POV Harper
The woman in the mirror looks like she has her life together, which just proves that reflective surfaces are pathological liars.
I smooth the burgundy silk over my hips for the third time, watching the fabric catch the vanity lights and shimmer like wine held up to candlelight. The dress arrived at my London flat four years ago with no card, no return address, just tissue paper and a garment bag from a boutique I couldn't afford on my student budget. I wore it to my first gallery opening and felt invincible.
I still don't know who sent it, though I've constructed elaborate theories involving secret admirers and wealthy art patrons with questionable motives. Tonight, facing the Harrington Foundation Gala with Preston on my arm and Jaxson somewhere in the same city, I need every ounce of armor this dress provides.
The bathroom door opens without a knock because Preston has never met a boundary he felt obligated to respect.
"You're not wearing that, are you?" He leans against the doorframe, already dressed in his Brioni tuxedo, his expression carrying the particular condescension he reserves for my aesthetic choices. "I laid out the Valentino specifically because Caroline Cobbett will be there, and she's on the membership committee for the Foundation board."
"I'm aware of who will be at the gala, Preston, considering I helped organize the donor list." I continue adjusting the dress, refusing to acknowledge his criticism with eye contact. "And I'm wearing what I want to wear."
"The burgundy is too dramatic for this crowd, Harper. You'll stand out for all the wrong reasons when the goal is to blend in with potential board connections." He steps closer, and his cologne—the Tom Ford that used to smell sophisticated—now registers as cloying and aggressive. "Just change into the Valentino and we can leave on time for once."
This is what the rest of my life will look like. Negotiations over hemlines and strategic networking disguised as romance.
The thought surfaces unbidden, carrying with it the echo of this morning's argument.
Preston had spent fifteen minutes explaining why my decision to attend today's board meeting without him was "professionally unwise," as if my position as CEO required his supervisory approval.
Now he stands in my bathroom doorway, acting as though that confrontation never happened, and I feel exhaustion settle into my bones like concrete.
"The dress stays." I turn to face him directly, letting him see the steel behind my civil tone. "And if Caroline Cobbett has opinions about my wardrobe, she can bring them up at the next committee meeting where I will cheerfully ignore them."
His jaw tightens, but he recognizes the futility of further argument. "Fine, but when we're networking with the Hartleys, let me take the lead on the conversation about the Beacon Hill development project."
"Whatever you need, Preston."
The drive to the Harrington Foundation headquarters passes in tense silence. Preston's hand lands on my knee three times during the twenty-minute journey. His fingers feel foreign against my skin, unwelcome in ways they never did before that night in my father's study.
Before Jaxson's hands showed me what wanting actually feels like.
I shift away from Preston's touch under the pretense of adjusting my clutch, and the irritation that flickers across his face confirms he's noticed my withdrawal.
The gala unfolds in predictable patterns—champagne flutes and air kisses, networking disguised as philanthropy, Caroline Cobbett eyeing my burgundy dress with exactly the disapproval Preston predicted. I smile until my face aches, playing the role of devoted girlfriend while my mind counts the hours until I can retreat to my childhood bedroom and pretend none of this is real.
Then I feel that particular awareness that prickles along my spine whenever he's near.
My gaze finds the grand staircase just as Jaxson descends, and the sight nearly stops my heart.
He wears a black tuxedo that fits him like a threat wrapped in Italian tailoring, the formal wear transforming him from dangerously attractive into devastatingly beautiful. But it's not the tuxedo that makes my stomach clench with something hot and ugly.
It's the woman on his arm.
She's the kind of beautiful that belongs on runways and yacht decks—all endless legs and sharp cheekbones, her silver gown clinging to curves that seem designed specifically to make other women feel inadequate. Jaxson's hand rests on the small of her back, fingers splayed possessively against the exposed skin where her dress dips scandalously low.
His eyes find mine across the crowded ballroom, and he doesn't look away. The challenge in his gaze is unmistakable, deliberate, a knife twisted slowly in a wound I refuse to acknowledge exists.
They move through the crowd in our direction, and I watch his hand slide from her waist to her hip, fingers pressing into the silver fabric with possessive familiarity. The same deliberate touch he used on my arm in the study, the same pressure that made my entire nervous system short-circuit.
He's doing this on purpose.
As they pass within arm's reach, Jaxson leans down to whisper something against my ear, his breath hot on my skin, his lips close enough to graze my temple.
"Burgundy suits you." His voice drops lower, intimate and cruel. "You're welcome, by the way."
My skin prickles beneath the burgundy silk, every inch of fabric suddenly alive against my body. The dress fits like it was made for my body because it was.
I am wearing him. His choice, his taste, his hands selecting something that would cling to my curves and pool at my feet. The silk feels like his fingerprints against my thighs, his breath against my shoulders, his possession wrapped around me in plain sight while Preston stands oblivious at my side.
His date laughs at something—nothing, probably—and Jaxson straightens with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, guiding her toward the bar without a backward glance.
My hands tremble at my sides, the revelation mixing with jealousy and humiliation into a poison I can taste on my tongue.
"Harper, darling, they're starting the auction." Preston's hand closes around my waist, proprietary and firm. "I have a surprise planned that I think you'll appreciate."
I let him guide me toward the auction seating, but my awareness remains split—half focused on Preston's performance of attentive boyfriend, half burning with consciousness of Jaxson's gaze following us.
The auctioneer works through several items before Preston straightens in his seat, adjusting his tie with the self-satisfied expression of a man about to make a grand gesture.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, lot forty-seven—a romantic week for two in Paris, including first-class accommodations at the Ritz and a private tour of the Louvre."
Preston's paddle rises before the opening bid is even announced. He outbids three competitors with aggressive determination, each raise accompanied by a theatrical glance in my direction.
"Sold to Mr. Whitmore for eighteen thousand dollars."
The crowd applauds politely, and Preston rises from his seat with the smooth confidence of someone who's rehearsed this moment.
Then he drops to one knee.
The world narrows to a pinpoint of horror as he produces a velvet box from his jacket pocket. The ring inside catches the light—an enormous diamond surrounded by smaller stones, ostentatious and gaudy, the kind of jewelry chosen to impress observers rather than please the wearer.
Nothing about it reflects my taste, nothing about it suggests he knows me at all.
"Harper Sloan, you've made these past two years the happiest of my life." His voice projects to reach the crowd, turning our private moment into public spectacle. "Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
Applause erupts around us, three hundred guests expecting the joy this moment should bring.
My eyes find Jaxson on instinct, seeking him through the sea of faces. He stands near the bar, the model forgotten beside him, his champagne glass frozen halfway to his lips. Then he sets it down with enough force that I see the splash of liquid over the rim.
Say no. Walk away from this performance and everything it represents.
But the crowd is watching, and Preston is waiting, and somewhere near that bar, Jaxson is watching too—the same Jaxson who paraded his runway model past me minutes ago.
"Yes."