Chapter 13 - THE EX WHO FINALLY TOLD THE TRUTH
Preston Hayes looked nothing like the man who humiliated me at the Obsidian Club.
His expensive suit was wrinkled.
His blond hair was disheveled.
His face was pale.
When investigators brought him into the interview room, he refused to look at me.
I stood behind the observation window beside Roman.
For three years, I'd dreamed of confronting Preston.
I'd imagined screaming.
Crying.
Demanding answers.
Now all I wanted was my father home.
The detective sat opposite him.
"Where is Henry Whitmore?"
Preston swallowed.
"He's at the medical center. I brought him there because Victoria ordered me to."
"Is he safe?"
"He's alive. The doctors are with him."
The detective leaned forward.
"Why did you help remove him from St. Catherine's?"
Preston looked down.
"Because my mother told me Henry was going to destroy our family."
I stared.
He continued.
"She said Sloan's father had stolen company assets."
The detective raised an eyebrow.
"Did you believe her?"
Preston hesitated.
"At first."
"And later?"
He closed his eyes.
"I discovered the documents were forged."
My stomach twisted.
"Then why didn't you stop?"
Preston's voice cracked.
"Because by then, I'd already taken everything from Sloan."
I felt tears burn.
He knew.
He knew the truth.
And he kept going.
The detective asked:
"Why did you humiliate her at the nightclub?"
Preston stared at the table.
"Because I hated that she could still look at me without begging."
My breath caught.
He continued.
"I had money. Power. Everything my mother told me mattered."
His voice broke.
"But Sloan wouldn't come back."
The detective remained silent.
Preston wiped his face.
"So I tried to make her feel small."
I turned away.
There it was.
The truth.
No tragic misunderstanding.
No excuse.
He had hurt me because he wanted control.
Later, Preston agreed to testify against Victoria and Charles.
He provided financial records.
Communications.
And information about the hidden medical facilities.
But he still faced legal consequences for his own actions.
I didn't forgive him that day.
I didn't owe him forgiveness.
I only wanted justice.
Then investigators recovered my father from the medical center.
When I entered his hospital room, he turned toward me.
His eyes filled with tears.
"Sloan."
His voice was weak.
But clear enough.
I ran to him.
"Dad."
He lifted his hand.
I held it tightly.
"I'm here."
He struggled to speak.
"Sorry."
I shook my head.
"No. Don't apologize."
He looked at me.
Then slowly whispered:
"Your mother..."
My chest tightened.
"What about Mom?"
He swallowed.
"Left something."
I leaned closer.
"What?"
His lips trembled.
May you like
Then he whispered:
"The house. Beneath the stairs."
