I Was The Fake Heiress—Then Found Real Heir Was My Ex Chapter 02
The Man in the Storage Room
The next morning, I announced I was moving out.
My mother dropped her coffee.
My father nearly choked on toast.
Simon simply said, “No.”
I looked at him across the breakfast table.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“You’re not leaving.”
“You wanted me gone yesterday.”
His fork stopped.
My mother suddenly became very interested in her tea.
I smiled sweetly.
“And didn’t you want my room cleared?”
Simon went pale.
“For storage?”
My father covered his mouth.
Simon put down his fork.
“I misspoke.”
“You specifically said clear it.”
“I meant my room.”
Silence.
I blinked.
Simon nodded solemnly.
“I want the storage room.”
My mother stared at him.
“The storage room?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t have proper windows.”
“I dislike windows.”
“You told us you wanted the east guest suite.”
“I changed my mind.”
I folded my arms.
“Yesterday you said seeing my things would make everyone uncomfortable.”
Simon looked directly at me.
“I was talking about myself.”
“Simon.”
“I find large rooms emotionally unsafe.”
My father turned away.
His shoulders were shaking.
He was laughing.
I kicked Simon under the table.
He looked relieved.
Apparently being kicked counted as forgiveness.
After breakfast, my mother cornered me in the hall.
“Were you really dating him?”
“No.”
“Daphne.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Eight months.”
“Did you love him?”
I grabbed an apple.
“Define love.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Did you sleep with him?”
I nearly dropped the apple.
“Mother.”
She smiled.
“So that’s a yes.”
I escaped before she could ask anything worse.
My phone buzzed five minutes later.
Preston Whitmore.
My fiancé.
Technically, former fiancé.
Our engagement had been arranged when I was nineteen.
There had never been romance between us.
Just two old families combining assets while calling it tradition.
His message was short.
We need to discuss the engagement.
We met at The Pierre for lunch.
Preston arrived twelve minutes late and didn’t apologize.
That told me exactly how the conversation would go.
He sat down.
“Daphne.”
“Preston.”
“I assume you know why we’re here.”
“You’re pregnant?”
His face tightened.
I smiled.
“My parents and I have discussed your situation.”
“My situation.”
“You’re not an Ashford by blood.”
There it was.
I took a sip of water.
“And?”
“Our engagement was built around certain expectations.”
“Money.”
“Family alignment.”
“Money.”
“Legacy.”
“Money.”
He glared.
“I think ending the engagement is best.”
“Great.”
He paused.
Clearly, he had expected tears.
Maybe begging.
I picked up my bag.
“Send the papers to my attorney.”
“Wait.”
I sat back down.
Preston leaned closer.
“My mother did say she wouldn’t object if we continued seeing each other privately.”
For three seconds, I thought I had misunderstood him.
“Privately?”
“You understand.”
Unfortunately, I did.
He wanted to marry a real heiress.
But keep me as a mistress.
I stared at him.
“Your mother sounds progressive.”
Preston smiled, missing the insult.
“She likes you.”
“How touching.”
“I can still take care of you.”
Something cold splashed across his face.
Preston jerked back.
I looked up.
Simon stood beside our table holding an empty water glass.
His expression was glacial.
“Sorry.”
He did not sound sorry.
Preston wiped his face.
“What the hell?”
Simon pulled out the chair beside me.
Sat.
Then calmly took my dessert fork and ate a piece of my cake.
I frowned.
“That was mine.”
“I’ll order another.”
Preston stared between us.
“Who is this?”
Simon looked at me.
“Who is he?”
“My ex-fiancé.”
Simon’s expression became terrifyingly still.
“Ex?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“About four minutes ago.”
His shoulders relaxed.
Preston slammed a napkin onto the table.
“Daphne, are you seriously sleeping with someone else while we were engaged?”
Simon looked at him.
“Careful.”
Preston laughed.
“Who are you supposed to be?”
Simon didn’t answer.
He reached down and touched my knee where I had knocked it against the table earlier.
“You’re bruised.”
“I’m fine.”
“You bruise easily.”
Preston’s face changed.
“So this is him.”
I sighed.
“What?”
“The man everyone’s been talking about.”
“No one has been talking about him.”
“They will now.”
He stood.
“Fake heiress. Broken engagement. Secret lover.”
His smile was ugly.
“Quite the fall, Daphne.”
Simon rose slowly.
For the first time, Preston seemed to notice how much larger he was.
Simon’s voice dropped.
“She said the engagement is over.”
Preston scoffed.
“And who are you to interfere?”
Simon smiled.
It wasn’t a nice smile.
“Someone you should stop irritating.”
By the time we left, my phone was already exploding.
Upper East Side gossip moved faster than federal intelligence.
Fake Ashford heiress dumped.
Whitmore engagement canceled.
Mystery man spotted with Daphne Ashford.
One message asked if I was available for an interview.
I shut my phone off.
Simon drove.
After several minutes, he said, “You were engaged.”
“Technically.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
“I proposed to an engaged woman.”
“Yes.”
He looked personally betrayed by the universe.
“Daphne.”
“It was arranged.”
“That does not make me feel better.”
I looked out the window.
“The Ashford homecoming gala is Friday.”
Simon glanced at me.
“Yes.”
“Preston thinks you’re my unemployed rebound.”
For the first time all day, Simon smiled.
A slow, dangerous smile.
I immediately regretted telling him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Simon.”
He looked back at the road.
“I think Friday will be interesting.”
That was exactly what I was afraid of.