. I've seen it on Chloe's face when I've been inside her.

Something shifts in my gut, low and possessive, and it's not aimed at Chloe. It's aimed at the space between Eleanor's collarbones, at the way her throat works when she swallows, at the fact that my stepdaughter's fingers are on another woman's skin and I'm not pulling them away.

"Daddy." Chloe's voice is barely a whisper, but it's aimed at me, and the word lands like a hand on my cock, heavy and deliberate. She's still touching Eleanor, still tracing that mark, but her eyes are on me now, green and hungry. "She's warm."

I step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off both of them, close enough that I can smell Eleanor's perfume mixing with Chloe's sweat, close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in Eleanor's throat beneath Chloe's fingertips. "Good," I say, and my voice is lower than I meant it to be, rougher. "Tell me what it feels like."

Chloe's fingers press a little harder, tracing the vines down toward the hollow of Eleanor's throat, and Eleanor's breath hitches—a tiny, involuntary sound that she tries to swallow. But I catch it. I catch the way her hands grip the edge of the desk, the way her knuckles go white, the way her composure cracks just along the edges.

"It feels like..." Chloe pauses, biting her lip, and I can see her thinking, searching for the right word. "Like something hidden. Like she doesn't let people see this part of her."

Eleanor's eyes open, and they're darker than I've ever seen them, dark and fixed on Chloe. "No one has touched it before," she says, and her voice is steady, but I can hear the strain underneath, the thing she's holding back. "No one except the artist who put it there."

The room goes still. I can feel the weight of that confession settling over us, heavier than the silence. And I realize, with a clarity that cuts through the haze of arousal, that this isn't part of the protocol. This isn't on any list. This is Eleanor stepping off the page, into the space between us, and I don't know what she's asking for.

I look at Chloe, at the wonder in her eyes, at the way her fingers are still resting on Eleanor's skin like she's found something sacred. And I look at Eleanor, at the crack in her armor, at the thing she's just handed us without being asked. My cock is hard against my jeans, aching, but it's not the heat that's driving me now. It's the question of what we've just become to each other.

"Daddy." Chloe's voice pulls me back, soft and questioning, and she's looking at me with that same trust she had when I was inside her, when she gave herself over completely. "What do we do now?"

I don't have an answer. But I step forward anyway, my hand moving from Chloe's shoulder to the back of her neck, and I feel her shiver under my touch. Then I reach past her, my fingers brushing the edge of Eleanor's collar, feeling the warmth of her skin just below Chloe's hand. "I think," I say slowly, "we're going to find out."

"Chloe." My voice cuts through the quiet, and I feel her tense under my hand on her neck. "Stand up."

She rises slowly, her fingers leaving Eleanor's collar with visible reluctance, and I guide her around until she's facing the principal. Eleanor hasn't moved from behind her desk, but something in her posture has shifted—less composed, more watchful. My hand finds the hem of Chloe's oversized sweater, and I tug it upward, revealing the soft curve of her belly inch by inch. "Take it off."

Chloe's breath catches, but she doesn't hesitate. She pulls the sweater over her head and lets it fall to the floor, standing in just her bra and jeans. Her skin is flushed, pink spreading across her chest, and I can see the goosebumps rising on her arms. "Now hers."

Eleanor's eyes widen for just a fraction of a second before she schools her expression back into neutrality. But she doesn't move. She doesn't stop Chloe when Chloe steps forward and reaches for the buttons of her blouse. My stepdaughter's fingers are steady as she undoes them one by one, revealing the lacy edge of a black bra, the pale skin beneath, the hollow of Eleanor's throat where that tattoo sits like a brand.

"Tell me what you see," I say, my voice low and rough. I'm still standing behind Chloe, close enough to feel the heat coming off her, close enough to see the way Eleanor's chest rises and falls faster as the blouse falls open.

Chloe's voice is hushed, reverent. "Her boobs are smaller than mine. But her nipples..." She traces a finger along the edge of Eleanor's bra, not quite touching. "They're the same color as mine. The same shape. Like we could be sisters."

Eleanor's hand comes up to stop her, but I catch it, wrapping my fingers around her wrist. "Let her finish."

The words hang in the air, and I feel the shift—Eleanor's composure cracking further, something raw and unguarded flickering in her eyes. Chloe reaches behind Eleanor and unclasps her bra, sliding the straps down her shoulders. The fabric falls away, and I see them—smaller than Chloe's, yes, but the same pale pink areolas, the same tight nipples, the same delicate architecture of desire. Chloe's hand hovers over Eleanor's breast, trembling, and I watch her swallow hard.

"Touch her," I say. "I want to watch you learn her."

Chloe's palm cups Eleanor's breast, her thumb brushing across the nipple, and Eleanor lets out a sound I've never heard from her before—something caught between a gasp and a whimper. Chloe's other hand comes up to her own chest, unclasping her bra with practiced ease, and suddenly they're standing there, bare to the waist, mirrored in their sameness and their difference.

"Now the rest." My voice is gravel. "Both of you. Take off your pants."

They move in tandem, unbuckling, unzipping, pushing fabric down their hips. Chloe's pussy is smooth, bare, the lips neat and tight against her body. But Eleanor—Eleanor has a landing strip, a neat triangle of dark hair above her cunt, and her lips are fuller, longer, peeking out from between her thighs like they're waiting to be touched. I feel my cock strain against my jeans, aching, as I take them in.

"She's wet," Chloe whispers, and I hear the wonder in her voice. "Daddy, she's already wet."

My fingers find her before I can think about it—the slick heat of Eleanor's cunt, the way her thighs part without resistance. She's wetter than I expected, wetter than Chloe's confession prepared me for, and I feel the shift in my chest like a door opening. "Look at her," I say, my voice low and rough. "Look at what you've done to her."

Chloe's eyes are wide, fixed on where my hand disappears between Eleanor's thighs, and I watch her swallow hard. "Daddy... can I—"

"Touch her tits first."

"Both of you," I say, stepping back to watch. "Kiss each other's tits."

Chloe moves first, stepping into Eleanor's space, her hands coming up to cup the principal's breasts. She leans in, her mouth finding Eleanor's nipple, and Eleanor's head falls back with a sound that's half gasp, half moan. Then Eleanor's hands are on Chloe's chest too, her thumbs circling Chloe's nipples, and they're kissing—not mouths, but breasts, lips and tongues working against each other's skin like they're starved for it.

I watch them, my cock straining against my jeans, and I feel something crack open in my chest. This is my stepdaughter and the woman who orchestrated all of it, and they're learning each other's bodies in front of me like I'm the only audience that matters.

"Slowly," I say, my voice gravel. "Finger each other. Slow."

Chloe's hand slides down Eleanor's belly, past that neat triangle of dark hair, and her fingers find Eleanor's cunt. Eleanor's breath hitches as Chloe's middle finger traces along her slit, parting her, finding the wet heat inside. "She's so open," Chloe whispers, wonder in her voice. "Daddy, she's so ready."

Eleanor's hand moves too, mirroring Chloe's, her fingers sliding through Chloe's slick folds with a reverence that makes my chest ache. They're both trembling, both breathing hard, their mouths still working against each other's breasts as their fingers push deeper. I hear the wet sounds, the soft gasps, the way Eleanor's hips buck against Chloe's hand.

"Like that," I murmur. "Just like that. Learn each other."

Chloe's fingers curl inside Eleanor, and I watch Eleanor's eyes roll back, her mouth falling open on a silent cry. She's never been touched like this, I realize—not by a woman, not by someone who actually wanted her. And Chloe is drinking it in, her own hips rocking against Eleanor's hand, her own arousal dripping down her thighs.

The room fills with the sound of them—wet fingers, ragged breaths, the soft slap of skin. I'm hard as stone, aching, but I don't move. I just watch them find each other, my stepdaughter and my principal, and I feel the shape of something new taking form in the space between us. Something that doesn't have a name yet. Something that's going to change everything.

."Chloe." Her name comes out rough, and she looks up at me, her green eyes hazy and searching. "Have you ever felt a girl like this before? Like this—inside her, feeling her come undone under your fingers?"

Her hand stills. For a second, something flickers across her face—embarrassment, maybe, or the shadow of a secret she's been carrying. Then she pulls her fingers out of Eleanor, slow and deliberate, and I watch her bring them to her mouth. She tastes herself, tastes Eleanor, and my cock throbs so hard I think I might fucking die in this office chair.

"Once," she whispers, and the word lands like a stone in still water. "In the locker room. Sophomore year."

Eleanor's breath catches. She's still bare-chested, still trembling, but her eyes sharpen with interest. "Tell him," she says, and her voice has that honeyed edge again, that orchestrator's tone that makes my skin prickle. "Tell daddy what you did."

Chloe's cheeks flush darker, but she doesn't look away from me. "There was this girl—Maya. She was on the swim team with me. We were the last ones in the locker room, and she was changing, and I couldn't stop looking at her. At her—" She gestures vaguely at her own chest, then lower. "At her panties. The way they hugged her."

I step closer, my hands finding Chloe's hips, pulling her against me. I can feel the heat of her through her jeans, the way she's still slick from Eleanor's fingers. "What did you do?"

"I touched her." The words come out in a rush, like she's been holding them in for years. "Through her panties. She didn't stop me. She just—spread her legs a little, and I felt how warm she was, how wet. I didn't know what I was doing, but I knew I wanted more."

My cock is straining so hard against my jeans it's almost painful. I can picture it—my shy, curvy stepdaughter, seventeen and trembling, her fingers pressed against another girl's pussy through thin cotton. The image is so vivid I can almost feel the fabric, the heat, the way Chloe must have bitten her lip to keep from moaning.

"Did she touch you back?" I ask, and my voice is gravel, scraping against itself.

Chloe shakes her head. "No. She said we had to go to class. She never talked to me after that. Like it never happened." Her eyes meet mine, and there's something raw in them, something vulnerable. "I thought about it for months. Years. I used to touch myself thinking about her hand on my cunt, even though she never actually did it. I imagined what it would feel like if she had."

I pull her closer, my mouth finding her ear, my voice low and rough. "You wanted her to finger you. Right there in that locker room, with the tile cold under your knees and the smell of chlorine in the air. You wanted her to push her fingers inside you and make you come."

Chloe shudders against me. "Yes, daddy."

"Good girl." I kiss the side of her neck, and I feel her pulse jumping under my lips. "I love that you're like this. I love that my daughter is a slut for pretty girls and older men, that you'd spread your legs for anyone who looked at you right." I pull back, my hands cupping her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You're mine, Chloe. Every inch of you. But that doesn't mean I don't want to watch you learn."

Eleanor steps closer, her hand finding Chloe's, guiding it back to her own wet cunt. "Let me teach her, Marcus," she says, and her voice is different now—less composed, more desperate. "Let me show her what she's been missing."

I look at my stepdaughter, at the hunger in her eyes, at the way her fingers are already curling against Eleanor's skin. And I feel it again—that shift in my chest, that unnamed thing taking shape between the three of us. "Teach her," I say. "But I'm watching. And when you're done, I'm going to fuck her right here on this desk, and you're going to watch."

Eleanor's eyes darken, and she nods, pulling Chloe toward the leather sofa. I watch them go, my hand already unbuckling my belt, and I know—whatever this is, whatever we're becoming, there's no going back now.

Eleanor's knees hit the leather sofa cushion before I fully register what's happening. She looks up at me—her brown eyes dark, her composure stripped away like the blouse now pooled on the floor—and I watch her hands slide up Chloe's thighs, parting them with a reverence that makes my chest ache.

"You've never done this before," I say, and it's not a question. It's a statement of fact, a boundary I need her to acknowledge before she crosses it.

Eleanor's throat works, that crescent moon tattoo pulsing with her swallow. "No." Her voice is raw, scraped clean of its honey. "But I've thought about it. More than I should have."

Chloe's breath catches above her, her hands fisting in Eleanor's dark hair, and I watch Eleanor lean in. Her tongue traces Chloe's slit first—a single, slow stroke that makes my stepdaughter's knees buckle. Then she parts her with her thumbs and licks deeper, and Chloe makes a sound I've never heard before, something between a sob and a prayer.

My hand finds my cock through my jeans, and I don't bother hiding it. I'm not hiding anything anymore. I unzip, pull myself out, and stroke slow and deliberate, watching Eleanor eat my stepdaughter like she's been starving for it her whole life.

"Daddy—" Chloe's voice is broken, her hips grinding against Eleanor's mouth. "Daddy, it's so good, she's so good at this—"

"I know, baby." My voice is gravel, scraping against itself. "I'm watching. I'm learning her too."

Eleanor's fingers join her tongue, sliding into Chloe's wet heat, and I watch my stepdaughter's head fall back, her chest arching, her nipples tight and dark. The sound of Eleanor's mouth on her cunt fills the office—wet and obscene and honest. I stroke myself faster, my thumb catching the head of my cock, and I feel the heat building low in my gut.

"This arouses me," I admit, and the words fall out before I can stop them. "Watching you with her. Watching you learn her. Fuck, you are getting licked—"

Eleanor pulls back just enough to look at me, her lips slick with Chloe's wetness, her eyes dark and hungry. "Good," she says, and her voice is different now—raw, desperate, real. "Because I want you to watch. I want you to see what you've created."

Chloe's hand finds her own clit, her fingers rubbing in frantic circles as Eleanor's tongue works her, and I watch the orgasm build in the tension of her thighs, the way her toes curl against the hardwood. "Daddy, I'm gonna—"

"Come for her," I command, my hand moving faster on my cock. "Come on her tongue. Let her taste you."

Chloe shatters. Her whole body locks, her mouth falling open on a silent cry, and I watch Eleanor drink every drop, her tongue lapping through the aftershocks until Chloe has to push her away, trembling and oversensitive. Eleanor sits back on her heels, her face glistening, her chest heaving, and I see it—the crack in her armor, the thing she's been hiding behind all that composure. She wanted this. She wanted us.

I release my cock, step forward, and take Chloe by the hips, turning her to face the desk. "My turn," I say, and my voice is low and rough. "You watch this time, Eleanor. You watch me fuck her on this desk."

I bend her over the edge of the desk, her chest pressing into the cool wood, her ass arched up toward me. The position is perfect—vulnerable, open, mine. I can feel her trembling, that fine vibration running through her thighs that I've come to know like my own pulse. My hands find her hips, and I pull her back just enough to feel the slick heat of her against my cock, that first slide of contact making us both gasp.

"You're so wet," I growl, my thumb tracing her slit, spreading her open. "You got this wet from watching her eat your pussy?"

"Yes, daddy." Her voice is muffled against the desk, broken. "Fuck, yes. She made me so wet."

I look over my shoulder at Eleanor, still kneeling on the leather sofa, her hand between her own thighs, her fingers working herself in slow, deliberate circles as she watches. Her eyes are dark, fixed on us, and I can see the hunger there—the thing she's been hiding behind all that composure. "You like watching?" I ask her, and my voice is rough, scraped clean of any pretense. "You like seeing what you've created?"

"Yes." The word comes out raw, desperate. "Fuck, Marcus. Yes."

I push inside Chloe in one slow, thick stroke, and she cries out, her fingers clawing at the desk's surface. She's so tight, so hot, and I feel the way her walls clench around me, pulling me deeper. I hold still for a second, letting her adjust, letting her feel every inch of me inside her. "You feel that?" I ask, my voice low in her ear as I lean over her back. "You feel your daddy inside you while she watches?"

"Yes," she sobs. "Yes, daddy. I feel it. I feel everything."

I start to move, slow and deep, each thrust pushing her further into the desk. The sound of our bodies meeting fills the office—wet and obscene and honest. Eleanor's hand moves faster between her thighs, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and I watch her watching us, and it makes me harder. "I loved watching her lick you," I admit, the words falling out of me like a confession. "Fuck, Chloe. Watching another woman taste you, learn you like that—it was the hottest thing I've ever seen."

"Daddy—" Chloe's voice breaks, her hips pushing back against me, taking me deeper. "Daddy, I want you to watch me with other girls. I want you to watch me fool around with my friends."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I still inside her, my cock throbbing. "What?"

"Maya," she pants, turning her head to look at me, her green eyes hazy and desperate. "And Sarah, from my psych class. They've looked at me like they want me. And I—I want you to watch. I want you to see me make them come the way you make me come."

I pull out just enough to slam back in, harder this time, and she cries out. "You want me to watch you with them? Watch them eat your pussy while I stroke my cock?"

"Yes," she gasps.

Eleanor rises from the sofa and crosses to us, her movements deliberate, unashamed despite her nakedness. She's still slick from Chloe's fingers, and I watch her hand slide down her own belly before it finds my stepdaughter's clit, pressing in tight circles against the wet heat of her. Chloe gasps, her body jerking between us, caught between my cock inside her and Eleanor's touch on her most sensitive spot.

"Daddy—" Chloe's voice cracks, her hands scrambling for purchase on the desk edge. "Daddy, she's touching me, she's—"

"I know, baby." My thrusts slow, deliberate, each one grinding against Eleanor's fingers as they work her clit. "I feel her too. Feel how she's making you clench around me."

Eleanor's eyes meet mine over Chloe's arched back, and there's something raw there, something unguarded that I've never seen in her before. Her fingers move faster, her thumb catching the hood of Chloe's clit with practiced precision, and I feel my stepdaughter's walls flutter around my cock, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

"Look at her," Eleanor says, her voice low and honeyed even now. "Look at how she takes you, Marcus. How she opens for you." Her fingers circle Chloe's clit harder, and I watch my stepdaughter's mouth fall open on a silent cry. "She's so close. Can you feel it?"

I can. I feel the way Chloe's body is coiling tighter, the way her thighs tremble against my hips, the way her cunt grips me like she never wants to let go. I lean over her back, my chest pressing against her spine, my mouth finding her ear. "Come for us, Chloe. Come on my cock while she touches you."

Chloe shatters. Her whole body locks, her back arching off the desk, and I feel her orgasm ripple through her in waves, pulling me deeper, milking me. Eleanor doesn't stop, her fingers working her through every tremor, and I watch my stepdaughter come undone between us, her face buried in her own arms, her cries muffled and raw.

I don't stop. I can't. The sight of them—Eleanor's fingers on Chloe's clit, my cock buried inside her, the two of them connected through my stepdaughter's pleasure—drives me past the edge. I pull out just enough to slam back in, harder, and I feel the heat building low in my gut, the familiar pressure coiling tight.

"Fuck—" The word tears out of me as I come, my hips grinding against her, emptying myself deep inside her. I feel Eleanor's fingers still on Chloe's clit, holding her there, and I watch my release leak out around my cock, mixing with Chloe's wetness, dripping down her thighs.

For a long moment, none of us move. Chloe's breath comes in ragged gasps against the desk, her body still trembling. Eleanor's hand is still between her thighs, her fingers glistening with both of us. And I'm still inside my stepdaughter, still buried in her heat, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her.

Eleanor pulls her hand away slowly, and I watch her bring her fingers to her mouth, tasting us without breaking eye contact. The gesture is deliberate, a claim staked without a word. "Same time tomorrow," she says, and her voice is steady again, the composure sliding back into place like a mask. "Both of you."

I pull out of Chloe slowly, watching my release spill from her, and I feel the weight of what just happened settle over us. This isn't protocol anymore. This isn't on any list. Eleanor stepped into this, touched my stepdaughter while I was inside her, tasted us like we were hers. And I don't know what that makes us now—but I know there's no going back to what we were before.

I pull out of Chloe slowly, watching my release spill from her, and I feel the weight of what just happened settle over us. This isn't protocol anymore. This isn't on any list. Eleanor stepped into this, touched my stepdaughter while I was inside her, tasted us like we were hers. And I don't know what that makes us now—but I know there's no going back to what we were before.

Chloe stays bent over the desk, her breath still ragged, her fingers white-knuckled on the edge. I help her stand, my hands steadying her hips, and she turns to look at me with those green eyes—dazed, raw, utterly open. Her skin is flushed pink, a sheen of sweat across her chest, and I can see my release still glistening on her thighs.

"You okay, baby?" I ask, my thumb tracing her cheekbone.

She nods, but her voice comes out small. "I think I need a minute."

Eleanor is already moving, pulling her blouse back on with efficient, practiced motions, buttoning it up to her throat as if the last half hour never happened. But I see the tremor in her fingers, the way she fumbles with the second button, and I know it did. She crosses to her desk and opens the bottom drawer, pulling out a manila folder I've never seen before.

"Before you go," she says, and her voice has that honeyed edge again, but softer now, almost hesitant. "I have something for you, Chloe."

Chloe blinks, still catching her breath. "For me?"

Eleanor holds out the folder. I watch my stepdaughter take it, her hands still trembling, and open it. Inside is a single sheet of paper, typed, with a list of questions—I can see them from where I stand, small black lines of text that make Chloe's eyes widen.

"What is this?" Chloe asks, her voice hushed.

Eleanor's smile is small, enigmatic. "Homework. For our next session. I want you to discover more about yourself—what you want, what you crave, what you've never let yourself imagine." She pauses, her brown eyes flicking to me, then back to Chloe. "You don't have to share your answers with me. But you should be honest with yourself."

"That's it?" I ask, my voice low. "Just questions?"

Eleanor's gaze meets mine, and there's something unreadable there—a glint that makes my skin prickle. "For now. The rest will come when you're ready."

Chloe clutches the folder to her chest, her fingers curling around the edges like it's something precious. Or something dangerous. I can't tell which. She looks at me, then back at Eleanor, and I watch her swallow hard.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asks, and her voice is steadier now, stronger.

Eleanor nods, and there's that smile again—cryptic, knowing. "Same time tomorrow. And Chloe?" She steps closer, her hand brushing a strand of hair from my stepdaughter's face. "Come prepared to share one thing you discover. Just one."

I watch Chloe's face change—curiosity flickering in her eyes, a hunger that has nothing to do with sex. She nods, clutching the folder tighter, and I realize she's already lost in whatever questions are on that page.

I take her hand, guiding her toward the door, but I pause at the threshold and look back at Eleanor. She's standing behind her desk, composed again, that mask firmly in place. But I saw the crack. I felt her fingers on Chloe's clit, tasted the desperation in her voice. "What are you really doing here, Eleanor?" I ask, my voice rough.

Her smile doesn't waver. "Teaching you both to be honest." She tilts her head, that glint returning to her eyes. "The question is, are you ready to learn?"

I don't have an answer. I just pull Chloe into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind us, and I feel the weight of the folder in her hand like a promise I don't understand yet.