I Chose His Rival Blind Chapter 2

The box was wrapped in heavy, metallic foil. The sharp corner caught my jawline before clattering to the floor.

A collective gasp rippled through the surrounding tables, but not a single person dared to intervene.

I raised a hand to my chin. When I pulled my fingers back, my skin was smeared with bright, warm red.

Looking at Preston Sinclair now, he felt like a stranger. Or rather, he felt exactly like the monster from my past life, the man who had publicly degraded me to elevate Harper time and time again.

The last remaining embers of my childhood affection for him turned to ash.

"I will not apologize for something I didn't do," I said, my voice eerily quiet, steady as a flatline.

"Fine. Don't come crying to me when you regret this!"

Preston wrapped his arm protectively around Harper and stormed out of the ballroom.

When my parents saw the cut on my face, they were frantic. We left immediately, and my mother had our private physician meet us at the penthouse to treat it.

Sitting in my dressing room, watching my parents hover anxiously over me, a profound sense of gratitude washed over me.

Thank God. The universe had given me a reset button. My parents were alive. The Kensington legacy was intact. All I had to do was stay as far away from Preston Sinclair and Harper Quinn as humanly possible.

A few days later, the Davenport family's engagement gifts arrived. The sprawling foyer of our estate was quickly buried in impeccably sourced treasures—rare art, deeds to properties, and at the center of it all, a velvet case containing a breathtaking diamond and emerald bracelet that had belonged to Miles’s great-grandmother. The sheer weight of the gifts was a declaration of absolute respect.

Looking at the boxes, a painful lump formed in my throat.

In my past life, the Sinclair family knew how desperately I loved Preston. They weaponized it. They told the press that they found me overbearing, that I was practically forcing their son to the altar. There was no engagement party. There was no dowry. The wedding was a sterile, rushed dinner between the two families.

I remembered Preston’s parents mocking me thinly over the soup course. I remembered Preston’s icy silence. Seeing the Davenports' overwhelming respect now only cemented my relief.

To show my own respect, I decided to personally arrange Miles’s engagement attire.

I was in a private, century-old bespoke tailoring house on Fifth Avenue, leaning over a heavy oak table with the master tailor to finalize the embroidery on the French cuffs.

The bell chimed. Preston walked in, his fingers intertwined with Harper’s.

The moment he saw me, his features hardened into a sneer. "What are you doing here?"

The elderly tailor offered a polite smile. "Miss Kensington is being incredibly thoughtful. She’s personally designing the groom’s suit for the engagement."

Preston didn't even look at the sketches. He tilted his chin up, exhaling a haughty breath.

"I told you I have no intention of marrying you. I don't care how many hoops you jump through, my mind won't change." He glanced dismissively at the table. "And for the record, I despise monogrammed cufflinks. It’s tacky."

I looked down at the sketch. The silver cufflink bore a sharp, elegant 'M'. He obviously hadn't looked closely enough.

"Actually, these are for—"

"Oh, Preston, look at this gown! It’s breathtaking."

Harper’s eyes were wide. She brushed past me, her fingers tracing the delicate, beaded bodice of a vintage, archive-scarlet silk gown hanging on the display form.

Preston’s face instantly softened. "If you like it, we’ll have the tailor make one exactly like it for you."

"But I want to wear it tonight," she pouted slightly, her voice dipping into a honeyed whine. "To the symphony."

Preston smiled indulgently at her, then turned to the master tailor with an entitled snap of his fingers.

"Take her measurements and alter it immediately. We have a show to catch."

I frowned, stepping forward. "Preston, that is my engagement gown."

He waved me off like a nuisance. "I’m a busy man, Stella. I don't have time to play dress-up for whatever pathetic gala your family is throwing to force my hand." His eyes dragged up and down my frame. "Besides, Harper has the figure for a dress like that. You don't."

Harper kept her back to me, staring at herself in the mirror. The triumphant gleam in her reflection was unmistakable.

Yet, her voice dripped with fake guilt. "Oh, if Miss Kensington doesn't want to part with it, it’s fine, Preston. A dress this luxurious... it really isn't meant for a nobody like me."

"Don't talk about yourself like that. The woman I love is no nobody," Preston snapped, shooting me a venomous look. "Stella is nothing without her parents' money anyway. Without her trust fund, she’s as common as they come."

Without asking, he pulled the heavy silk gown off the mannequin and shoved it into the tailor’s arms.

The master tailor didn't move. He simply looked at me, waiting for my instruction. His family had been dressing the Kensington men and women for five generations; we practically kept the shop in business.

Seeing the tailor ignore him made Preston’s face flush with sudden, defensive rage. "Listen to me, you—"

"If Miss Quinn likes it so much, let her have it."

I cut him off, my voice entirely flat.

Preston exhaled, his posture relaxing slightly into a smug stance.

"Since you’re finally learning how to behave," he said, adjusting his watch, "I suppose I can tolerate having dinner with you once a month after the wedding."

He said it like he was tossing a scrap of meat to a starving dog.

And in that precise moment, standing in the quiet tailoring shop, the puzzle pieces finally clicked together.

I finally understood why, years ago, his attitude toward me had shifted so drastically. It happened the summer he realized the Kensington family sat at the absolute pinnacle of high society, while the Sinclairs were barely clinging to the bottom of the top twenty.

When I was young and foolishly in love, I didn't care about social rankings. I didn't measure human worth in stock portfolios.

But he did. From that summer on, he constantly brought up "my family's money." He relentlessly reminded me that I relied on my parents. He belittled me, mocked me, and weaponized my love for him just to tear me down.

It wasn't that he was too good for me.

It was that he felt hopelessly, suffocatingly inferior.

A quiet, genuine laugh slipped from my lips.

"Preston," I said, tilting my head. "What on earth makes you so incredibly certain that you are the man I’m marrying?"