Morning light slices through my apartment windows, all harsh angles and unforgiving clarity. The kind of light that exposes every dust mote, every imperfection, every lie you tell yourself about the life you've chosen.
Preston sleeps beside me with the serene perfection of a stock photo.
Jaw relaxed at the optimal angle. Chest rising in measured intervals. One arm positioned like he's posing for a men's health magazine even while unconscious.
His features arrange themselves into conventional handsomeness: strong jawline, straight nose, the kind of bone structure that photographs well at charity galas.
He could be anyone's ideal partner, the human equivalent of a five-star Yelp review—consistently good, reliably pleasant, zero surprises.
Boring is safe, I tell myself, the mantra I've been repeating since we started dating.
Safe means no walls with fist-shaped craters. Safe means no midnight eyes that make your internal organs rearrange themselves. Safe means Preston Whitmore and his predictable rhythms.
But the memory of yesterday clings to me like smoke damage.
Jaxson's voice, the way he said "sister" like he was twisting a knife, the crack in that wall that still exists seven years later.
The ghost of what I felt at sixteen haunts this pristine apartment, making Preston's safety feel less like security and more like a maximum-security prison where I'm both the inmate and the warden.
Preston stirs, his eyes opening with the immediate alertness of someone who's never had a complicated thought before his first cup of coffee. "Morning, beautiful."
"Morning," I manage, watching him stretch with the ease of someone who does yoga for the Instagram posts.
He disappears into the kitchen, returning minutes later with two mugs of coffee prepared exactly how we take them—his with oat milk and stevia, mine black with shame and growing dread.
The bed dips as he perches on the edge, skipping any pretense of morning affection to get straight to business.
"Harper, we need to talk about efficiency," he announces, wielding the word like other people might use "I love you."
"Efficiency?" I echo, already knowing where this conversation leads and desperately searching for the emergency exits.
"Maintaining two apartments when we spend most nights together doesn't make fiscal sense. The overhead alone could be better invested. We should consolidate our living situation."
"You want to move in together," I translate, my voice sounding like it's coming from very far away.
"Exactly. Your place or mine, doesn't matter. Though mine has better parking and that new Thermador range."
He sips his coffee, clearly pleased with his PowerPoint presentation of a relationship milestone.
"We've been together for two years. The natural progression suggests cohabitation as the logical next step."
The word "yes" escapes my mouth before my brain can intervene, a Pavlovian response trained by twenty-three years of accommodating other people's expectations.
The moment it lands in the air between us, my stomach performs a full gymnastics routine, complete with multiple backflips and a dismount straight into nausea. Preston's face lights up with the satisfaction of a hostile takeover successfully completed.
"Perfect. We can start boxing up the redundant items this weekend. I've already researched moving companies with the best efficiency ratings."
Panic floods my system like a broken dam.
The thought of Preston's monogrammed towels in my bathroom, his labeled containers colonizing my refrigerator, his presence expanding to fill every corner of my sanctuary… I physically recoil, nearly spilling coffee across the sheets.
"Actually," I blurt out, grasping for the life raft of my father's posthumous manipulation, "there's a complication."
His eyebrows perform their skeptical dance, the one usually reserved for waiters who claim the kitchen is out of his first three menu choices.
"What kind of complication?"
"The will." I inject enough gravity into my voice to sell this half-truth. "I have to live at the Sloan Estate for three full months. It's a strict condition of the inheritance. No exceptions."
"The estate? That massive place in Beacon Hill?" His eyes glaze over with the particular sheen of real estate lust. "The one with the heated floors and the wine cellar?"
"That's the one. But Preston, Jaxson will be there too, presumably making my life miserable."
I paint the picture with broad strokes of martyrdom, hoping he'll retreat from this terrible idea. Instead, his face brightens like he's just discovered a tax loophole.
"Darling, that's not a punishment, that's an opportunity. Do you have any idea what that property is worth?"
"Preston…"
"No, listen." He sets down his mug with the decisive clink of someone who thinks they've solved world hunger. "You shouldn't have to face that house alone. Or deal with your stepbrother's hostility without support."
"The will specifically states—"
"That you have to live there. Not that you have to live there alone." His smile widens with corporate efficiency. "I'm your fiancé."
"We're not engaged," I point out, my voice climbing octaves I didn't know I could reach.
"Semantics. We're in a committed relationship heading toward marriage. Surely the estate's lawyer can't deny you moral support. Email him right now, ask about guest provisions."
"I don't think that's—"
"I insist." He's already heading toward the shower, his mind made up. "Check with James Kimmons. I guarantee there's nothing preventing me from staying there with you. It would be cruel and unusual to force you to endure three months alone with someone who clearly traumatized you as a teenager."
The bathroom door closes with a satisfied click, leaving me alone with my phone and my rapidly multiplying anxiety.
My hands shake as I grab the device, ready to compose a desperate email to James begging him to create a no-guests rule, to save me from this collision of my worst nightmare and my mediocre reality.
But my inbox already holds an unread message, sitting at the top like a letter bomb.
Subject: SECURITY
UPDATE: Guest Authorization
From: James Kimmons
To: Harper Sloan
Dear Harper,
Per Jaxson's explicit instructions early this morning, security clearance has been proactively granted for Mr. Preston Whitmore for the duration of your stay. The East Wing Guest Suite—directly across from the Master Suite—has been prepped for his arrival.
Jaxson emphasized that he wants you to have everything you need to feel comfortable. He insists on it.
See you at the house.
Regards, James
The timestamp reads 6:00 AM. Hours before Preston even woke up. The phone slips from my nerveless fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor.
Jaxson didn't just know Preston would try to come—he cleared the way for him.
He's waiting for us. For me.
And I'm terrified of what happens when I'm trapped in that house with both the man I'm supposed to love and the one I've never been able to stop wanting.