The silence that follows is deafening.
Three months. Living with Jaxson. In this house.
"You're joking," Jaxson says flatly.
James shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."
Jaxson's jaw tightens, the first crack in his armor. "You're telling me I can't return to Italy for three months?"
"Not if you want your inheritance," James confirms. "The will is quite specific. Moreover, the cohabitation must be continuous. Neither of you can leave for more than twenty-four hours during the three-month period, or the clock resets. If the clock resets a second time, neither of you inherits anything."
My mouth goes dry. The room suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing in like they're trying to trap us together.
I watch Jaxson process this information, his fingers drumming against the armrest in a pattern I remember from years ago—his tell when he's calculating his next move.
"There's more," James continues, and I hate the apologetic tone in his voice. "At the end of the three months, you'll each have a say in whether the other deserves their share of the company. Harper, you'll evaluate whether Jaxson should receive his portion. Jaxson, you'll do the same for Harper."
The betrayal hits me like a physical force, stealing my breath. My father, the man who taught me about integrity and trust, engineered this manipulation from beyond the grave.
For the first time in my life, I understand the rage that used to burn in Jaxson's eyes when he looked at Richard. I understand why his fist went through that wall.
"Are you going to say anything?" Jaxson asks, his voice cutting through the fog before my eyes.
I turn away from Jaxson, focusing on James instead. "Is there any legal way to contest this? Some loophole that would let us access our inheritance without this ridiculous cohabitation clause?"
James shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "Your father was very thorough. The will is ironclad, and he had it reviewed by different firms to ensure there were no vulnerabilities."
"Still pretending I don't exist, Harper?"
Jaxson's voice slides across the room like silk over broken glass.
"First Richard ships me off like unwanted luggage, and now you can't even look at me when discussing the scraps he left behind. I'm starting to see a pattern here."
That pulls my attention back to him, and I snap.
"Don't you dare make this about your perpetual victim complex," I snapped, whirling to face him. "He tried to be a father to you. He tried to include you, to give you opportunities, but you threw it all back in his face because you'd rather nurse your grudges than accept that someone actually wanted to help you."
"Help me?" Jaxson's eyebrows rise in mock surprise. "Is that what you call shipping me off to Italy the moment I didn't fit his suburban fairytale? His version of help was trying to turn me into another one of his corporate puppets."
"At least he tried to give you a future instead of letting you self-destruct," I fire back. "Which, let's be honest, was exactly where you were headed with your bar fights and your little revenge stunts."
He rises from his chair, his gaze raking over me with disdain. "You wouldn't understand what I mean, would you? Poor little Harper, so grateful for daddy's love that you never noticed the strings attached."
"You insufferable—"
"What? Go ahead, Harper. Say what you really think."
The venom I've stored for seven years rises in my throat, ready to spill.
"Oh, y want to know what I think? I think you're pathetic. You left for seven years and now show up here within hours of learning there's money involved."
His eyes darken to that midnight shade I remember.
"And you're so desperate for daddy's approval that you molded yourself into his perfect little protégé. Tell me, Harper, does Preston know he's just another box you're checking off Richard's list? Good family, good connections, good enough to parade around at company functions?"
"At least I'm capable of maintaining a relationship that lasts longer than a weekend," I shoot back.
Yes, I checked his Instagram from my fake profile.
The one I made specifically to watch him live his best life in Milan with a rotating cast of women who all looked like they stepped out of Italian Vogue.
"Maintaining? Is that what you call whatever tepid arrangement you have with that walking LinkedIn profile?"
He says it with a look that tells me he's been keeping tabs on me too. And this twisted thought sends a pathetic little thrill through my chest that I immediately want to suffocate.
The worst part is that he's not wrong.
Preston's idea of spontaneity is ordering a different wine at dinner. But at least Preston doesn't make me feel like my entire body is on fire just by existing in the same room.
"Better than your revolving door of Italian models who probably can't spell your name," I shoot back.
"My Italian models can spell just fine, thanks. They can also do plenty of other things your Princeton boy probably needs a manual for."
He's probably right about that too. Preston approaches sex like he's following a checklist for a quarterly performance review.
"You're disgusting," I hissed.
"And you're repressed."
"If I might interrupt this... reunion…” James clears his throat loudly, “there are additional documents." He pulls two envelopes from his briefcase, our names written on them in my father's precise handwriting. "Richard also left personal letters for each of you, to be delivered with the will reading."
The sight of my father's handwriting drains the fight from me. My hand shakes slightly as I take the envelope. Jaxson takes his envelope but doesn't open it, just tucks it into his jacket pocket like it means nothing.
The casual dismissal of Father's final words makes my chest tight with an emotion I can't name.
"I need some air," I say, standing abruptly.
The letter burns in my hand, unopened. I can't read it here, not with Jaxson watching, ready to mock whatever vulnerability my father's words might expose.
"Running away already?" Jaxson's voice follows me as I head for the door. "The three months haven't even started yet."
I pause at the doorway, not turning around. "James, when does the clock start?"
"Monday at noon," James replies. "I'll need both of your signatures on some documents before then."
"Fine." I take one last look at Jaxson, and my traitorous mind notices with distant clarity that Italy has made him even more handsome.
The Mediterranean sun has given his skin a golden cast, and there's a confidence in his posture that wasn't there before. Like he finally grew into himself away from this place.
Away from me.