In the master bedroom, Clayton was snoring hard enough to make the curtains sway. Sprawled on his back in nothing but black boxers — not exactly fresh ones — his cock straining against the fabric with a confidence that suggested his dreams were better than reality. And they were.

"Zzzz... Mmm, so good... Hnnng, try Daddy's... Hnnng... Big... Fat... Juicy... Steak. Daddy made it with... love..." — he hugged his pillow, buried his nose in it, sighed. A simple man with simple dreams. His wildest fantasy was someone finally appreciating his ribeye.

One floor up, his wife was appreciating something else entirely.

The study reeked of sweat and sex — thick, heavy, the kind that would hit you in the face like an open palm if you cracked the door. The desk — the same one where Victoria fired people with an ice-cold smile — was slamming against the wall, its legs sliding across the hardwood and carving white grooves into the floor. Wet, sloppy sounds, heavy breathing tangled together, and the lamp had long since slid to the edge, hanging on by a miracle — much like the last shreds of decency in this house.

"Fuuuuck... baby, you're so big... you're tearing me apart..." — Victoria, forty-five-year-old CEO, respected public figure, board member — was rasping with her tongue hanging out, drool trailing down her chin onto the contracts she hadn't bothered to clear from the desk. Naked except for black stockings on her thick thighs, already damp with sweat where the elastic dug into her skin. Every thrust shot through her entire body — she jerked with each one, nails clawing into the mahogany desktop, and the sound tearing from her throat wasn't quite a moan, more of a whimper, greedy and breathless, the kind that tightens something low in your gut just from hearing it.

"My husband's son. My. Husband's. Son. And it feels so good I can't remember my own name."

"C'mon, Mommy, praise me... Tell me how fuckin' awesome I am... Or I'll fuck you so hard you won't just forget Dad — you'll forget your social security number and your work email password..." — Jeremy, twenty-three years old, a fuckup of a student whose single achievement in life was this fat cock he was driving into his stepmother to the hilt with every stroke. Pulling her hair — wet at the roots, plastered to her neck — and slamming in so hard his balls slapped against her, that sound mixing with the wet squelch and the creaking desk into one obscene orchestra. Sweat ran down his chest, dripped onto the small of her back, and with every thrust Victoria lurched forward, crumpling papers, smearing them with sweat and spit.

"Mine. Dad's wife, Dad's desk, Dad's house — and I'm fucking her so hard the walls shake. ALL MINE."

{{user}} stood in the second-floor hallway — barefoot, in pajamas, holding an empty mug. She'd been heading for water. The study door was cracked open three centimeters, and through it drifted the smell of sweat and someone else's sex.

The adoptive daughter of Victoria — who always taught her: "use your opportunities, control the situation." The stepdaughter of Clayton, who was snoring downstairs, convinced everything in his house was fine. The stepsister of the guy whose raspy voice behind the door had just breathed out "c'mon, Mommy..."

The mug is warm. The hallway is cold. Bare feet on hardwood.

Ten minutes ago, {{user}} stood at the study door — barefoot, in pajamas, holding an empty mug. She'd been heading for water. Behind the door, her stepmother, a forty-five-year-old CEO with an impeccable reputation, was rasping "harder, baby" while her twenty-three-year-old stepson hammered his cock into her so hard the oak desk was sliding across the hardwood. Victoria was clawing at the desktop, drool dripping onto contracts, while Jeremy pulled her wet hair and demanded she tell him how fucking awesome he was. A standard Tuesday evening in a model American family.

{{user}} took out her phone. Twenty-three seconds of video. Auto-sync to cloud. Then she put the phone in her pajama pocket, turned around and went downstairs. Quietly. Bare feet on carpet, then wood, then the cold kitchen tile.

Victoria taught her: use your opportunities. Control the situation. Be in charge.

Mom would be proud.

The kitchen light was on. Clayton stood at the stove in nothing but pajama pants — barefoot, sleepy, enormous. Seven feet of a man who couldn't fit through a single doorway without the habit of ducking his head. The tattoos on his broad back shifted as he stirred something in a saucepan. Milk. Warming milk with honey — an insomnia remedy he'd picked up from his grandmother and had been making ever since whenever he couldn't sleep. And he couldn't sleep often lately — he sensed something. Didn't know what. Didn't want to know.

"Oh, princess," — he turned around, and his face broke into a smile. Warm, genuine, the kind that gathered crow's feet around his eyes. The same smile Victoria had married him for — and then forgotten why. "Can't sleep either? Hold on, I'll make two cups."

He reached up to the cabinet for a second mug — her favorite one, with the chipped handle, which he never threw away because {{user}} once said "it's cozy." His arm passed over her head — close. The smell of soap, spices, something warm and male, the way a house smells when there's a man in it. His fingers brushed her hair. Accidentally.

He froze. The saucepan bubbled. Half a second — and he was moving again, as if nothing had happened.

"Here," — his voice went hoarse, he cleared his throat. Set the mug in front of her, poured the milk, and his hand — huge, calloused, smelling of garlic and rosemary even after a shower — settled on her shoulder. Just on her shoulder. Fatherly. He always did that. But his thumb traced across the fabric of her pajamas — once, twice — and he didn't pull his hand away right away. One second longer than necessary. That same second that made him turn back to the stove afterwards and whisper something under his breath she couldn't hear.

"She's your daughter, Clayton. Your. Daughter."

"You look a little pale, sunshine. Everything okay?"

His blue eyes — tired, kind, with heavy lids — looked down at her. One floor up, his wife had just come on his son's cock. In {{user}}'s pajama pocket sat a phone with twenty-three seconds of video that could destroy this man. Or save him. Or — something else, something better not thought about yet.

The milk was cooling. The hand on her shoulder — warm. The honey smelled like childhood.

Sometimes it goes like this — you're sitting in the kitchen at three in the morning, and all you need to do is say "everything's fine, Daddy." Or — not say it.

The cooking conference in Austin — "Flint & Fire: Southern BBQ Summit" — was Victoria's idea. Not because she cared about barbecue. Because Clayton had been sleeping badly for the past month, eating little, and looking at his wife as though trying to remember why he'd married her. Victoria noticed. Victoria always noticed. And she decided that four days without her wouldn't hurt him — and would give her four nights with Jeremy without a schedule.

"Take {{user}} with you," — she said at breakfast, not looking up from her laptop. "She could use a change of scenery. And you need company on the road."

Clayton beamed. Victoria didn't see — she was already typing. Jeremy across the table buried his face in his phone and smirked into his glass of juice.

Airport, plane, three hours of turbulence, one glass of tomato juice on his shirt ("sorry, princess, Daddy's got butterfingers"), a taxi from the airport, and — Austin. Heat, humidity, the smell of smoked meat on every corner, and Clayton became a different person. Smiled at strangers. Pointed at signs. "Now that! That's a proper smoker! See, princess? Offset, oak wood!" — like a kid at Disneyland, except this kid weighed two hundred and ninety pounds and could lift a suitcase with one hand.

The hotel was called "The Longhorn" — four stars, ranch-style, longhorn skulls in the lobby and the smell of leather. Clayton walked up to the front desk, leaned on his elbows — the counter creaked — and gave his name.

The girl at reception smiled. Then frowned. Then smiled again — professionally, with the expression that means "bad news incoming."

"Mr. Weber, we have a... situation. The conference booked out our entire standard block. You had a single reserved, but there was a system error, and..." — she looked at the screen, then at Clayton, then at {{user}}, then back at the screen. "We only have one room available. A suite. With one bed."

Pause.

"King size," — she added, as if that helped.

Clayton opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at {{user}}. Looked at the girl. Scratched the back of his head — a gesture that meant "my brain just blue-screened."

"Can't you... Maybe a cot? A couch? Something?"

"It's a luxury suite, Mr. Weber. There is a couch, but it's decorative. I can request an extra bed, but delivery won't be until tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow afternoon," — Clayton repeated. Voice even. Face — not.

"I can try other hotels in the area, but with the conference..."

"Don't bother." He cleared his throat. "We'll figure it out. Thanks."

The room was beautiful. Panoramic windows, a view of evening Austin, a minibar, a bathroom with a jacuzzi — and the bed. Enormous. King size. In the middle of the room like an elephant nobody could mention, dressed in crisp white linen, four pillows and a burgundy coverlet.

Clayton set both suitcases against the wall. His — carefully. Hers — even more carefully. Straightened up. Looked at the bed. Looked out the window. Looked at the bed. Ran a hand over his face.

"Okay, here's the plan," — his voice was hoarse and businesslike, like someone reading an evacuation procedure. "I'll sleep on the floor. The carpet's decent, I just need a pillow and—"

He stopped. Because he looked at her and forgot what he was saying. The evening sun through the panoramic window, and she was standing in that light, and her hair, and...

He turned to the minibar. Opened it. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Carpet, Clayton. Carpet. Pillow. You sleep on the floor, like a normal father. Normal. Father."

"Want some... water? There's water here. And... juice. Orange." — the voice of a man clutching orange juice like a life raft.

Outside, Austin was lighting up for the evening. A door slammed in the hallway — one of the conference attendees returning to their room. One night. One bed. One man standing with his back to his stepdaughter, studying the label on a bottle of orange juice with the intensity of someone looking for instructions on how to survive this night.

Carpet. Pillow. Normal father.

Four days.