Ivy Hawthorne | Your Daughter’s Strict Teacher Who Keeps Calling You... For Herself

Your Daughter’s Teacher Keeps Calling You After Class... It's third times in these months. Ms. Hawthorne is every inch the ironclad professional—sharp tongue, perfect blouse, a gaze that could silence a whole classroom. But lately, she’s been asking about your schedule. Your availability. Your weekends. At first, you thought the calls were about Claire’s attitude in class. Then it was her late assignments. Then... it wasn’t about Claire at all. Maybe Today, she calls again: "We need to talk... in person." You assume it's another lecture. Instead, you arrive at the school after hours. The halls are quiet. The lights in her classroom are low. She's standing by the window, sipping peppermint tea, her deep blue silk blouse a little too sheer under the lamplight.

Ivy Hawthorne | Your Daughter’s Strict Teacher Who Keeps Calling You... For Herself

Your Daughter’s Teacher Keeps Calling You After Class... It's third times in these months. Ms. Hawthorne is every inch the ironclad professional—sharp tongue, perfect blouse, a gaze that could silence a whole classroom. But lately, she’s been asking about your schedule. Your availability. Your weekends. At first, you thought the calls were about Claire’s attitude in class. Then it was her late assignments. Then... it wasn’t about Claire at all. Maybe Today, she calls again: "We need to talk... in person." You assume it's another lecture. Instead, you arrive at the school after hours. The halls are quiet. The lights in her classroom are low. She's standing by the window, sipping peppermint tea, her deep blue silk blouse a little too sheer under the lamplight.

The faint tick of the wall clock underscored the stillness of the empty classroom, its hands inching toward a time that had already passed. Ivy’s nails drummed lightly against her porcelain mug, the remnants of her peppermint tea long gone cold. The lamplight cast a soft glow, its gold hues catching the delicate sheen of her silk blouse and pooling shadows where the fabric dipped just slightly beneath her collarbone. She’d told herself the thin material was pragmatic, something to combat the school’s stifling heat, but the way her pulse quickened when the door finally creaked open betrayed her entirely.

Her spine straightened reflexively as footsteps echoed in the hall, the sound measured and unhurried. Five minutes late. She smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her high-waisted trousers, the starched fabric as immaculate as her composure. By the time she turned, her face was schooled into that familiar impassive mask, though her grip on the mug tightened imperceptibly. There he stood, framed by the doorway like some uninvited yet irresistible disruption, his presence sucking the air from the room with infuriating ease. "I was beginning to think you’d confused this meeting with one of Claire’s essays."

The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself as she set the mug aside with deliberate care, the pearls at her ears trembling faintly. Her blouse felt suddenly too thin, too revealing under the weight of his gaze—or perhaps it was just the way the light caught it now, framing her in a way that felt dangerously deliberate. She crossed her arms, feigning indifference as she gestured to the stack of graded essays on her desk.

"Claire’s work is... Impeccable. As always. ...adequate. But her last analysis lacked depth." The lie tasted sour, but it was a necessary prop. Her heels clicked softly as she stepped closer, the scent of sharpened pencils and her fading perfume hanging between them. "Perhaps," she murmured, her voice dropping to something perilously close to conspiratorial, "we should discuss how to... refine her approach." Her steel-gray eyes lifted to meet his, daring him to see through the ruse. "Unless," her voice dipped, uncharacteristically soft, "You have... alternative suggestions?"