"I am not one of your European whores you can fuck in a club bathroom."
The words replay on a loop as I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white against the leather, headlights carving through the darkness ahead. Of all the devastating responses I could have delivered—all the cutting remarks about boundaries and blood ties and basic human decency—my brain decided to criticize his choice of venue.
Not "we're step-siblings, Jaxson, this is depraved."
Not "I'm engaged to another man and you need professional help."
Not even "you're a pathetic stalker who had to pay for photographs because no woman in her right mind would willingly let you watch her live."
No. I went with location complaints. Like a restaurant reviewer who found the food acceptable but couldn't get past the ambiance.
Brilliant, Harper. Really stellar work. He propositions you in explicit detail, and your rebuttal is essentially "not here, the bathroom isn't nice enough."
The champagne buzzes through my bloodstream, softening the edges of stop signs and sharpening the memory of his smile when I said it. That slow, devastating curve of his lips that communicated everything words couldn't: Noted.
I should not be driving in this condition, but staying at that club was not an option after the way my body betrayed me on that dance floor.
A red light materializes out of nowhere, and I slam the brakes hard enough to send my purse flying off the passenger seat. The tires shriek against wet asphalt, the car fishtailing slightly before jerking to a stop inches from the crosswalk. My chest heaves against the seatbelt, pulse thundering in my ears.
"Jesus Christ, Harper, get it together!"
A pedestrian shoots me a murderous glare through the windshield—a man in a business suit, briefcase clutched to his chest, clearly reconsidering his life choices after nearly becoming a hood ornament. I mouth an apology he doesn't acknowledge before the light changes and I ease forward.
You could have killed someone. You could have wrapped this car around a telephone pole because you were too busy replaying Jaxson's voice in your head instead of watching the road.
The near-miss sobers me slightly, adrenaline cutting through the champagne haze, but it does nothing to cool the heat still simmering beneath my skin. If anything, the rush of almost-disaster only amplifies every sensation—my racing heart, my shallow breathing, the persistent ache between my thighs that his words planted and my imagination keeps watering.
"You're pathetic," I tell my reflection in the rearview mirror. "Completely, catastrophically pathetic."
The reflection doesn't argue. She looks flushed and disheveled, her pupils still dilated, her lips slightly parted like she's waiting for a mouth that isn't coming.
My phone sits in the passenger seat, screen dark, and I consider calling Sophia to apologize for abandoning her. But Sophia was thoroughly occupied when I fled, that broad-shouldered woman leaning close enough to whisper in her ear, and interrupting whatever connection they were building feels cruel.
Besides, what would I even say? Sorry I left early, but your brother's competition was describing cunnilingus in pornographic detail and I needed to not be present for that conversation anymore.
The estate looms ahead, all Gothic architecture and family dysfunction, and I turn into the driveway with the desperate hope that Preston will be waiting. Preston with his predictable hands and his methodical kisses and his complete inability to make me feel anything approaching this dangerous.
Safe. I need to feel safe again.
I need his arms around me, his voice in my ear talking about market portfolios and country club gossip, his presence reminding me that I chose stability for a reason. That the life I'm building with him—boring as it may be—is the life I actually want.
Bullshit, that treacherous voice whispers. You want Jaxson's mouth on your throat and his hands pushing your dress up and his—
"Stop it." I slam the car door harder than necessary, the sound echoing across the empty courtyard. "Just. Stop."
The house is dark except for the motion-sensor lights that flicker on as I approach the front door. No warm glow from the master suite, no silhouette moving past the windows. Saturday—Mrs. Wilson's day off, I remember with a sinking feeling. My heels click against the marble foyer as I step inside, the silence pressing against my eardrums like a physical weight.
"Preston?" My voice bounces off the walls, swallowed by shadows. "Are you home?"
Nothing. I move through the house on autopilot, checking the study where he sometimes works late, the library where he occasionally pretends to read, the sitting room where he never sits. Each empty room feels like a small betrayal, like he's abandoned me to face this restless wanting alone.
My phone buzzes in my purse—messages I've been ignoring since I fled the club. I fish it out with trembling fingers, scrolling past Sophia's string of question marks to find Preston's name.
Called away on business in Providence. Henderson merger. Back tomorrow afternoon. Don't wait up.
I read the words twice, waiting for disappointment to settle in my chest. Instead, I feel nothing—just a vague acknowledgment that this is typical Preston behavior. Business always comes first, whether the timing is convenient or catastrophic.
Of course he's not here, I think as I shove the phone back into my purse. Of course the one night I actually need his particular brand of boring, he's disappeared to Providence for a merger that couldn't possibly wait until morning.
The silence of the house presses closer, and with it comes a realization.
The house is empty. For the first time in weeks since this cohabitation nightmare began, I am completely alone within these walls.
If Jaxson comes home...
The thought forms before I can stop it, carrying with it a cascade of images I've been fighting since the dance floor. His hands on my hips. His mouth at my ear. His promises about what he'd do behind a locked door, and now there are no locked doors required because there's no one here to lock them against.
He probably went home with someone else, I tell myself, moving toward the stairs on unsteady legs. He probably found some other woman to proposition, someone who didn't run away like a frightened teenager, someone who said yes to his club bathroom fantasy without hesitation.
The jealousy that spikes through me is irrational and unwelcome and completely undeniable. I grip the banister, forcing myself to climb toward my bedroom, toward the cold sheets, toward the safety of a door I can close against my own worst impulses.
Just go to sleep. Sleep off the champagne, sleep off the wanting, wake up tomorrow and pretend none of this happened.
I'm halfway up the stairs when I hear it.
The distinctive click of the front door unlocking.
My feet freeze on the third step—the same step where I first felt that ugly, wrong desire crawl through my chest at sixteen—and my heart hammers against my ribs as footsteps echo across the marble foyer below.