Part 2The Pretender Loved Me More

That night, I initiated the physical closeness, holding Grant Miller in my arms until dawn. I felt the rigid tension in his body—he never relaxed, never reciprocated, but he didn't pull away either.

I woke the next morning to an empty space beside me, but Preston was standing by the bed, formally dressed.

“Up, sleepyhead.” He smiled, a forced, unfamiliar expression. “Get ready. The Old Man’s birthday party is today.”

I stretched languidly, giving a fake, husky purr. “Honey, your bones were so hard last night. You bruised my hip, I swear.”

Preston’s smile shattered. The air instantly frosted over.

The drive to the Maxwell estate was silent and tense, Preston’s face dark, his mood a brewing storm.

But the moment we walked into the grand hall, he plastered on the perfect, adoring-husband mask and squeezed my hand.

“Grandpa, happy birthday. Wishing you health and wealth!”

The Elder Maxwell was thrilled to see me and kept me at his side, chatting warmly.

The room was packed. I saw Grant Miller across the hall, the man I had slept with hours ago, and then my attention snagged on the other woman: Geneva Stone, the object of Preston’s obsession—his “soulmate.”

Geneva’s eyes found mine, and she held a look of blatant challenge and scorn. I ignored her completely, pretending to be utterly unaware of her presence.

Mid-party, I excused myself to the restroom.

Emerging from the stall, I found Geneva waiting. She walked directly toward me, and just as we were about to pass, I heard the tell-tale slosh sound.

A cascade of red wine splashed over my head, soaking my hair and the front of my dress.

“Oops, I am so sorry,” Geneva cooed, the apology sickly sweet. “My hand must have slipped. Clumsy me.”

I didn't panic. I calmly picked up the wet floor warning sign by the door, lifted it, and deliberately swung it, hitting her squarely in the face.

“Ah!” Geneva shrieked, clutching her stinging cheek. “June Reed! What the hell was that!”

I feigned confusion and post-facto apology. “Oh, goodness, my apologies! I still can’t see a thing, you know. I was just trying to feel for a railing. Did I hit you?”

Geneva was covered in wine, fury contorting her face. She raised her hand to slap me.

I lifted the sign again and swung it back at her.

“Stop it!” Two male voices barked the command simultaneously from behind.

Preston and Grant both strode toward us, followed by several staff members.

Geneva immediately crumpled into Preston’s arms, her tears turning her perfect makeup into a mess. “Preston, your wife hit me with that sign! You have to do something!”

“June, apologize now,” Preston said, his voice dangerously low.

I stumbled—or pretended to—into Grant’s embrace. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I can’t see, it was an accident. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Preston stood there, his face an angry, mottled purple.

Grant gently patted my back and lowered his voice for my ears only. “It’s fine, June. Don’t worry about it.”

I glanced up. Preston's face was dark enough to drip ink.

A spark of malicious glee shot through me. I snuggled closer to Grant’s chest, sniffing dramatically. “My clothes are completely soaked, darling. I’m freezing. Can you take me home and run a bath for me? And maybe give me a massage? My hip is killing me.”

Grant's hand, still on my back, tightened. His voice was a little rougher. “I… I think I can manage that.”

“Mother Chen!” Preston’s eyes flashed with a potent mix of displeasure and possessive rage. He cut us off with a clipped tone. “Take Mrs. Maxwell to be bathed and changed!”