Monday arrives draped in funeral couture—grey skies and theatrical wind, God's soap opera audition. I stand at the estate's entrance with fourteen Louis Vuitton suitcases because apparently, I'm moving in like a Kardashian in crisis.
Preston barks orders at the driver about handling requirements for bags that definitely don't contain what he thinks they do. Mrs. Wilson materializes in the doorway—silver bun, black dress, looking like Victorian severity discovered Nordstrom.
I almost weep with relief.
"Miss Harper," she says warmly, then her eyes land on Preston and the temperature drops ten degrees. "And our guest."
"This is Preston, my…" I start, but he's already extending his hand.
"Preston Whitmore, Harper's fiancé. You must be the help. Wilson, was it? Excellent. We'll need the master suite prepared with fresh linens—Egyptian cotton, minimum 800 thread count. Harper has sensitive skin."
He doesn't wait for her response before continuing his monarchy cosplay.
"I'll also need a full inventory of the wine cellar by the end of day, and do something about that gardenia situation out front. They're looking peaked."
Mrs. Wilson's left eye twitches, the only sign she's imagining various ways to poison his morning coffee.
"Mr. Whitmore, I've maintained this house for thirty years. The gardenias are heritage plants from the original landscape design."
Her voice could freeze hell and charge admission for ice skating.
"And you'll be in the East Wing guest suite, as Mr. Reid specified."
"That won't be necessary. As Harper's fiancé—"
"The arrangements are final." She turns to me with a smile that thaws slightly. "Your regular room is ready, Miss Harper. Shall I have your things brought up?"
I nod, mortified enough to consider witness protection. Preston's face cycles through several shades of entitled displeasure before settling on constipated dignity.
"We'll need to discuss some changes to the household routine," he announces to Mrs. Wilson's retreating back. "This place has excellent bones, but the execution needs updating—"
"Preston, you can't renovate a house that isn't yours," I interrupt, my patience evaporating faster than his common sense.
"Our house, darling. Or it will be." He surveys the foyer like he's already picking out crown molding. "Your father had vision, but his taste was very millennium. We could flip this for triple its value with the right updates."
The casual dismissal of my father's aesthetic choices—the man who spent three years restoring the original moldings—makes my molars grind.
But before I can respond, a familiar voice drifts from down the hall.
"Is that the dulcet tones of renovation speculation I hear? Music to a dead man's ears."
My body recognizes Jaxson's presence before my brain catches up, every nerve ending suddenly operating at maximum capacity. Preston's hand lands on my lower back with the possessiveness of a man marking territory he's never properly claimed.
"The stepbrother, I presume," Preston says, steering me toward the study like I'm a shopping cart with a wonky wheel.
The door stands open, revealing a scene designed to make my blood pressure skyrocket.
Jaxson lounges in my father's chair, the leather one no one else was allowed to touch, his Italian leather shoes propped on the mahogany desk between towers of private documents.
He's wearing a black henley, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that have no business looking that good. His hair falls across his forehead, and when he looks up, his eyes are the color of expensive whiskey held up to dying light.
"Nice of you to finally join us," he says, not bothering to move his feet. "I was starting to worry you'd gotten lost. Though with Captain America here navigating, I suppose anything's possible."
Preston's hands land on my shoulders with the weight of ownership.
"I'm Preston Whitmore. Harper's fiancé." His tone drips the kind of condescension usually reserved for explaining cryptocurrency to grandparents.
Jaxson's eyes shift from expensive whiskey to crude oil, cataloguing my ringless finger before releasing a laugh that sounds like dark chocolate laced with cyanide. He rises from the chair with the lazy grace of a big cat that's spotted prey.
"Fiancé?" He steps around the desk, closing distance. "Funny. Because Harper doesn't look like a woman who's been properly fucked."
The words detonate in the room like a grenade in a library.
Preston's hands spasm on my shoulders while my entire circulatory system forgets how to function. The crude assessment hits me in places that should be offended but instead light up like a pinball machine.
"How dare you…" Preston starts, his voice climbing to frequencies only dogs should hear.
"How dare I what? Point out the obvious?" Jaxson's smile could strip paint.
My sharp intake of breath coincides with Preston lunging forward. His fist swings wide, telegraphing his intention with enough advance notice for Jaxson to file his taxes.
Jaxson sidesteps with insulting ease, then catches Preston's second attempt mid-swing, twisting his arm behind his back in one fluid motion that speaks of actual fight experience.
"That's adorable," Jaxson murmurs against Preston's ear. "Did they teach you that at Harvard? Or was it Yale?"
Preston manages to break free and charges again, this time managing to land a glancing blow to Jaxson's jaw.
The impact makes a satisfying crack that Preston will probably brag about at the club for months, assuming he survives the next thirty seconds.
Jaxson touches his lip, examining the small spot of blood with interest. "Now we're talking."
"Stop it! Both of you!" I grab Jaxson's arm before he can advance on Preston. "This ends now."
I lock eyes with Jaxson, willing him to back down with the kind of telepathic command that only works between people who've memorized each other's breaking points. He holds my stare for several heartbeats before stepping back.
"Are you insane?" I round on Jaxson. "You've been here less than forty-eight hours and you're already assaulting people?"
"He swung first," Jaxson points out with infuriating logic. "I was merely defending myself."
Before I can respond, Preston makes a sound like a stepped-on cat. "Harper, we're leaving."
"We're not going anywhere," I snapped, not even looking at him. "This is exactly what he wants—to drive us out, to make this unbearable so I'll forfeit my inheritance."
Jaxson's smile turns sharp as a scalpel. "Darling, if I wanted to make this unbearable, you'd know it."
And yes, the twisted part of me wants to grab him by that expensive henley and beg him to show me exactly how unbearable he could make it.
But I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper just to stop myself from saying it out loud.
"You're sick," Preston spits, still massaging his throat. "Harper, your stepbrother is clearly unstable. We should call the police—"
"And tell them what? That you started a physical altercation and lost?" I finally turn to Preston, exhausted by the testosterone poisoning filling the room. "Go to your room, Preston. Let me handle this."
"Harper…"
"Go. Now."
Preston storms out, pausing at the door to deliver what he clearly thinks is a devastating parting shot. "This isn't over."
"Looking forward to round two, champ," Jaxson calls after him.
Once Preston's footsteps fade, I face Jaxson, channeling every ounce of contempt I can muster. "You know what? Congratulations. You've just given me the perfect material for my evaluation at the end of three months."
His expression shifts, the smugness faltering for just a moment.
"That's right," I continue, my voice deadly quiet. "Every single thing you do for the next ninety days? I'm documenting it. Every crude comment, every act of violence, every moment you prove that Father was right to ship you off to Italy. And when James asks for my assessment of whether you deserve your inheritance?"
I smile with all the warmth of a morgue freezer.
"I'll have a detailed report of exactly why you deserve nothing."