Consciousness returns in fragments, each one carrying a different ache.
My hip throbs where the dresser edge dug in while Jaxson took me from behind, both of us watching our reflection until I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. My inner thighs burn from being spread wider than I knew they could go. My throat feels raw from sounds I didn't know I was capable of making, and my lips are swollen from kisses that left bruises I'll have to explain.
The sheets smell like him—sandalwood and sex and seven years of suppressed wanting finally given permission to consume.
I stretch across the mattress, my body protesting the movement while simultaneously craving more of what caused the damage. The pillow beside me holds the indent of his head, still warm, and I press my face into it like the pathetic creature I've apparently become.
The shower runs behind the bathroom door, steam curling beneath the frame, and my mind immediately supplies images of water cascading down the planes of his chest. The same chest I mapped with my tongue last night, tracing every ridge of muscle, memorizing the sounds he made when my teeth grazed his hip bones.
The things I'm going to do to him once I join him in there.
The thought arrives with a pulse of heat between my legs, my body already preparing for round four despite the delicious soreness that suggests I should probably rest. But rest seems wasteful when Jaxson Reid is naked and wet fifteen feet away, when I've spent seven years imagining exactly this scenario and reality has exceeded every fantasy.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, dragging me from increasingly pornographic planning.
The screen glows with notifications I've ignored since last night—missed calls from Sophia, a concerned text from Mrs. Wilson about whether I'll need breakfast prepared, and one message that makes every muscle in my body seize with horror.
Preston: Henderson merger wrapped early. On my way back now. Should be home in 15 minutes. Can't wait to see you, darling.
The timestamp reads twelve minutes ago.
"No, no, no, no, no."
I'm out of the bed before my brain finishes processing, my feet tangling in sheets that witnessed crimes against my engagement. The ring—where did he throw the ring? My eyes scan the hardwood floor in frantic sweeps until I spot the glint of diamonds near the baseboard, mocking me with their cheerful sparkle.
The platinum band feels heavier than it did before, weighted with betrayal and the particular shame of a woman who screamed another man's name while her fiancé negotiated mergers in Providence. I shove it onto my finger with trembling hands and grab the first fabric I can find—Jaxson's white button-down from last night, discarded somewhere between the door and the dresser.
The shirt hangs to mid-thigh, swimming on my frame, smelling so distinctly of him that wearing it feels like another confession. I find my robe crumpled near the doorway and wrap it tight, praying the terry cloth is thick enough to hide the evidence beneath.
My thighs are sticky with remnants of what we did, physical proof that I cannot wash away in the thirty seconds I have before Preston walks through that door.
I take the stairs two at a time, nearly twisting my ankle on the third step—that cursed third step where all of this began—and skid into the foyer just as the front door swings open.
Preston stands in the morning light, his suit wrinkled from travel, his smile bright with the oblivious confidence of a man who believes his fiancée spent the night alone.
"Harper, darling, you're up early." He sets down his overnight bag with the careful precision that characterizes everything he does. "I thought I'd have to drag you out of bed after that gala, and yet here you are, looking positively radiant."
Radiant is not the word I would choose. Freshly fucked would be more accurate, but Preston has never been particularly observant about the details of my appearance.
"Preston, welcome home." The words scrape past my guilt-coated throat as I launch myself into his arms, pressing my face against his shoulder to hide whatever damning evidence might be written across my features. "I missed you so much, you have no idea how much I needed you here last night."
Lies. All lies. The only thing I needed last night was currently upstairs in a shower I should be sharing.
His arms wrap around me, and the embrace feels foreign in a way it never did before. His hands settle on my waist with the cautious touch of a man handling expensive merchandise, so different from the bruising grip that pinned me against a dresser just hours ago.
"You're shaking." Preston pulls back, concern creasing his brow as he studies my face. "Harper, what's wrong? Has something happened with the estate?"
"Good news, actually." The lie materializes from some survival instinct buried deep in my cortex. "I just received word that the quarterly projections exceeded expectations, and I suppose the relief overwhelmed me. I've been so worried about the company's performance since Father passed, and knowing we're exceeding targets feels like vindication of everything I've been working toward."
The explanation sounds rehearsed because it is—a script I've been writing in my head since the moment I read his text, delivered with enough corporate jargon to satisfy a man who measures intimacy in profit margins.
Preston's face transforms with the particular satisfaction he reserves for financial victories. "That's wonderful news, darling, absolutely wonderful. We should celebrate properly tonight, perhaps that new restaurant that opened on Newbury Street, the one with the Michelin-starred chef everyone's been discussing."
"That sounds lovely."
My voice emerges steady despite the chaos rioting through my nervous system. The shower has stopped running upstairs—I heard it cut off somewhere during my frantic descent—and the silence that follows feels like a countdown timer attached to an explosive device.
Please stay upstairs. Please give me five minutes to get Preston out of this foyer before you appear looking like every sin I've ever committed.
The universe, as always, has other plans.
Footsteps echo from the upper landing, and then Jaxson materializes at the top of the stairs. His dark hair is damp, water droplets still clinging to his shoulders, and the only thing covering his body is a white towel wrapped low around his hips. The V-lines that frame his lower abdomen draw my gaze with magnetic force, directing my attention toward territory I explored extensively last night.
My mouth goes dry. My pulse hammers against my throat in a rhythm that screams guilty, guilty, guilty.
"Morning." Jaxson's voice carries the rough edges of recent exertion, casual and devastating. His eyes find mine for a fraction of a second, and the heat in them threatens to incinerate what remains of my composure.
I look away immediately, unable to sustain contact without choking on the suffocating weight of his attention. His possessiveness wraps around me from across the room, invisible and inescapable, and I hate how much I want to breathe it in like oxygen.
Preston steps forward, positioning himself between me and the stairs with territorial aggression. "For God's sake, Jaxson, this isn't a locker room. Harper is standing right here, and your state of undress is completely inappropriate for shared spaces."
"My apologies." The words contain no apology whatsoever, dripping instead with amusement that makes Preston's jaw clench. "I didn't realize we'd implemented a dress code in the family home. Should I consult you next time before showering?"
"Common decency shouldn't require consultation. Perhaps Italian customs are different, but in civilized households, we don't parade around half-naked in front of other people's fiancées."
The word fiancée lands between us like a grenade, and I see Jaxson's expression flicker—a momentary crack in his composure that reveals the darkness beneath.
My eyes drop to avoid watching them circle each other like dogs preparing to fight over territory neither of them truly owns. And that's when I see it.
A single strand of hair clings to the back of Preston's white trousers, stark against the pale fabric. Long. Dark. Nothing like my blonde, nothing like the chestnut highlights Sophia inherited from their mother.
The hair belongs to someone else entirely.