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The thought makes my stomach twist.

Because the forbidden want is still there, sharper and more insistent than before. I have spent more than a year watching Brock in my classroom, noticing the way he kneels to help a struggling student, the way he listens when Kayla talks, the way his hands move with such careful precision. I told myself the anonymous encounter would help—that it would satisfy the craving and let me move on.

It didn't work.

Now my body knows what it feels like to be touched the way I have been fantasizing about—to be wanted without shame, to be claimed and praised and completely overwhelmed. And that knowledge has made the real thing—Brock, Kayla's father, the man I see in my professional life—feel even more dangerous.

I spend the rest of the weekend trying to convince myself it will fade, but I’m not successful.

Monday morning arrives with the inevitability of a reckoning. I stand in front of my classroom mirror, smoothing down the skirt of my navy dress and checking my reflection one last time. Professional. Appropriate. Completely in control.

The mark on my throat has faded to nothing. My hair is neatly pinned back. My face shows no trace of the woman who spent Friday night in a luxury hotel suite, coming apart under a stranger's hands.

I can do this. I can walk into my classroom, teach my students, and pretend that Halloween night never happened.

The morning passes in a blur of attendance, reading groups, and a minor crisis involving spilled paint. I fall into the familiar rhythm of my job, and by lunchtime, I have almost convinced myself that everything is fine.

Then Brock Rhodes walks into my classroom.

I look up from the stack of worksheets I am organizing, and my entire body goes rigid.

He stands in the doorway, tall and imposing in a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, his dark eyes scanning the empty classroom before landing on me. The students are at lunch, and the hallway behind him is quiet.

"Mr. Rhodes," I say, and hate how breathless I sound. "I wasn't expecting you."

In his hands, he carries two large shopping bags.

"I apologize for not calling ahead," Brock says, stepping into the room. "You mentioned needing extra supplies for the Thanksgiving project, and I had some time this afternoon. I thought I'd drop these off."

He sets the bags on the nearest table, and I see tissue paper, construction paper, markers, glue sticks, and what looks like enough craft supplies to outfit three classrooms.

"That's—thank you," I manage. "That's very generous."

"It's no trouble," Brock says. His gaze moves back to me, steady and unreadable. "How is Kayla doing with her reading project?"

Kayla. His daughter. My student. The reason this man is off-limits.

I force myself to focus. "She's doing very well. She's been working hard on her presentation, and I think she's going to do a wonderful job."

"Good," Brock says. He moves closer, his hands sliding into his pockets, his gaze steady on my face. "She's been excited about it."

I nod, my throat tight. He is standing too close—not inappropriately close, nothing that would raise eyebrows if someone walked in, but close enough that I can smell his cologne. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes.

Close enough that my body reacts with a visceral, undeniable surge of heat.

My pulse kicks up. My thighs tighten. My skin flushes.

And all I can think about is Vanguard.

The height. The controlled way he stands. The deep timbre of his voice. The way he looked at me—steady, unreadable, like he was seeing more than I wanted him to see.

My breath catches.

"Ms. Hartley?" Brock's voice pulls me back to the present. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," I say quickly. "Sorry. Long morning."

His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, I think I see something flicker in his expression. Something knowing. Something that makes my stomach flip.