My brain cycles through evidence I should have catalogued months ago: the late nights Preston blamed on mergers that wrapped suspiciously early, the cologne that sometimes carried undertones of perfume I don't own, the way he checked his phone with his body angled away from mine. Every red flag I dismissed because acknowledging them would mean admitting I'd built my future on sand.
The hypocrisy of my reaction is not lost on me. I spent last night screaming another man's name while my fiancé negotiated business deals in Providence, and now I'm cataloguing his infidelities like a prosecutor building a case. The irony should choke me, but instead I feel irritation rising through my chest—pure, clarifying irritation that burns away the guilt I should be drowning in.
Two years. He has been doing this for two years, parading other women through hotel rooms while I counted ceiling tiles during our perfunctory intimacy, convincing myself that stability was worth the absence of passion.
Jaxson descends the stairs with the unhurried grace of a man who knows exactly what he's walking into. His eyes move between Preston and me, reading the tension in the air, and his jaw sets with anticipation. He positions himself at the bottom of the staircase, close enough to Preston that the space between them crackles with barely restrained violence.
They face each other like two bulls pawing at the ground, waiting for the signal to charge.
"Jaxson, leave us." My voice emerges steadier than I expect, carrying authority I didn't know I possessed.
His head snaps toward me, protest already forming on his lips. "Harper, I'm not going anywhere while this pompous ass stands in our foyer acting like he owns the place, and if you think for one second that I'm going to let him—"
"Now."
The single word cuts through his objection. Our eyes meet, and I let him see the steel beneath my composure—the determination that has nothing to do with protecting Preston and everything to do with handling this confrontation on my own terms. His resistance wavers, something shifting in his expression as he reads the unspoken message: trust me.
He holds my gaze for three more heartbeats before his shoulders drop in reluctant surrender. Without another word, he turns and climbs the stairs, disappearing into the upper hallway with a final glance that promises this conversation isn't finished.
Quiet joy unfurls in my chest, warm and unexpected. He listened. The man who has never followed anyone's orders, who built his entire personality around defiance and control, walked away because I asked him to. The power of that realization settles into my bones like a homecoming.
Preston watches the retreat with narrowed eyes, his expression cycling through confusion before settling on something approaching admiration. "Well, well. Look at you, darling, taming the wild beast so soon. I didn't realize you had it in you to command a man like Jaxson, though I suppose breeding will out eventually."
"Where did you spend the night, Preston?"
The question lands between us with the weight of a verdict already rendered. His composure falters—a micro-expression of surprise that tells me everything I need to know about how thoroughly he's underestimated me.
"I told you, the Henderson merger required my presence in Providence, and the negotiations ran later than anticipated, so I stayed at the Biltmore rather than driving back exhausted." His voice carries the practiced smoothness of a man who has delivered this explanation before. "Harper, darling, what's brought on this sudden interrogation?"
"Show me your phone."
"Excuse me?"
"Your phone, Preston. Unlock it and hand it to me, and let me see your messages from last night, your location history, whatever proof you have that you were actually in Providence conducting business instead of conducting affairs."
His laugh emerges forced, brittle around the edges. "This is absurd, Harper. I'm not going to submit to some paranoid inspection because you've decided to question my integrity after a stressful few weeks with the estate situation."
"Then you have nothing to hide, which means showing me should be effortless." I step closer, and the movement feels foreign in my own body—aggressive, demanding, nothing like the accommodating woman who let him dictate her wardrobe choices and dismiss her accomplishments. "Unless, of course, there's a reason you don't want me seeing who you've been texting."
"The merger documents are confidential, and Henderson would have my head if I let anyone outside the deal room access those communications, even my fiancée." He adjusts his cufflinks, which tells me his excuses are running thin. "Harper, I don't know what's gotten into you this morning, but I think we should table this discussion until you've had coffee and calmed down."
"I am perfectly calm."
The steadiness of my own voice surprises me. Power courses through my veins—actual power, the kind I've spent my entire life suppressing to make men like Preston comfortable. The kind that makes my spine straighten and my chin lift and my hands stop trembling.
I close the distance between us before he can retreat, my fingers reaching for the dark strand still clinging to his trousers. The hair slides free easily, and I hold it up between us, letting the morning light illuminate evidence he cannot explain away.
"This isn't mine, Preston." My voice is calm. "It's not Sophia's either, unless your sister has dramatically changed her color."
His face cycles through denial, calculation, and finally settles on cold assessment. "Harper, you're being ridiculous about a single strand of hair that could have come from anywhere—a hotel chair, a restaurant booth, the dry cleaner's for all we know."
"I'm calling off the engagement."
The words emerge without hesitation, without the doubt that should accompany destroying a two-year relationship. The ring on my finger feels lighter already, as if the platinum itself understands this farce has reached its conclusion.
Preston's expression transforms. The charming mask dissolves, revealing the calculating creature beneath, and when he speaks, his voice carries none of the warmth he's performed for two years.
"You reek of sex, Harper." He steps closer, close enough that I can see the cruelty sharpening his features. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? The flush on your skin, the marks on your throat that your robe doesn't quite cover, the particular way you're standing like a woman who spent the night being thoroughly fucked by someone who wasn't her fiancé?"
My breath catches, but I force myself to hold his gaze.
"If you refuse to marry me, I will tell everyone exactly what's been happening in this house." His smile holds no warmth, only the twisted satisfaction. "Your daddy's precious reputation will be ruined posthumously when Boston society learns his daughter spreads her legs for her stepbrother. The Harvard board, where Richard Sloan has a building named after him, will distance themselves faster than you can say 'incest.' Your little art career? Over before it truly begins, because who wants to buy paintings from someone fucking their stepbrother?"
The future I've been building—the galleries, the recognition, the legacy my father worked so hard to establish—crumbles before my eyes. Every connection, every opportunity, every door that opened because of the Sloan name will slam shut the moment Preston opens his mouth.
"Think very carefully about your next move, darling." He moves past me toward the stairs, pausing at the damn third step to deliver his final blow. "I'm going to shower and change, and when I come back down, we're going to discuss wedding venues like civilized people, and you're going to smile and pretend this conversation never happened. Understood?"