My feet had officially filed for divorce from the rest of my body, and honestly, I couldn't blame them.
I collapsed onto a settee in one of the estate's approximately seventeen sitting rooms and pressed my phone to my ear like a lifeline.
"Bri, I'm dying. Actually dying. This is my death call. Victoria made me wear four-inch heels for eight hours straight."
I kicked off the offending shoes, watching them tumble across the antique rug with deep satisfaction.
"Four inches, Bri. For eight hours. I think my toes have developed their own trauma responses. They're going to need individual therapy. Possibly a support group."
"Did you at least get to eat fancy food while your feet were staging a revolution?"
"I tasted fourteen different appetizer options, none of which I got to actually finish because Victoria kept whisking me to the next appointment like I was a particularly reluctant shopping cart."
I wiggled my toes experimentally. Two of them didn't respond. Concerning. "The woman is a machine. A terrifying, well-dressed machine powered by spite and whatever expensive serum she injects into her cheekbones."
Brianna's laugh crackled through the phone, and something in my chest loosened. This, her voice, her humor, the complete lack of judgment, was the only normal thing left in my increasingly abnormal life.
"So," she drawled, and I could hear her grin, "am I invited to this circus, or do I have to crash it? Because I've never crashed a billionaire wedding before, and I feel like that should be on my bucket list."
"You're not just invited, you're conscripted. I need a bridesmaid, Bri"
The words came out fast, desperate.
"I cannot survive this bacchanalia alone. These people will eat me alive, elegantly, with the correct fork, and I need at least one person there who actually likes me."
"Baby, I don't just like you. I'd commit light treason for you." Her voice softened. "Of course I'll be there. Someone has to make sure you don't murder your future stepmother-in-law at the altar."
"No promises. Victoria's survival depends entirely on her behavior between now and…"
Movement in my peripheral vision made me pause. Christopher stood in the doorway, looking unfairly put-together in a casual button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His expression was politely questioning, like he'd stumbled upon something private and was offering me an out.
"Hey, I have to go," I told Brianna, already sitting up straighter. "Wedding planning emergency. Possibly another hostage situation disguised as a cake tasting."
"Uh-huh." Her tone dripped with knowing amusement. "Is this 'emergency' tall, dark, and not the brother you're marrying?"
"Goodbye, Brianna."
"Use protection! Emotional protection! Guard your heart, you disaster bisexual—"
I hung up before she could finish, my cheeks warming in a way that had nothing to do with the phone call and everything to do with the man now stepping into the room.
I told myself I ended the call because it was polite. Common courtesy. Nothing to do with the fact that spending time with beautiful men was apparently my new coping mechanism.
And the fact that Damon and I could barely stand to be in the same room? Well, that only made Christopher's steady calm more appealing. He was the eye of the hurricane, the silence after thunder, the…
"Rough day?" Christopher's voice cut through my increasingly problematic internal monologue.
"What gave it away? The fetal position or the abandoned shoes?"
"Both, actually." He nodded toward the heels lying defeated on the rug. "Those look painful."
"They're instruments of torture disguised as fashion. Victoria's favorite kind of accessory." I stretched my feet out, groaning. "I'm pretty sure she was trying to break me through podiatric warfare."
"That does sound like her strategy."
He moved further into the room, hands in his pockets, somehow making casual look like an art form. "Would you like to take a walk? The grounds are more forgiving than Victoria's schedule, and the fresh air might help."
A walk. With Christopher. Alone.
My brain supplied several reasons this was a bad idea, but my aching body was already standing up. "Lead the way. But if there are any more stairs, I'm suing someone."
We wandered the estate grounds as the late afternoon sun painted everything gold, falling into conversation with an ease that surprised me.
Christopher asked about my studies at Stern, my career ambitions, the internship I'd lost—treating me like a person with a future rather than a problem requiring management.
"Finance, then," he said, guiding us along a path lined with hedges sculpted into shapes that probably had their own Wikipedia entries. "That's ambitious. Especially coming from…" He stopped, looking uncomfortable.
"From nothing?" I supplied. "It's fine. I know where I come from. That's kind of the point—knowing where you started makes you appreciate where you're going."
"That's... remarkably well-adjusted."
"Don't let it fool you. I'm held together by caffeine and spite."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. Progress. "You're not what I expected," he admitted.
"What did you expect?" I tilted my head, studying him. "A scheming harpy in heels? A gold-digger with a baby bump and a business plan?"
"Something like that," he confessed, and this time the almost-smile became the real thing.
It transformed his face, softened all those sharp, serious edges. "I expected someone calculating. Someone who saw an opportunity and seized it."
"Oh, I definitely saw an opportunity. The opportunity to ruin my entire life plan with a single drunken decision."
I laughed, but it came out more honest than I intended. "Trust me, there was no scheming involved. Just spectacular stupidity and a bathroom with a really questionable lock."
Christopher actually chuckled at that—a low, warm sound that did something complicated to my chest. "My brother has a talent for inspiring spectacular stupidity in others. It's almost a gift."
"A gift he should consider returning."
We walked in comfortable silence after that, the tension of the past weeks loosening with each step. By the time we circled back to the house, the sun had begun its descent, and I felt almost human again.
Later that evening, I'd curled up in the same sitting room with a book I wasn't really reading when Christopher appeared again.
He carried a cup and saucer, delicate porcelain that probably cost more than my textbooks, and set it on the table beside me.
"Chamomile with honey," he said simply. "You mentioned it was your preference."
I stared at the tea, then at him. He'd noticed. In the chaos of appointments and tastings and Victoria's endless demands, he'd noticed how I took my tea. Such a small thing. Such a massive thing.
"Thank you." The words came out softer than I intended. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to." He handed me the cup, and our fingers brushed during the exchange.
Neither of us pulled away immediately.
The moment stretched between us—warm porcelain, warm skin, something warm building in the space where our hands nearly touched.
Christopher's gray eyes held mine, and I forgot, briefly, that I was engaged to his brother. Forgot the contract and the baby and the impossible situation I'd signed myself into.
Then he stepped back, clearing his throat, and the spell broke.
"Goodnight, Kitty."
"Goodnight, Christopher."
He left, and I clutched the teacup like an anchor, trying to steady my suddenly racing heart.
From the doorway across the hall, a shadow shifted. Victoria stepped into the light just long enough for me to catch her expression, sharp, knowing, calculating, before she disappeared down the corridor.
She'd seen everything.
And something told me she was already planning how to use it.