Three Reasons to Leave

Chapter 2

Audrey's POV

Preston looked like a kid on Christmas morning, oblivious to the tension choking the air between us.

"Gentlemen, I can't tell you what an honor it is to finally have the Apex Syndicate in my private home," he said, practically glowing as he gestured around the grand living room. "These three control the largest private equity portfolio on the East Coast, Audrey. We're talking billions in liquid capital."

I stood frozen near the hallway entrance, my hands shoved deep into the oversized sleeves of my faded college shirt. None of them had broken eye contact with me since I walked in.

"Audrey, don't just stand there looking like a ghost," Preston barked, waving an impatient hand at me. "Go make some fresh coffee and make our guests comfortable. Show them some proper hospitality."

Before anyone could say a word, Preston's phone vibrated loudly in his suit pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and his face instantly straightened.

"Excuse me for five minutes, gentlemen," he said, backing out of the room toward his private study. "My overseas broker. I have to take this."

The door of his study clicked shut, and the room went dead silent.

Just like that, I was trapped alone with the three people I had spent seven years running from.

Jude adjusted his dark suit jacket, leaning his shoulder against the marble fireplace mantel. That thin white scar above his eyebrow crinkled slightly as his cold eyes scanned my face.

"Tell me, Audie," Jude murmured, his voice deeper than I remembered. "Do you still bite your bottom lip when you're caught in a lie?"

Yes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I shot back, my heart pounding so hard against my ribs I was sure they could hear it.

Asher threw his head back against the velvet sofa and let out a loud, teasing laugh.

"Still lying, still biting," Asher smirked, his dark eyes sparkling with that same arrogant mischief from back then. "You've been chewing on that poor lip since you dragged your feet into this living room."

Fuck.

"Get out of my house," I whispered, stepping toward the coffee table to grab the empty porcelain cups Preston had left out earlier.

My fingers were trembling so badly that the porcelain rattled against the tray.

As I reached across the table to pick up the teapot, my oversized sleeve slid back an inch, exposing the faint yellowish bruise Preston had left around my right wrist when he yanked me away from his office door.

Across from me, Tristan went still.

The silver antique coin he had been rhythmically rolling over his knuckles stopped dead in its tracks, resting flat against his palm.

His gray eyes shifted from the tea set down to the mark on my skin. The playful smirk on his face vanished, replaced by a cold, deadly stillness that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

I yanked my sleeve down instantly, pulling the frayed cuff over my knuckles and tucking my arm behind my back.

Preston bustled back into the room a minute later, apologizing loudly for the interruption and demanding we all sit down for an early dinner in the formal dining room.

The meal was torture, an uncomfortable mess of buried history colliding with the distance.

Preston spent the entire time talking about himself, boasting about his company's expansion plans and trying desperately to impress them. The three of them barely paid him any attention; their eyes were on me with every bite I took.

I was staring down at my untouched roast chicken when Asher suddenly reached his fork straight across the table and stabbed a roasted potato off my plate without asking.

He popped it into his mouth with that infuriating, shameless grin he always had whenever he stole my fries in the university dining hall.

Without even thinking, my old muscle memory took over. I slapped the back of his hand away with a loud smack, exactly the way I used to do seven years ago.

"Keep your hands on your own plate, Ash," I snapped automatically.

The words left my mouth before my brain could stop them.

The table went quiet for a split second, and then Asher chuckled, a low, genuine sound that seemed to break the ice. Jude smiled, a real smile that softened the harsh lines of his face, and even Tristan let out a quiet, amused breath through his nose.

For one fleeting second, the suffocating weight in the room lifted, and they looked just like the three boys I used to sit with on the grass between classes, laughing until our stomachs hurt.

The memory hit me with such an ache in my chest that I had to look away.

"We are running low on salt," Preston muttered, oblivious to the exchange as he waved his napkin.

"It's already seasoned to the bone," I replied under my breath, clearing a plate.

Jude tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he caught the phrase.

"Seasoned to the bone," Jude repeated softly, tapping his wine glass. "The old lake house. You burned the trout on the grill and said that exact same thing to convince us it was edible."

"She still says it with that weird emphasis on the bone," Asher muttered, leaning his chin in his hand as he watched me. "Some habits die hard."

My throat tightened, the ghosts of our past crowding the room so heavily I could barely swallow.

Preston excused himself to go to the cellar to pull out a rare bottle of scotch, leaving us in silence once more.

I leaned over the table, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. "Why are you here? If you hate me so much for leaving, why did you come back?"

None of them answered me.

Asher looked at his water glass. Jude stared at the doorway where Preston had disappeared.

Tristan slowly turned his head toward me, his intense gaze dropping straight to the diamond wedding band on my left finger. He said nothing, but the silence spoke louder than words ever could.

The moment Preston returned with the wine, I excused myself and bolted straight to the bathroom down the hall, locking the brass deadbolt behind me.

I leaned over the sink, splashing cold water against my burning face, my hands trembling as I tried to calm my racing pulse.

My phone buzzed in the pocket of my sweatpants with a notification.

I pulled it out, expecting an automated alert or an email from the nursing home.

Instead, a photograph opened on the screen.

It was a picture of me taken last night, passed out in the dark corner booth of Drink & Think, my cheek pressed against the sticky vinyl and my hair falling messily across my face.

A text message appeared underneath:

You still sleep with your mouth open when you're drunk, by the way.

My heart stopped dead in my chest.

Before I could even process the image, another message popped up on the screen:

We didn't come here for Preston.

My fingers went cold, hovering over the glass screen.

Then a video file loaded right beneath the text.

I tapped play, my breath catching in my throat as the footage began.

It was security camera footage of a hotel downtown, dated three nights ago. Preston was walking through the revolving glass doors with his arm tightly wrapped around the waist of the same brunette woman I had caught in our master shower earlier.

The timestamp in the corner proved it happened days before my flight was even scheduled to return.

To think they knew about Preston's affair long before I ever found that red thong in my bathroom…

My hands shook violently, the phone rattling against the marble vanity.

A final message popped up from Tristan's private number:

And before you ask—yes, we were at the bar last night. You weren't imagining us.