“I think perhaps you misunderstood.” He folds his hands on the desk. “This isn’t about personal feelings. It’s professional. The board expects?—”
“The board expects me to perform my duties as Quinn’s support coordinator,” I interrupt, another deviation from our usual pattern. “They expect me to maintain professional standards during school functions. Nothing in my contract or the faculty handbook requires me to present myself as romantically attached to anyone.”
His smile slips a fraction. “The parent community has certain expectations about stability in those who work with their children. As an Omega, your position carries additional scrutiny.”
“Which you’ve pointed out numerous times, and I have not called you on the secondary gender harassment because I respect you as the head of this school. But my designation is irrelevant to my qualifications,” I reply, cold sweat forming along my spine. “I attend faculty functions as support staff, not as a prop on someone’s arm.”
Carson’s breathing changes, and his cherries-and-iron scent intensifies in response to my challenge. The pheromones fill the small space, a physical weight demanding I obey.
“Let me be clearer.” His fingers spread flat on the desk’s surface, pale on the dark wood. “This isn’t about romance. It’s about optics.”
Every slip of his mask says otherwise, though, and I won’t forget what he pushed in the past.
I meet his stare, neither submitting nor challenging. “And I’m being clear as well. I won’t attend as your Omega, or as anyone else’s. My personal life remains personal.”
The skin around his eyes hardens, the corners of his mouth tightening as he leans forward. Little by little, the pretense of mentorship falls away, revealing the predator beneath that had sent me fleeing from Westbrook.
“You’ve worked hard to build Quinn’s support structure.” Carson drops into a threatening purr. “The documentation, the presentations to the board, the parent committee approvals. Quite impressive.”
My stomach twists at the mention of Quinn. “The accommodations committee approved all protocols. The documentation meets district standards.”
“Documentation can always be reviewed,” he counters, reaching for a folder on his desk. “Standards evolve. Interpretations change based on new information.”
He opens the folder, turning it so I can see Quinn’s name on the top sheet. My throat tightens as I recognize her accommodation plan, the very document that allows Sprinkles to remain with her throughout the school day.
“When you continue to align yourself with unstable influences, it raises concerns that require documentation,” Carson continues, his finger tracing down the page to rest beside the signatures at the bottom. “Questions about judgment arise when staff members engage in unregulated relationships.”
My pulse quickens, but this is nothing he hasn’t already pushed before.
“Such questions, once raised, invite scrutiny,” Carson says, turning a page in Quinn’s file. “Especially regarding sensitive accommodations like service animals on school grounds.”
My palms dampen with sweat, and I curl my fingers into fists to hide their trembling. “Sprinkles’s presence is protected under federal guidelines. The documentation is complete.”
“Federal guidelines provide frameworks, not guarantees,” Carson replies, closing the folder with deliberate care. “Localimplementation requires ongoing evaluation of all factors, including the judgment of support staff.”
He catalogs every flicker of reaction, every shift in my scent.
“Quinn’s accommodations could be subject to routine review,” he continues, as if discussing the weather rather than a child’s well-being. “Her support plan might require adjustment based on new assessments.”
“The Wright pack would never allow that,” I say, the words coming out more clipped than intended. “The board approved Quinn’s plan.”
“Her uncle may be on the board, but his is one vote among many,” Carson counters, leaning back in his chair. “And boards follow recommendations from the administration. From people they trust to evaluate situations objectively.”
He stands, moving to the credenza behind his desk, where a row of photographs displays him with various board members and community leaders. His fingers trail across the frames, lingering on one showing him with the school board president.
“Trust is such a fragile thing,” he muses, picking up the photo. “Built over years, but questioned in an instant when concerns about professional judgment arise.”
My mind races. This is what I feared, and why I’ve let Carson get away with so much over the last few months. Carson can’t remove Sprinkles from the school, but he could create complications, initiate reviews, and generate paperwork that would exhaust Blake’s patience.
He could make Quinn’s daily experience more difficult in a thousand small ways that still comply with her accommodation plan while undermining its effectiveness.
“And questions about judgment,” Carson continues, replacing the photo, “can trigger formal oversight beyond Quinn’s situation. Substitute assignments, committee positions,and interactions with other students would all be subject to enhanced supervision when concerns arise.”
He turns back to me. “These protocols exist to protect everyone. To ensure standards are maintained when judgment may be compromised.”
The threat expands beyond Quinn now to encompass my entire professional existence at Pinecrest Academy. Was this his plan all along? To get me so involved with the school that it would become one more piece of leverage to use against me if Quinn’s well-being didn’t prove enough?
“You care about your students,” Carson says, the words framed as a compliment while functioning as a threat. “About Quinn. Your dedication is admirable. I’d hate to see that work undermined by personal choices.”