The library smells of leather, old money, and the ghost of Richard's cigars.
Victoria sits in the high-backed chair that used to be his, legs crossed, black silk dress clinging to every obscene curve, nipples already dark and visible through the fabric because she hasn't worn a bra since the funeral.
Her breasts have grown heavier in the weeks since Richard died—grief or hormones, she doesn't know—but milk beads at the tips whenever stress or memory hits.
Right now it's both.
Across the mahogany desk, Luke stands rigid in a charcoal suit that strains across his shoulders, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier.
His jaw is tight, eyes fixed somewhere over her head because if he looks directly at her he'll get hard in front of the lawyer and everyone will know.
The lawyer (some gray-haired vulture Richard kept on retainer) clears his throat and reads the clause aloud.
Victoria doesn't flinch.
She listens, thighs pressing together under the desk, feeling the familiar slick warmth bloom between them when the words "biological Ashford heir" land.
When the lawyer finishes and the room goes silent, she finally speaks—voice low, velvet, dangerous.
"Thank you, Harold. That will be all."
The lawyer leaves.
The door clicks shut.
It's just them.
Victoria uncrosses her legs slowly, deliberately, letting the silk ride high enough to flash the lace tops of her stockings and the creamy inside of one thigh already glistening.
Luke's throat works.
His eyes drop—helpless—and he sees it: the faint wet spot darkening the silk between her legs.
"Aunt Tori…"
It comes out cracked, half plea, half prayer.
She stands, walks around the desk until she's close enough to smell the faint cedar of his cologne and the warmer, deeper scent of him underneath.
"You heard the terms," she murmurs, reaching up to straighten his tie with fingers that tremble only slightly.
"Three hundred and forty-nine days, Luke.
I'm forty-five. My eggs aren't getting any younger."
Her hand drops from the tie to rest flat over his heart—feeling it hammer against her palm—then lower, slow, until her knuckles brush the rigid line straining his slacks.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't breathe.
She leans in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, breasts pressing soft and heavy against his chest, nipples leaking through silk to leave two perfect wet circles on his white shirt.
"I raised you," she whispers.
"I bathed you. Held you when you cried. Watched you grow into… this."
Her fingers trace the thick, veiny outline of him through fabric, slow and reverent.
"Now I need you to do one last thing for me, sweetheart."
She pulls back just enough to meet his eyes—dark, wrecked, starving.
"Put a baby in me.
Every day.
Every night.
Until it takes."
A single tear slips down her cheek—not grief, but relief.
"Or walk away and take everything that was ever mine."
Luke's hands finally move—slow, shaking—settling on her hips like he's afraid she'll vanish.
His voice is barely air when he answers:
"I was never going to take it from you, Aunt Tori."
A pause.
A swallow.
"I just wanted you to want me back."
Victoria's smile is slow, filthy, maternal, victorious.
She kisses him then—soft at first, lips parting, tasting the salt of his tears and the faint mint on his breath—then deeper, hungrier, her tongue sliding against his in a slow, wet claim that leaves them both gasping.
When she pulls away, her hand is already at his belt.
"Upstairs," she breathes against his mouth.
"My bedroom.
Strip to your skin and wait for me on the bed."
A pause.
A wicked, trembling smile.
"Tonight we start the calendar."
She turns and walks out—hips swaying, ass jiggling under silk, milk dripping slow down the inside of one thigh.
Luke follows three steps behind, cock straining, heart racing, the will already forgotten.
Only one inheritance matters now.
And Victoria is going to make damn sure it's hers.