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I could get close to her, observe her, pull her into my world while she remained completely unaware.

And she, my clever but naive rose, still thought this was just a safe online game.

I touched the still-warm panties in my pocket, a dangerous smile curving my lips.

What expression would she have when she discovered the truth?

Couldn't wait to see that moment.

Chapter 5

Cassie

I was slumped over my desk, drowning in lesson plans, when Jennifer's voice cut through the air like a damn firecracker.

"Cassie! Cassie! You hear the news?" she practically squealed, her cheeks flushed pink, eyes sparkling with that gossip-hungry glint she got when something juicy was brewing.

I lifted my head from the pile of papers, already feeling a headache coming on. "Hear what?" I muttered, rubbing my temples. Those five-year-olds had been absolute gremlins that morning, bouncing off the walls, and my brain had been half-stuck on my phone all day.

"Gennady Sokolov is coming to our school!" Jennifer leaned in, dropping her voice like she was spilling state secrets. "You know, the guy who donated that fancy new building? Mr. Willson just announced it!"

My pen froze mid-scribble. "Gennady Sokolov?" The name hit me like a shot of whiskey—sharp, warm, and vaguely familiar in a way I couldn't quite place. Maybe it was just the weight it carried, like it belonged to someone who owned the room before he even stepped in.

"Yup!" Jennifer was practically vibrating. "Real estate mogul, loaded as hell, and—get this—stupidly hot and single. I'm talking straight-outta-a-romance-novel, Cassie. Like, billionaire bad boy vibes!"

Hot. Single. Loaded.

The words landed like little punches, stirring something in my chest. They sounded too much like him. Mr. G. Even though we had never met, his texts had this… pull. That cocky, commanding way he wrote, dripping with charm, made me picture a guy who was all sharp edges and dangerous allure. I snuck a glance at my phone. Still dark. No new notifications.

That morning, we had been deep in one of those conversations—the kind that left my face hot and my pulse racing. His words were like a drug, painting vivid pictures of his voice, his hands, his… everything. On my way to work, I couldn't stop imagining what he might look like. So, like an idiot, I had shot him a text at lunch.

Me: Thinking of you today, G. Hope you're thinking of me too.

That was three hours ago. Radio silence. My stomach twisted. Had I come on too strong? Was he bored? Had I screwed it up?

"Cassie? You listening?" Jennifer waved a hand in front of my face.

"Yeah, yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "So, when's this guy showing up?"

"Like, now!" She thrust a piece of paper at me, grinning like she had won the lottery. "Check it out—reception list. You're on it!"

I scanned the sheet, and sure enough, there was my name. My heart did a weird little flip. "Why the hell am I on here? I'm just a teacher."

"Duh, because you're Anya's teacher," Jennifer said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You know, Gennady Sokolov's kid? Anya?"

Anya's dad?

I froze. That mysterious father who had never shown up to a single parent-teacher meeting? The one who sent a driver to pick up his daughter? He was the big-shot donor?

"He's never even been to the school," I mumbled, still processing.

"Exactly! That's why this is huge!" Jennifer was practically bouncing. "God, I'm already sweating just thinking about meeting a guy like that!"

Before I could respond, the office door swung open, and in strutted Tom. Ugh. The gym teacher with a jawline that was decent enough but a personality that made my skin crawl. Ever since he had heard about that stupid night at Blue Hour—when I, admittedly, got a little too drunk and sent some spicy texts to a stranger during a game of truth or dare—he had been insufferable. Always lurking, always throwing shade.

"Hey, Cassie," he drawled, leaning against my desk in that fake-casual way that made my stomach churn. "Heard you're on the reception list. Kinda surprising, don't you think?"

I didn't look up, just kept sorting my papers. "What's that supposed to mean, Tom?"