I shrugged. No point arguing bureaucracy. "Fine. When?" According to Tommy's excited (and slightly creepy) whispering earlier, the new VP was apparently a "hottie fresh out of London". Eye candy was the least of my concerns.

"As soon as possible," White said. "She's eager to meet you all. Especially you." He tapped a file on his desk. "Consider it mandatory."

In that moment, leaning against the bookshelf, still nursing phantom bruises from White's hug and the sting of Sarah's "errand boy" jab, Tommy caught my eye. He saw my resignation to the meeting. He gave me a look that said brave you.

What none of us knew, least of all me, was that the arrival of this particular "hottie from London" wasn't just a bureaucratic formality.

She was the match.

And I was sitting on a powder keg of secrets.

The next few weeks weren't just going to be interesting.

They were going to incinerate my world.

Leaving the principal's office felt like stepping from one firing squad into another.

After I left his office, I headed straight to my homeroom teacher; Mrs. Henderson. I'd missed school for nearly a week—and so had Madison. We were both in the AP track, which meant our absences weren't just noticed; they were documented, analyzed, and about to be weaponized against us.

To anyone else, skipping a few classes might mean a slap on the wrist. For us, it was academic suicide. AP classes weren't just hard; they were college-level courses crammed into a high school schedule, a relentless grind where one missed lesson could sink your grade for the entire trimester.

Lincoln High ran on a trimester system—Fall, Winter, Spring—three short, intense bursts instead of two long semesters. It was designed for masochists like me, Tommy, and Lea, who forfeited summers and breaks to pack in extra credits, all to race ahead, to catch up to the seniors like Sarah and Emma.

Our whole group was on track to start college together, but that plan was now hanging by a thread.

My course load was a testament to that insanity: AP Bio, AP Physics, Calculus, AP Computer Science, plus an independent elective in Cyber Systems. Madison, Lea, Tommy, and I were the core of this little circle of overachievers, the ones who thought sleep was optional.

Even Jack Morrison was in our group, the bastard. It wasn't enough that he was a star quarterback and a bully; he had to be annoyingly smart, too, the kind of effortless genius that made you hate him more because he never had to choose between dominating the field and acing the tests.

He just did both.

But even that academic pressure was only the tip of the iceberg.

The morning's chaos had surely preceded us. The teacher grapevine at Lincoln High was faster than fiber optic. Three hypercars doing donuts in the quad. Tire smoke thick enough to trigger the fire alarms. Principal White doing a literal victory jig after Tommy donated a million dollars. And the Sofia kiss? That wet, public declaration of war against Jack Morrison's entire social empire?

Oh, the teachers definitely knew about that, too. We weren't just facing detention; we were facing a full-blown inquisition.

We reached Mrs. Henderson's room. Through the small window in the door, I could see her at her desk—fifties, stern, with twenty years of teaching experience etched into every line on her face. Her glasses were perched on her nose, a red pen in her hand poised to systematically destroy some poor student's essay.

She looked up. Saw us through the glass.

Her expression shifted from focused concentration to something harder. Colder.

Madison squeezed my hand once, a shared moment of dread, before we entered.

I opened the door.

The moment I stepped inside, she felt it.

The Lust Presence and Taboo aura radiated outward automatically—that invisible field of desire that had been dormant. I'd been surrounded by my women, who were immune, or people at distances too far to matter unless I used the Pheromones.

But Mrs. Henderson was close. Right there. Within range.

And she wasn't one of mine.

I watched it hit her.

Her pupils dilated instantly. Her breath caught—just a fraction, barely noticeable unless you were paying attention. Which I was. The red pen in her hand froze mid-correction. Her spine straightened almost imperceptibly, as if her body had just registered a threat it couldn't name.

Then the Taboo Aura layered on top.

That passive ability.

The Taboo Aura didn't ask permission—it just whispered possibilities into the subconscious, turned innocent thoughts into forbidden ones, made the mind wander toward things it shouldn't want.

The combination was devastating.

I smelled her arousal before she even moved. That distinct scent cutting through the classroom's stale air—a mix of paper, dry-erase markers, and now something distinctly feminine and desperate.

Her thighs pressed together under her desk. Subtle. Unconscious. Her body responding to signals her conscious mind was still trying to rationalize away.

And then I heard her thoughts.

Not words exactly. More like... impressions. Desires. The Plea ability let me perceive what women actually wanted beneath their polite masks.

{—god he's gorgeous when did Peter Carter become—}

{—those shoulders, that body I want—}

{—bent over my desk he could just—}

{—no focus this is a student this is wrong—}

{—but if he offered I would I'd let him—}

{—haven't had an orgasm in years not since Michael left not since—}

{—want him to make me scream want those hands on me, inside me—}

{—the hottest man I know and he's seventeen and I don't care—}

The thoughts crashed through her mind faster than she could control them. Raw. Honest. Hungry.

Mrs. Henderson wanted to fuck me.

No romantic feelings. No emotional connection. Just pure, desperate, years-starved sexual need that my presence had detonated like a bomb in her carefully controlled world.

She didn't love me. Didn't even particularly like me beyond generic teacher concern. She just wanted me to rail her into her desk until she remembered what pleasure felt like.

Ah. So, this is what the System meant. My abilities couldn't force feelings that didn't exist—couldn't make someone love me or care about me if they genuinely didn't. But if they already wanted to fuck me? Even subconsciously? Even buried under layers of propriety and professional boundaries?

Then my abilities just brought it to the surface. Made it impossible to ignore.

And Mrs. Henderson definitely wanted to fuck me.

I could give her that. If I wanted to.

And honestly? I kinda did.

I was the Pope of the Liberation Church, after all. And from her thoughts—the desperate, years-long drought, the loneliness, the way she'd touch herself at night thinking about men she'd never have—Mrs. Henderson hadn't had a proper orgasm in years.

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