Wedding preparations hit full throttle, and I did what any reasonable woman drowning in a sea of tulle would do—I grabbed my best friend and used her as a life raft.
"I cannot believe this is your life now."
Brianna stood in the doorway of the bridal boutique, taking in the crystal chandeliers, the champagne station, and the army of attendants who'd materialized the moment we walked in.
“This place has a champagne station, Kitty. A station. Dedicated entirely to champagne."
"Welcome to my nightmare. It's very well-funded."
Victoria's lips thinned to approximately the width of a credit card when she spotted my "entourage" joining what she'd specifically called "family matters."
Her nostrils flared in that delicate way rich people had perfected—communicating absolute disdain while maintaining plausible deniability.
"I wasn't aware we'd invited additional guests," she said, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.
"Brianna's my bridesmaid. Bridesmaids attend dress fittings." I matched her smile with one equally dangerous. "I'm sure you remember how weddings work, Victoria. This can't be your first."
Brianna choked on air beside me. Victoria's eye twitched almost imperceptibly.
Neither of us could summon a single damn to give. Some battles aren't worth fighting. This one? Worth winning.
The fittings blurred together into an endless parade of fabric swatches, hemline debates, and Victoria's opinions delivered as though they were divine commandments.
I was shuffled between appointments like a very tired, very nauseous chess piece—emphasis on nauseous.
The pregnancy symptoms I'd been desperately hiding chose today to stage a full rebellion. Every strong perfume sent my stomach lurching. Every sudden movement made the room spin.
I smiled and nodded and tried very, very hard not to vomit on silk that cost more than my tuition.
"The ivory is too warm for her complexion," Victoria declared to a seamstress who hadn't asked. "We'll need something cooler. Perhaps the diamond white."
"The diamond white makes her look like a corpse bride," Brianna muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.
"Chic corpse bride, though," I whispered back. "Very Tim Burton."
Victoria controlled everything—fabrics, cuts, opinions, oxygen levels in the room. My input amounted to nodding when prompted and focusing very hard on keeping my breakfast where it belonged.
I was exhausted, green around the edges, and increasingly aware of the absurdity of my situation: planning an elaborate wedding to a man I barely tolerated, for a family that tolerated me even less.
This was my life now. A beautifully decorated hostage situation.
Then came the dress.
The seamstress emerged from the back carrying what looked like a cloud that had gotten lost on its way to heaven. White silk, elegantly draped, with delicate beading that caught the light like scattered stars.
She helped me into it with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts, and when I turned to face the mirror—
I didn't recognize myself.
The woman staring back looked bridal. Beautiful. Like someone who belonged in magazine spreads and romantic comedies, not bathroom hookups and contractual marriages.
The silk draped perfectly over curves I didn't know I had, the cut somehow making me look elegant instead of exhausted.
I looked like a bride, but felt like a fraud.
"Oh, Kitty." Brianna's voice came out hushed, awed. "You look…"
"Don't." I held up a hand, blinking rapidly. "If you make me cry, I'll ruin the makeup they spent forty-five minutes applying, and Victoria will have me executed."
A commotion near the entrance made us both turn. Damon was pushing past a frantic attendant, ignoring her protests about bad luck and tradition and ‘sir, please, you really can't…’
He stepped into the fitting room and froze.
His usual sardonic mask, that careful arrangement of boredom and mild contempt, slipped clean off his face. His lips parted.
His eyes went wide, then dark, tracking over me from head to hem like he was memorizing every detail.
"You look..." He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "You..."
Nothing. He couldn't finish. Couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. Just stood there, looking at me like I'd physically struck him, like I'd stolen the words right out of his throat.
My heart executed an inconvenient somersault. Possibly a full gymnastics routine. Completely unauthorized, entirely unwelcome.
"Cat got your tongue, Ashford?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "That might be a first. Should I alert the media?"
The mask slammed back into place. He smirked—that infuriating, familiar smirk. But something in his eyes hadn't quite recovered.
"Just calculating how fast you'll ruin that dress. Knowing you, I give it twenty minutes at the reception before you spill red wine on yourself."
"Knowing me, I'll spill it on you deliberately."
"At least aim for Victoria. Make it count."
"Deal."
We stared at each other across the fitting room, the air between us suddenly thick with something I didn't want to name. His voice had come out rough, scraped raw around the edges.
We both knew what he'd really meant. What he'd almost said.
Victoria materialized between us like a designer-clad specter, breaking whatever spell had momentarily possessed us both.
"Damon, your tuxedo fitting is in suite three. The tailor is waiting, and I won't have you disrupting the bride's appointments with your... presence."
She shooed him toward the door like an irritated sheepdog herding a particularly stubborn lamb.
Damon went, but not before throwing one last glance over his shoulder—a look that landed somewhere between my collarbone and my rapidly malfunctioning heart.
The door closed behind them.
Brianna practically vibrated across the room, grabbing my arm with enough force to leave marks. "What was THAT?"
"What was what?" I turned back to the mirror, adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting. "He barged in, made a sarcastic comment, and left. Standard Damon behavior."
Brianna made a sound like a teakettle reaching boiling point.
"Girl, you two were looking at each other like you were about to rip your clothes off and go at it on the floor. In front of the seamstresses. In front of me. In front of God and the champagne station."
"Don't be ridiculous." I swatted her shoulder, but my cheeks were burning. "We can barely have a civil conversation. The only thing we're ripping off each other is our heads."
"Mmhmm." She crossed her arms, unconvinced. "And that thing he did with his voice? The whole 'you look' and then couldn't finish because his brain short-circuited from how hot you are? That was hostility?"
"That was... surprise. He's never seen me in anything other than borrowed loungewear and defeat."
"That was a man who wanted to drag you into the nearest closet and express his feelings in a very physical way."
"You're delusional. It's the champagne station. The bubbles have gone to your head."
But even as I said it, I was already replaying his expression. The way his mask had crumbled. The roughness in his voice when he recovered, like he was fighting to get the words out around something lodged in his throat.
The way my stupid, traitorous heart had responded.
I didn't like what my stomach was doing about it. Not the pregnancy nausea—that I could handle. This was something worse. Something that felt dangerously like butterflies where butterflies had no business being.
Damon Ashford was not supposed to look at me like that.
And I was definitely not supposed to want him to do it again.