Saturday morning arrives wrapped in commentary about my life choices, served alongside organic free-range eggs that taste like disappointment.
"You know, Harper, you really lucked out with that scholarship to the Royal College of Art."
Preston spreads marmalade on his toast with the precision of someone performing surgery.
"I mean, let's be honest, your portfolio was good but not exceptional. Sometimes the universe just throws you a bone, right? Though I still think business school would have been the smarter choice. Art is such an unstable career path."
The words land like individual slaps across my face and I set down my coffee mug before I throw it at his head.
"My portfolio earned that scholarship, Preston. Not luck."
"Of course, darling. I'm just saying statistically speaking, the acceptance rate is what, two percent? And with your background—no formal training until high school, no connections in the art world—it's remarkable you got in at all."
He takes a bite of toast, oblivious to the violence brewing in my chest.
"Your father must have pulled some strings. He knew people everywhere."
"Father didn't pull any strings. I earned—"
"She graduated top of her class at RCA."
Jaxson's voice cuts through the kitchen like a blade. He stands in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, eyes fixed on Preston with lethal intensity.
"Her thesis project on urban decay and memory was featured in three major galleries before she even graduated. The Saatchi Gallery requested her specifically for their emerging artists showcase. But please, Preston, tell us more about luck."
The kitchen falls silent except for the coffee maker's dying gurgle.
Preston's mouth opens and closes like a goldfish having an existential crisis while I stare at Jaxson, my brain performing emergency calculations.
"How do you know about my thesis project?" My voice comes out smaller than intended, threaded with suspicion.
Jaxson's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. He sets down his mug with deliberate control. "Lucky guess."
"That's not a lucky guess. That's specific information about work I did in London four years ago." I stand, the chair scraping against hardwood. "You weren't there. You were in Italy. How could you possibly know about the Saatchi Gallery?"
Preston interjects with the timing of someone who doesn't read rooms.
"Wait, the Saatchi Gallery wanted you? Why didn't you tell me about this? That's actually impressive…"
"Shut up, Preston." The words escape before I can stop them, my focus laser-locked on Jaxson who's already heading for the stairs. "Don't you dare walk away from me."
I follow him, leaving Preston sputtering in the kitchen like a malfunctioning appliance. Jaxson takes the stairs two at a time, his shoulders rigid with tension I recognize from years of studying his body language.
He's been caught and he knows it.
"Jaxson, stop." I grab his arm at the top of the stairs, fingers digging into muscle. "You don't get to drop information like that and disappear. How did you know about my thesis? How did you know about any of it?"
He wheels around, yanking his arm free with enough force to send me stumbling. "Drop it, Harper."
"Like hell I will."
I follow him down the hall to his room, fury overriding any sense of self-preservation.
"You've been in Italy for seven years. You weren't at my graduation. You weren't at any of my shows. So explain to me how you know details about my life that I've never told anyone in this house."
He tries to close his bedroom door but I shoulder past him, driven by the need for answers that's been building since his little revelation downstairs.
"Get out." His voice carries warning, but I'm beyond caring.
"Not until you tell me the truth. How long have you been keeping tabs on me? Since when do you care about my art career when you couldn't even bother showing up for Father’s funeral?"
The mention of Richard's funeral ignites darkness in his eyes. He moves toward me, backing me against his desk.
"You think I didn't care? You think I was just living it up in Italy, forgetting this place existed?"
"That's exactly what I think." I shove at his chest, anger making me reckless. "You never looked back. But somehow you know about my thesis project? About galleries that wanted my work? What else do you know, Jaxson? What else have you been…"
"You want to talk about looking back?" He laughs, the sound hollow and cruel. "You erased me the second I left. Redecorated my room within a week. Told your little friends I was 'basically a stranger.' Ring any bells?"
"You were a stranger. You chose to be one."
"I chose?" He steps closer, fury radiating off him in waves. "Your father shipped me off to boarding school in another country. You didn't even say goodbye."
"I was fifteen and you were gone before I woke up." My voice cracks on the last word and I hate myself for it. "Don't you dare make me the villain here."
"Tell me, Harper, did you cry at your father's memorial?" His tone drips with contempt. "Or were you too busy picking out new curtains for his study?"
I shove him, palms flat against his chest. "You bastard."
He catches my wrists, grip bruising. "There she is. The real Harper. Not the polished princess Preston thinks he's dating."
"Let go of me."
"Make me."
I wrench free and shove him again, harder this time. He stumbles back, hip catching the edge of his desk. His hand slams down to steady himself, and the impact sends a thick folder tumbling to the floor.
Its contents explode across the hardwood like secrets spilling into daylight. Hundreds of photos scatter at our feet, glossy rectangles catching the morning light.
I freeze, staring at the carnage of images.
There's me at the Tate Modern, examining a Rothko painting.
Me in Paris, sitting alone at a café in Montmartre.
Me in London, walking across Westminster Bridge at sunset.
Photo after photo after photo, documenting years of my life through a lens I never knew existed. My hands shake as I pick up one image—me at my graduation, wearing my cap and gown, laughing at something off-camera.
Another shows me at a gallery opening, wine glass in hand, talking to a curator. There are photos from every major moment of my time abroad, and dozens from mundane ones too.
Me reading in Hyde Park.
Me grocery shopping in Sainsbury's.
Me living a life I thought was private.
I look up at him, trembling with rage and violation and terror all mixed into a cocktail that threatens to tear me apart. "You stalked me?"
He steps over the scattered photos, closing the distance between us with predatory calm. His face shows no remorse, no shame, just that dark intensity that's always made my survival instincts scream.
"Stalking implies I was hiding.” His voice drops to a register that makes my spine tingle with equal parts fear and unwanted heat. “I was simply guarding what's mine."
He bends down, selecting a specific photo from the chaos—me with Oliver, the boyfriend who mysteriously decided to move to Australia after three months of dating.
Jaxson holds the image between two fingers, studying it with clinical detachment.
"Did you really think that scholarship was luck?" His eyes find mine, darker than I've ever seen them. "Did you think Oliver left town by coincidence? That job offer in Sydney must have seemed so sudden to you."
The implication hits me like a physical blow. I try to step back but the desk traps me, leaving nowhere to run as he moves closer, caging me with his body.
"What did you do?" My voice comes out as a whisper, already knowing the answer but needing to hear him say it.
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, voice dropping to a lethal whisper that rewrites everything I thought I knew about my own life.
"I didn't just watch your life, Harper. I wrote it."