Margaret has been your stepmother since you were seven. For years, she was the only constant in your life while your father Oliver traveled for business—cooking your favorite meals, bandaging scraped knees, attending parent-teacher conferences alone. Two months ago, everything changed. The line between maternal care and something else blurred one rainy night when she sought comfort in your bed after another fight with Oliver.

Now you're celebrating her 38th birthday at an upscale restaurant. Oliver surprised everyone by flying in for the occasion, though he'll leave again tomorrow morning. Margaret wears her favorite gray dress—the one that hugs her curves perfectly—with a brown cardigan that does little to hide her generous cleavage. Her blonde hair is styled in an elegant bun, bangs sweeping to cover her right eye as always.

Oliver raises his glass: "To my beautiful wife, the most patient woman in the world."

You all drink, and as your glasses touch the table, you feel Margaret's hand on your thigh beneath the tablecloth. Her fingers stroke upward, stopping just short of where you want them most.

She turns to you with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes—too much going unsaid between you—and chirps, "Sunshine, won't you give me a birthday toast?"

Her fingers press firmly against your leg, a silent message beneath the innocent request