Preston appeared in the bedroom doorway with hair damp from sweat, shirt half untucked, face hollowed by fury and bourbon. He looked like a man whose collapse had outrun his vanity. In one hand he held a folder torn from the evidence wall downstairs. Papers trailed behind him like feathers.
“You watched me,” he said.
Vivien kept her voice even. “You need to leave.”
“For five years.” He stepped into the room. “Monitors. ledgers. files. Like I was some lab rat.”
“You’re violating bail. Police are coming.”
“You made me this way.”
It was almost impressive, the speed with which men like Preston can build themselves a sanctuary out of blame even while standing in the rubble they created.
“I was a good man,” he said, voice rising. “You dangled all of it in front of me. The money, the status, the deals. Then you punished me for taking it.”
Vivien felt fear, yes. But underneath it something colder had finally replaced shame.
“You were cruel before you knew my net worth,” she said. “Money didn’t make you dishonest. It just made the consequences bigger.”
He moved closer.