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SMUT STORY

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Episode 11: “Reckonings”

Jiva had never lied to her parents.

Not really.

White lies, maybe.

Half-truths when she missed a curfew or skipped a lecture.

But this was different.

Now she was walking into her childhood home, clutching the truth like a grenade—because no matter how she threw it, someone was going to get hurt.

Her father looked up from the kitchen table. Her mother paused mid-sip of coffee.

Both smiled.

It made her stomach twist.

“Hey, baby,” her mom said. “You look tired. Long week?”

You could say that.

Jiva sat down slowly, hands trembling. “I need to tell you something. And I need you to hear me through. All the way.”

Her father narrowed his eyes, sensing the shift. “What’s going on?”

She inhaled sharply. “I’m in a relationship.”

They glanced at each other.

“Okay,” her mom said carefully. “Is it… serious?”

“Yes.”

Her dad folded his arms. “Do we know him?”

Jiva swallowed hard. “He’s my former professor.”

Silence.

Then: “Excuse me?”

“It didn’t start until after the semester ended,” she rushed. “After I turned 18. After everything was done.”

Her mother’s face drained of color. Her father stood.

“Are you saying… it’s that professor? The one who called during orientation?”

Jiva nodded. “Alex.”

Her father’s voice turned sharp. “Jiva, that man is twenty-eight years older than you. What the hell is he doing with a teenager?”

“I’m not a teenager. I’m an adult.”

“You’re barely one!”

“And I love him,” she shot back.

That silenced them both.

Her mother sank into her chair. “You love him?”

“I do.” Her voice cracked. “And he loves me.”

Her father paced, hands in his hair. “You think that makes this okay?”

“No. I think that makes this real.”

Meanwhile, Alex faced a reckoning of his own.

He was staring out his window when the doorbell rang.

He opened it to find a sharply dressed woman in her 40s, holding a leather briefcase and an expression that didn’t belong to a university bureaucrat.

“Professor Whitmore?”

He nodded slowly.

“I’m Dana Morales. Editor at The Atlantic. May I come in?”

Confused, he stepped aside.

They sat. She opened her case, pulled out a folder.

“I’ve read your manuscript draft,” she said. “The first five chapters, at least. Courtesy of an anonymous source who thought your story needed a wider audience.”

Alex blinked. “You read it?”

“Twice.”

She leaned forward.

“Look, you’re in the middle of a scandal. I won’t sugarcoat that. But what you’ve written? It’s bold. It’s honest. And frankly, it’s the most gripping thing I’ve read in months.”

Alex stared, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“What do you want from me?”

“A full draft,” she said. “Clean it up. Finish it. We’ll talk publication. Maybe even a feature. There’s something here, Professor. Something real.”

He let out a shaky breath.

For the first time in weeks… hope.

Back at her parents’ house, Jiva sat in silence.

The storm had passed, but the damage lingered.

Her mother finally reached across the table and took her hand.

“I’m scared for you,” she whispered. “This world is cruel to girls who break the rules.”

“I didn’t break the rules,” Jiva said. “I just… didn’t follow the ones they wanted me to.”

Her father stayed quiet.

Then finally: “If he ever hurts you…”