Part 2Claimed by His Billionaire Best Friend

I had just stepped out of the shower when Rowan's name lit up my phone.

"Did you see Hayes today?"

Even through the speaker, I could picture the exact look on Rowan Montgomery’s face—that suppressed, jealous pout he tried to hide behind a veil of indifference.

The lingering suffocation from the car ride evaporated instantly.

I smiled, leaning against the bathroom counter. "Does the great Rowan Montgomery have spies watching me now?"

Before he could defend himself, I decided to push it. "Yeah, I saw him. I even ate the food he put on my plate. Oh, and we held hands."

His voice spiked. "Sloane! Do you want me to come over there and handle you?"

I laughed softly into the receiver. "I'm kidding. I didn't touch the food, and when he reached for my hand in front of our parents, I pulled away."

I heard a soft exhale on the other end. He was satisfied, his tone melting into something softer, though laced with a helpless kind of ache.

"Baby," he murmured, his voice low. "When are you going to let me out of the dark?"

My smile faded slightly. I lowered my voice. "I'm going to talk to him. Soon. Just give me a little more time, okay?"

A long, drawn-out sigh came through the line.

Then, a soft chuckle, endlessly patient and entirely indulgent.

"I'm kidding," Rowan said. "I waited ten years for you, Sloane. I can wait as long as you need."

Maybe it was the relief of that phone call, but that night, I had a long, vivid dream of the past.

It was a montage of our youth. Hayes and I, practically raised side-by-side.

The old Hayes had been gentle. Utterly devoted. His favoritism toward me was blatant and unapologetic. He would carry me on his back when my heels hurt after galas. He memorized every single one of my allergies, every coffee order.

I remembered the night of our high school graduation. Fireworks shattering the sky over the country club. He had grabbed my hand in the middle of the crowd, his confession clumsy and breathless, promising me forever.

"I love you, Sloane. I'm going to take care of you for the rest of my life."

His eyes had held the stars that night.

Through college on opposite coasts, he flew out every single weekend to see me. Our relationship was a given, an undeniable force of nature. By the time we graduated, we were engaged. Everyone in Manhattan society said it: Sloane Harper and Hayes Kensington were the golden couple.

Then the earthquake hit, crushing all that tenderness to dust.

Hayes found out, by sheer accident, that his father had a second family. A younger half-brother, born just two months after Hayes.

His entire reality collapsed overnight.

The boy I knew vanished. In his place was a man intent on tearing the world down with him.

He threw himself into a vicious, hedonistic lifestyle. Yacht parties in Miami, pool ragers in the Hamptons. He surrounded himself with the worst kind of trust-fund sycophants. He stopped turning away women who threw themselves at him. He started replying to the late-night texts.

I gave him grace. God, I gave him so much grace.

I forgave. I waited.

But my patience only seemed to validate his recklessness. The scandals piled up.

Eventually, even my closest friend, Gemma, slipped into his orbit.

I remembered lying in a hospital bed with a severe fever from pneumonia, calling him over and over. He was at a club. On our anniversary, he showed up two hours late. Gemma was walking right beside him.

I had opened his phone that night—an accident, a notification glowing on the screen—and saw the graphic, undeniable texts between them.

For months, I felt like I was drowning in ice water.

But I couldn't let go. I knew the boy he used to be. I was stubbornly convinced he was just lost in his own grief. I was willing to wait out the storm.

At first, when we fought, he would still try to coax me back, apologizing with that old desperation.

But eventually, the apologies turned to annoyance.

He told me being with me felt like suffocating. The endless screaming matches burned away whatever warmth we had left.

I asked for space. I packed up and moved out of his penthouse.

During that time, I was still trying to save us. When I had to travel to London for a week on business, I left our golden retriever, Barnaby—the dog we had raised together for years—with Hayes.

The second I landed back in JFK, I went straight to his place to see the dog.

When I reached out to touch Barnaby's paw, the skin was smooth. The familiar scar from when he caught his leg on a fence as a puppy was gone. I called his name, and the dog just stared at me, timid and strange.

It wasn't Barnaby.

I bribed the building's concierge to let me see the security footage. That was when I saw it. Ever since I moved out, Gemma had been coming and going from Hayes's penthouse as she pleased. One afternoon, she left the front door propped open. Barnaby slipped out. He never came back.

Hayes lied to my face at first.

When I finally backed him into a corner with the truth, his patience snapped.

"Gemma didn't do it on purpose," he spat. "I bought you the exact same breed to make it right. What more do you want from me?"

I looked at him, sick to my stomach.

"We raised him together. And you think any dog can just replace him?" I whispered. "Hayes, am I just as easily replaced?"

He was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. Cruel.

"Sloane, love always ends up like this anyway. Maybe I just have my father's blood in me. I'm selfish. I can't make you happy."

"I'm done wasting your time. Let's just end it."