The air smelled like old lilacs and new regret.
Claire woke with a sensation between her thighs that wasn't quite aching but wasn't peaceful either. Her hand instinctively moved across the empty side of her bed. Nina hadn't stayed. She hadn't expected her to.
The silence in the house wasn't cold. It was... charged.
Claire reached for her robe and walked barefoot to the kitchen, her fingers still tingling from where Nina had touched her—lightly, deliberately, just enough to make her gasp but not enough to call it anything final.
She poured coffee.
And then she saw her.
Through the kitchen window—Veronica.
She was standing in her garden, watering roses in a satin slip. A glass of wine in her hand. At eight in the morning.
Claire blinked. Wine?
Veronica turned slightly and looked up—directly at Claire.
She smiled.
Not the polite smile of suburban civility. A knowing smile. Feral. Feminine. Controlled.
Claire raised her mug. Veronica lifted her glass. A silent toast between two women who had only ever exchanged forced pleasantries about compost and parking.
Something had shifted.
And Claire was suddenly aware: she wasn't the only one coming undone.
Across town, Daniel Whitmore sat in his car, engine running, air conditioning blasting at full strength.
He hadn't gone to class.
He hadn't eaten.
He'd watched the recording five more times since Gloria left him there, stunned and half-erect in front of a screen soaked in secrets.
He didn't know what bothered him more: the fact that he had seen Claire give herself to another woman—or the fact that Gloria knew. And didn't stop him. That she watched him watch them.
It rewired something in him.
What was his mother, really?
He'd grown up thinking Gloria was steel and structure and whispered threats dressed as compliments. But last night… she was something else.
His jaw clenched.
His fingers opened his phone.
He texted Claire. "Can we talk?"
He deleted it.
Then typed again. "I saw you and Nina."
Deleted again.
He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and cursed.
Veronica's house smelled like sandalwood and warm oranges. Claire noticed it immediately when she stepped inside.
"Thank you for coming over," Veronica said casually, pouring a second glass of wine. "I always find Tuesdays... lonely."
Claire hesitated at the doorway, still in her robe. "I saw you through the window this morning."
"Oh, I saw you too," Veronica said, handing her the glass. "You looked... flushed."
Claire blushed.
Veronica sat on the couch and curled her legs under herself, silk slipping over smooth skin. "Let me guess… Nina?"
Claire didn't answer. Didn't have to.
Veronica smirked. "You're not the first."
That made Claire freeze. "Excuse me?"
Veronica sipped her wine. "That girl floats between us like perfume. She lingers. She tempts. She knows exactly what she's doing, and she does it with art. You think she kissed you because you're special? She kissed you because she wanted to. That's the difference."
Claire's mouth parted, but Veronica held up a hand. "Don't be embarrassed. Be honored. We all chase fire eventually. You're just late to the game."
Claire sat slowly. "Who's we?"
Veronica tilted her head. "You really want to know?"
A long silence.
Claire nodded.
Veronica leaned in. Close. Her voice dropped. "Gloria. Me. The woman on the corner—Andrea. Even little Madison from Book Club, the one with the Bible verses on her fridge. They've all tasted another woman. Some of us still do."
Claire's lips parted, stunned. "You're… you're saying there's a… a group?"
Veronica chuckled. "No darling. There's no 'group.' There's just a hunger. And once you feed it, you realize how long you've been starving."
Claire stared at her wine, not drinking.
"Would you like to see something?" Veronica asked.
"What?"
Veronica stood. She walked toward the hallway and paused, turning back. "Come."
Claire followed.
The guest room was bathed in soft amber light. On the bed, laid out like an exhibit, were photographs. Women. Posing. Touching. Kissing.
Claire's mouth went dry.
Veronica picked up one and handed it to her. "That's Gloria. Ten years ago. She used to model for an artist in Portland. Women only. He called them his Eves."
Claire stared. Gloria in silk stockings, eyes closed, lips parted.
"I have hundreds," Veronica said.
Claire looked at her. "Why are you showing me this?"
Veronica stepped closer. "Because you need to understand what kind of street you live on. We're not lonely. We're layered."
Then Veronica did something that shocked Claire more than the photographs.
She kissed her.
Soft.
Unthreatening.
But deep.
When she pulled back, her lips hovered just over Claire's. "You can choose fear, or you can choose fire."
Claire blinked, breath shallow.
Veronica whispered, "It doesn't have to mean anything. Or it can mean everything."
And Claire—unsteady, confused, still haunted by Nina's hands—closed her eyes.
And kissed her back.
Back across the lane, Gloria stood by her study window.
She saw Claire leaving Veronica's house.
Hair mussed.
Cheeks flushed.
Gloria smiled.
And said aloud to the empty room: "Let the dominoes fall."