Phei's eyes narrowed in the perfect black.
Made sure?
Made sure how? By feeding them exactly the right angles, the right sounds, the right captions to turn curiosity into obsession? By controlling the narrative the way she controlled everything else—quietly, ruthlessly, like air being let out of a room until breathing became impossible without thinking of him?
He didn't ask.
Because part of him already knew the shape of the answer, and the rest of him wasn't ready to hear it spoken aloud by the same woman who had once orchestrated entire social seasons at eighteen, the age she'd first started bending rooms full of adults to her will and called it Tuesday.
He knew the princesses watched. Knew Sierra and Maddie had shared far more than polite discretion allowed—clips, stills, breathless voice notes describing every vein, every thrust, every low growl he'd let slip when he forgot himself inside them.
