My grip on Christopher's forearm was tighter than intended—white-knuckled, honestly. Probably cutting off his circulation. Definitely leaving marks through his expensive suit jacket.
His hand covered mine, squeezing gently, grounding. A silent I've got you that I desperately needed.
But my attention snagged on Damon.
He waited at the altar like a man facing either his execution or his coronation—unclear which. His gaze fixed on me with an intensity that stole the breath from my lungs.
As I approached, his lips parted slightly. Admiration or surprise, I couldn't tell. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Heat flared in my chest, and I found myself caught between two fires: Damon's piercing stare ahead, Christopher's steady warmth beside me. Two brothers. Two completely different gravitational pulls.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
The aisle stretched forever and ended too soon. When we reached the altar, Christopher transferred my hand to Damon's, but he held on a beat too long. His thumb brushed across my knuckles one final time.
"Go for it," he whispered, leaning close. "Don't be afraid."
The words were meant for me, soft and encouraging. But Damon's eyes tracked the exchange like a hawk spotting movement in tall grass. His jaw tightened.
Something dangerous flickered across his expression as Christopher finally released me and took his place near Brianna—standing like a groomsman, watching like something else entirely.
The officiant began speaking. I heard approximately none of it.
My hands trembled as Damon slid the ring onto my finger—a platinum band that probably cost more than my mother's house. He noticed. I knew he did.
His thumb pressed against my palm, steadying, and our eyes met in a moment that felt far too real for a fake marriage.
When I returned the gesture, my fingers shook against his. The ring caught on his knuckle, and I fumbled, nearly dropping it. Smooth, Kitty. Very bridal.
"Breathe," Damon murmured, so quiet only I could hear. "You're doing fine."
Then came the kiss.
Damon cast a long, deliberate look at Christopher—’watch this’, before his hand curved around the back of my neck and he dipped me backward.
The kiss wasn't polite. Wasn't perfunctory. Wasn't the chaste press of lips that wedding ceremonies typically demanded.
It was deep. Lingering. Possessive in a way that sent electricity crackling down my spine.
His mouth moved against mine like he was staking a claim, like he was proving something to everyone watching—especially one person in particular.
I melted into it without thinking. Without wanting to stop. My fingers curled into his lapels, pulling him closer, squeezing every drop from the moment until thunderous applause broke the spell.
We surfaced, both breathing harder than strictly necessary. Damon's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and I suspected I looked equally wrecked.
"Wife," he said, voice rough.
"Husband," I managed.
God help us both.
The reception blurred into champagne I couldn't drink and small talk I couldn't stomach. Distant relatives of the Ashford empire approached with congratulations that felt more like assessments.
I smiled until my face ached. Nodded until my neck hurt. Pretended this was the happiest day of my life while my feet screamed in protest and my stomach churned with pregnancy nausea I was desperately hiding.
At the head table, Damon leaned close enough that his breath ghosted across my ear. "Congratulations, wifey. No turning back now. We're officially stuck in this disaster together."
"Could you, for once, not sound like this is entirely my fault?" I kept my smile fixed for the photographer circling like a well-dressed vulture. "I distinctly remember two people in that bathroom."
"Could you, for once, admit you wanted that kiss?"
His voice dropped to something dangerous, intimate, meant only for me.
"At the altar. You weren't faking that. Bet you got wet right there in front of God and everyone. Bet you'd love me to rip that tight little dress off you right now."
Heat flooded my cheeks—and lower, traitorously lower. My thighs pressed together involuntarily, and I hated that he noticed. Hated the satisfied smirk that curved his lips.
"You're disgusting," I hissed.
"And you're blushing."
I opened my mouth to fire back something devastating, something that would wipe that smug expression off his face…
"May I steal the bride for a dance?"
Christopher materialized beside the table like a well-dressed guardian angel. His expression was perfectly pleasant, perfectly polite, perfectly designed to defuse the tension crackling between Damon and me.
Damon's smirk transformed into something sharper. "Got any conscience left, buddy?" His tone aimed for sarcasm and landed closer to territorial. "Hitting on someone else's wife at her own wedding? Classy."
"It's just a dance, Damon." Christopher's voice remained level, reasonable. "Don't make a scene."
I stood before the brothers could escalate further, placing my hand in Christopher's offered one. "I'd love to dance. Damon, try not to start any fires while I'm gone."
"No promises."
On the dance floor, Christopher's hold was proper, careful—one hand at my waist, the other clasping my fingers with appropriate pressure.
Nothing inappropriate. Nothing that could be misconstrued. Just two people moving through the motions of a wedding waltz.
And yet.
"How are you holding up?" he asked softly, guiding me through a turn. "Honestly."
"Honestly?" I laughed, and it came out slightly unhinged.
"I have no idea. I just married a man I hooked up with in a bathroom. My mother is somewhere in this crowd believing I'm living a fairy tale. And I'm growing a human being that I didn't plan for. So, you know. Living the dream."
"That's fair." A pause, his thumb tracing an absent pattern against my waist. "You're doing better than you think."
"The bar is underground at this point."
"And yet you keep clearing it." His gray eyes met mine, steady and warm. "That counts for something, Kitty."
The song ended. Christopher stepped back, releasing me with appropriate formality, and I returned to the head table on legs that felt less steady than before.
Across the room, I caught Brianna's eye. She was stationed near the bar holding what appeared to be her third glass of champagne. But her entire posture screamed I'm here, I'm with you, even from over here.
A silent solidarity that made my chest ache with gratitude.
I managed a small smile back. I'm fine.
Her raised eyebrow clearly communicated: Girl, please.
Fair enough.
Damon appeared at my side, two glasses in hand. He offered me one—sparkling water with lime, I noticed. He'd remembered I couldn't drink.
"Truce?" he said, something almost soft beneath the usual sarcasm.
"Temporary ceasefire," I countered, accepting the glass. "Subject to renegotiation."
"I'll take it."
We stood side by side, watching our wedding guests mingle and drink and gossip, two people bound together by contracts and consequences and something neither of us wanted to examine too closely.
I wasn't fine. Not even close. But I was surviving.