Page 8 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

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?"

"Oh, nothing," he said, loud enough for the whole office to hear. "Just find it interesting that a teacher who plays… certain games in bars gets to rep the school for a bigwig like Sokolov."His eyes flicked to my phone with a knowing look.

The room went dead quiet. I could feel eyes on me, and my face burned. My pen nearly snapped in my hand. "Tom," I gritted out, "drop it."

"Drop what?" His smirk was pure venom. "Just saying, the whole 'truth or dare' thing at Blue Hour? Sending private pics to some rando? Real classy, Cassie. Wonder what Mr. Sokolov would think about a teacher with your… style." He lingered on private pics like it was a weapon.

"Tom!" Jennifer jumped up, fuming. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Just stating facts," he said, shrugging with that smug grin. "Miss Goody-Two-Shoes here acts all professional, but we all know she's got a wild side. Sending naughty texts? That's bold. What's next, Cassie? Stripping for the PTA?"

"Shut up!" I was on my feet now, shaking with rage. "It was a stupid game, and I didn't send—"

"What, nudes?" Tom cut me off, his voice louder, dripping with mockery. "Come on, don't play innocent. You're all prim and proper in class, but after hours? Damn, girl, you're open for business."

"Tom Johnson!" Jennifer snapped. "You're out of line!"

"Out of line?" He stepped closer, towering over me with that gross, superior look. "I'm just wondering why someone who's so… liberal with strangers keeps shutting me down. What, I'm not good enough for you? Or do you only get freaky with guys behind a screen?"

He raised a hand, like he was about to touch my shoulder—or worse, my face. "Don't you dare," I snapped, stumbling back into the desk. Papers scattered everywhere. "You smug, twisted jerk! My personal life is none of your business!"

"Chill, Cassie," he sneered, his hand hovering, eyes glinting like a snake's. "If you're cool sending pics to strangers, what's wrong with letting me take a peek? Stop acting so high and mighty."

"Enough."

A voice sliced through the room, low and cold as a winter storm. Everyone froze.

I turned, and there he was.

Gennady Sokolov.

Holy shit.

Even in the middle of that mess, the sight of him hit me like a freight train.

He was tall—stupidly tall, like six-foot-three at least, with shoulders so broad they filled the doorway.

His dark suit was tailored to perfection, hugging every line of a body that screamed power.

Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips pressed into a hard line.

And those eyes—God, those eyes. Deep emerald green, like polished gems, but burning with a cold, controlled fury.

His silver-gray hair was swept back, not a strand out of place, making him look like some kind of mafia kingpin straight out of a movie.

Dangerous. Untouchable. And so damn gorgeous it was unfair.

Tom's hand dropped like he had been burned. The air felt ten degrees colder.

"Mr. Sokolov!" Mr. Willson scrambled in behind him, sweating bullets. "We were just—"

"I heard enough," Gennady said, his voice like ice over steel. His eyes locked on Tom, sharp enough to cut. "Mr. Johnson, correct?"

Tom's face went ghost-white. "Y-Yes, sir," he stammered.

"I don't recall insults and harassment being part of an educator's job description," Gennady said, stepping into the room. Each step felt like a warning shot. "Especially not toward a colleague. In a professional setting."

"I—I didn't—" Tom tried, but under that stare, his voice shrank to nothing.

"Didn't what?" Gennady stopped right in front of him, towering over Tom like a predator sizing up prey. "Didn't degrade this woman? Didn't try to put your hands on her?"

The room was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. The tension was suffocating.

"Mr. Willson," Gennady said, not breaking eye contact with Tom as he addressed the principal. "I expect this man gone. Now. I don't want my daughter near someone like him."

"Absolutely, sir!" Mr. Willson was practically tripping over himself. "Mr. Johnson, you're dismissed."

Tom slunk out, tail between his legs, and the room exhaled. But I barely noticed. Because Gennady was looking at me now.

Oh God.

His gaze hit me like a spotlight, intense and unreadable. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. "You okay?" he asked, his voice low, smooth, and somehow… familiar.

No way. It's just nerves. I shook off the thought, my face burning. "I'm fine. Thank you, Mr. Sokolov."

He held my gaze a second longer, and I swore there was a flicker of something—recognition? Amusement?—before he nodded, all business again. "This is Anya's teacher," Mr. Willson jumped in, sensing the awkward silence. "Cassie Monroe."

I forced a smile, trying to look professional despite my racing pulse. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Sokolov. Anya's a great kid."

"Cassie," he said, like he was tasting the name. "Anya mentions you often." His tone was neutral, but his eyes… they were doing something to me I couldn't explain.

Then he turned away, letting the principal ramble on about the school. I slunk to the back of the group, grateful to blend into the background as the tour kicked off.

We trailed after Gennady like a flock of nervous ducks, Mr. Willson droning on about the school's "state-of-the-art facilities" while the other teachers scrambled to kiss up. I stayed quiet, sticking to the rear, trying to shake the weird feeling in my gut.

We reached the kids' activity room, all bright colors and tiny tables. "This is where the children spend most of their day," Mr. Willson said. "Painting, games, naps…"

Gennady's eyes scanned the room, lingering on the wall covered in kids' drawings. His expression softened, just a fraction. Probably thinking of Anya.

"Who manages this area?" he asked, voice calm but commanding.

The principal pointed at me. "That would be Cassie."