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It’s a forwarded thread from Mrs. Gable, one of my primary room parents, who was included on Jennifer’s email chain. Her message is polite, measured, and carefully worded, which somehow makes the blow land even harder.

Hi Megan, she writes. I received the email below from Ms. Marsh and wanted to check in quietly. I know Mr. Rhodes has been wonderfully generous in funding our upcoming science center field trip and covering charter bus costs for families who needed help. But given the concerns raised about personal relationships and classroom equity, a couple of the room parents were wondering if this creates any conflict of interest for our class. We just want to make sure everything remains transparent.

Tears of sheer frustration and helplessness prick my eyes. Brock had been quietly funding field trips, stocking our supply closets, and sponsoring children whose families couldn't afford school activities since Kayla was in first grade—more than a year before anything ever happened between us on Veil. He never asked for recognition, never demanded special privileges, and only wanted to ensure every child in the room had what they needed.

Yet from the outside, none of that mattered. Jennifer had weaponized his kindness and turned it into a sordid scandal.

I close my eyes and force three slow, deep breaths into my lungs. Panicking won’t protect me. Crying won’t protect my students.

I open a new email, attach Jennifer's blast, attach Mrs. Gable's response, and compose a concise, completely neutral message to Principal Harrison:

Dr. Harrison,

I am forwarding this communication for administrative review and documentation. The claims circulated regarding my classroom and Mr. Rhodes's standard donations are unsubstantiated and have created immediate confusion among our parent volunteers. I am available to meet at your earliest convenience to provide full documentation of all classroom donations.

Thank you, Megan Hartley

I hit send.

My phone buzzes on the blotter beside my mouse.

Brock: I need to see you. Maple Street Coffee, five-fifteen. Please, Megan.

My chest tightens with a crushing ache. I stare at his name, remembering the fierce heat in his eyes yesterday in the hallway, the way he looked at me like nothing else in the world mattered, and the terrifying reality of what being with him could cost us both.

With trembling fingers, I type a single line:

Me: I’ll be there.

The coffee shop is warm and half-full when I step inside, filled with low jazz and the hiss of steamed milk.

Brock is already sitting at a small round table in the back corner, wearing a dark overcoat over a crisp button-down. Two porcelain cups sit between his hands. When he looks up and catches my gaze, the tension in his broad shoulders shifts, his dark eyes tracking every step I take toward him.

"Hi," I say, sliding into the chair across from him.

"Hi." He slides the smaller cup across the wood. "Vanilla latte. Half-sweet."

"Thanks." I wrap both hands around the ceramic warmth to steady them. "What happened yesterday, Brock? You sounded furious on the phone."

His jaw tightens. He leans forward, his voice a low, gravelly rumble meant only for me. "One of the second-grade fathers was standing in the pickup lot making crude comments about your body and what he'd do if he were single."

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, painful gasp.

"I shut him down," he says, his knuckles whitening on the table. "I told him to keep his mouth shut. But it took everything I had not to put my hands on him right there on school property."

"Did anyone see?" I ask, my throat tight. "Did Principal Harrison see?"

"Cora walked past," he admits. "She saw how close I was to losing my temper." He exhales hard, running a hand over his face. "And that's the problem, Megan. I'm sick of standing on the sidelines pretending you're a stranger. I hated watching you avoid me in the hallway this afternoon."

"I avoided you because Jennifer Marsh brought you up in the lounge this morning," I tell him, my voice trembling with urgency. "She said people have noticed the way you look at me. She reminded me that if something's happening between us, I'd need to disclose it formally and put safeguards in place. If I don't, and someone files a complaint about favoritism, my principal has to investigate."

Brock scowls, his gaze fierce. "You're an exceptional teacher with an unblemished record. No administrative inquiry is going to destroy your career over two consenting adults."

"You don't know that," I fire back, anger cutting through the panic. "You're a senior partner at Rhodes, Mercer & Vance. If people gossip about your personal life, your firm doesn't pull your license. You don't get parent petitions questioning your integrity. I am the one with everything to lose."

He goes dead still.

"I hate this," he says, the possessive edge in his voice rough and dangerous. "I hate watching other men look at you. I want to walk in through that front door, take your hand, and make it clear to everyone in that building that you're with me."