Fiancé's Secret Affair Unveiled

The crystal glasses clinked as I arranged them in perfect alignment on the dining table. Tonight was special—our first official family dinner since Preston and I had announced our engagement. My father had flown in from Chicago specifically for this occasion, and Preston's parents were driving up from their estate in the Hamptons.

"Perfect timing," I murmured, adjusting the white orchids in the centerpiece. "Everything's ready."

Preston appeared behind me, his cologne—Tom Ford, always Tom Ford—reaching me before he did. "You've outdone yourself, Sara." His hands settled on my shoulders, fingers brushing my collarbone in that possessive way that once made me melt. "No one would guess you ran a board meeting this afternoon."

I turned to face him, taking in his perfectly pressed shirt and practiced smile. "Your parents will be here any minute. Is everything prepared in the kitchen?"

"Everything's under control." He kissed my forehead, but his eyes darted to his phone when it buzzed. "Just a quick message from work."

My father arrived first, bearing his usual gift of rare vintage wine. "My Sara," he said, pulling me into a bear hug that still felt like home despite my thirty-two years. "You look radiant."

"Dad, you're biased." I laughed, but secretly preened. After the hellish week I'd had closing the Harrington deal, it felt good to be appreciated.

The doorbell rang again, and Preston's parents swept in like royalty—his mother draped in pearls, his father carrying the weight of old money like armor.

"Margaret, Richard," I greeted them warmly. "Thank you for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Margaret air-kissed my cheeks, her gaze already scanning the table settings with approval. "Though we do hope you'll consider a proper wedding planner for the reception. These things require expertise."

"Dinner first," Richard boomed, clapping Preston on the shoulder. "Let's celebrate these two lovebirds properly."

The evening progressed with practiced ease. We ate, we laughed, we discussed honeymoon destinations while my father regaled everyone with stories of his latest business ventures. I felt a flush of pride watching Preston charm my father, thinking how lucky I was to have found someone who fit so seamlessly into both our worlds.

Until the doorbell rang again.

"I'll get it," I said, rising from my chair.

The woman standing in my doorway was young—too young—with wide eyes and a vulnerability that seemed rehearsed. "You must be Sara," she said, her voice breathy. "I'm Anastasia Brooks."

The name registered dimly—Preston's mentee, the struggling student he'd mentioned helping occasionally. But why was she here now?

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she continued, stepping past me without invitation. "I didn't mean to intrude on your family dinner."

Preston appeared behind me, his face draining of color. "Anastasia? What are you doing here?"

She turned to him with practiced tears in her eyes. "I didn't know where else to go."

Something cold settled in my stomach as I watched Preston's expression shift from shock to something that looked disturbingly like guilt.

"Come in," he said