Fiancé's Secret Affair Unveiled

I didn't sleep that night. The confrontation with Anastasia replayed in my mind like a broken record—her tearful request, Preston's anger, the way his parents had exchanged glances. Something wasn't right, and my business instincts screamed it louder than ever.

The next morning, I waited until Preston left for work before I began my investigation. I needed facts, not accusations.

"Marcus," I called my business partner, "can you pull the financial records from the joint account Preston and I set up last quarter?"

"Everything okay?" Marcus asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Fine," I lied. "Just need to verify some charitable donations."

Two hours later, I spread the printed statements across my home office desk. My training in forensic accounting—a skill I'd acquired during a particularly nasty corporate takeover—kicked in as I searched for discrepancies.

There—a charge from Cartier three weeks ago. $6,500. The receipt showed a limited edition bracelet, the same one I'd been eyeing for months. The same one Preston had claimed was sold out when I'd mentioned wanting it for my birthday.

My fingers trembled slightly as I called the store.

"May I inquire about the purchaser of this item?" I asked, keeping my voice professional.

"Certainly, Ms. Elliott. The recipient was listed as... let me check... Anastasia Brooks."

I thanked them and hung up, staring at the wall. The bracelet I'd wanted for months—the one that would have cost him nothing to give me—had gone to her instead.

I continued digging, finding restaurant charges at places Preston claimed to have been working late, hotel rooms booked during his "business trips." Each discovery was another small betrayal, another lie carefully constructed.

By evening, I had a folder thick with evidence. I was reviewing it when Preston texted about dinner plans.

"Can't make it tonight," I replied. "Working late."

He didn't question it.

---

Three days later, I was reviewing quarterly reports when Marcus knocked on my office door.

"You look terrible," he said bluntly, closing the door behind him.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." He sat across from me. "This is about Preston, isn't it?"

I hesitated, then nodded. "I think he's been lying to me."

Marcus didn't look surprised. "What do you need?"

"Just a friend right now." I rubbed my temples. "Someone who won't judge."

"I'm here," he said simply.

That evening, I decided to confront Preston about the bracelet. I found him in our bedroom, adjusting his tie.

"You bought Anastasia a Cartier bracelet," I said without preamble.

His hands stilled. "How did you—"

"It doesn't matter how I know." I kept my voice steady. "What matters is that you lied about it being sold out when I wanted it."

Preston's face hardened. "It was an appreciation gift for her academic progress."

"Academic progress?" I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Since when does academic progress warrant a six-thousand-dollar bracelet?"

"Don't be petty, Sara." His tone was dismissive. "She's a struggling student. I was helping her feel valued."

"By giving her something I wanted?" My voice finally cracked. "Something you told me I couldn't have?"

Before he could answer, his phone rang. He glanced at it, then back at me.

"I need to take this."

I watched as his expression changed completely when he answered. "Anastasia? What's wrong?"

His eyes darted to me, then away. "Slow down. Tell me what's happening."

I stood perfectly still, watching as the blood drained from his face.

"No, don't do anything stupid," he said urgently. "Where are you?"

Another pause.

"The rooftop of your apartment building? Anastasia, that's crazy—"

My stomach dropped as I realized what was happening.

"I'm coming over," Preston said firmly. "Don't move."

He ended the call, already reaching for his jacket.

"What's going on?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Anastasia is threatening to jump from her building's roof," he said, not meeting my eyes. "I need to go."

"We have the Harrington dinner in thirty minutes," I reminded him. "The one we've been planning for weeks."

His jaw tightened. "Cancel it. This is an emergency."

"Preston—"

"She's suicidal, Sara!" he snapped. "What kind of person would I be if I abandoned her?"

The irony of his words hit me like a physical blow.

"What kind of person would you be if you abandoned our business commitments?" I countered.

He didn't answer, just grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

"Preston," I called after him. "Is she really on a rooftop?"

He paused, his back to me. For a moment, I thought he might confess something.

Instead, he said, "Yes. And if anything happens to her, it'll be on your conscience for not understanding."

The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow felt louder than a slam.

I stood alone in our bedroom, staring at the door, the truth settling over me like a cold shroud.