I'd been crying in the garden for twenty minutes, which was nineteen minutes longer than I'd ever allowed myself to cry about anything.
Kitty Morrow didn't cry. Kitty Morrow strategized. Kitty Morrow made plans and executed them with ruthless efficiency.
Kitty Morrow did not sit in ornamental rose bushes with mascara running down her face like a raccoon going through a divorce.
And yet.
The floodgates had opened, and I couldn't stop them. Arnold's contract. Damon's distance. The very real possibility that I was about to lose my daughter to people who viewed children as assets rather than humans.
It was all crashing down at once, a tsunami of consequences for decisions I'd made when I was too desperate to think straight.
Eleanor. My Eleanor. The tiny human I hadn't wanted, hadn't planned for, hadn't thought I could love—and now couldn't imagine living without.
They were going to take her from me. Legally. Completely. And I'd handed them the weapon to do it.
"Kitty?"
Christopher's voice cut through my spiral. I looked up to find him standing at the edge of the garden path, concern written across his features.
I must have looked like a disaster—mascara-streaked, hiccupping, nothing like the sharp-tongued woman who'd marched into the Ashford estate months ago ready to fight.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't offer platitudes or empty comfort.
Just extended his hand and said, "Come on. Let's get out of here."
I should have said no.
Should have gone back inside, found Damon, demanded answers about the contract, about his father's plans, about whether our marriage had ever been anything more than a business arrangement with benefits.
Instead, I took his hand.
We drove in silence, the estate shrinking in the rearview mirror like a bad dream I was finally waking from. Christopher's hands were steady on the wheel, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
He pulled into a secluded overlook—the kind of place teenagers went to make mistakes. Appropriate, really. I was about to make a spectacular one.
"Talk to me," he said quietly, turning off the engine. "What happened?"
And then I broke.
Everything spilled out in a torrent of words and tears. The contract I'd stupidly signed without reading. The custody clause that gave me no rights to my own daughter.
Arnold's plans to discard me like used packaging once the divorce went through. Victoria's satisfied smile as she watched my world collapse.
"He's going to take her, Chris."
My voice cracked on his name.
"He's going to take Eleanor, and there's nothing I can do. I signed away my rights before she even existed, because I was broke and scared and stupid enough to trust that the fine print didn't matter."
"We'll find a way to fight it."
"With what? My extensive legal team?" I laughed bitterly. "I have nothing. No money, no resources, no leverage. Arnold made sure of that before I ever walked through his door."
Christopher's hand found mine, squeezing gently. "You have me."
"Do I?" I turned to look at him, really look, searching for something I desperately needed to find. "Because I'm starting to think I never had anyone. Not really."
"What do you mean?"
"Damon." The name tasted bitter. "I thought, after Eleanor was born, in the hospital, I thought maybe we were becoming something real. But he's been pulling away ever since. Disappearing. Avoiding me."
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "I'm just a competition to him, aren't I? The Stephanie thing, all over again, except I'm the idiot who caught feelings."
Christopher went very still.
"He didn't want me," I continued, the words tumbling out like poison I needed to expel. "He wanted to win. To prove something to you, to himself, to your father. I was never the point. I was just the prize."
"Kitty, that's not…"
"Isn't it?" I turned to face him fully. "You've been here. You've been present and steady and actually seeing me as a person. And Damon's been…" My voice broke. "He's been treating me like a problem he's already solved."
Christopher's gray eyes searched my face. His hand was still holding mine, warm and solid and real.
"You deserve better," he said quietly. "You've always deserved better."
One moment we were sitting in heavy silence, and the next I kissed him with all the hunger I had.
Not gently, not tentatively—I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward me, crushing my mouth against his like he was the only thing keeping me from drowning.
Christopher froze for a heartbeat, his hands hovering uncertainly at my sides.
"Kitty, we can't."
"He doesn't want me."
I kissed him again, harder, my fingers already working his buttons.
"Damon doesn't care, he's made that perfectly clear. You're not betraying anyone, Chris. You can't steal something that's already been thrown away"
His resolve crumbled. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me down against him as his mouth finally responded to mine with all the hunger he'd been suppressing.
We tumbled into the backseat in a tangle of limbs and desperation, my elbow hitting the door handle, his knee catching the seat belt buckle—none of it mattered.
"I've wanted this," he groaned against my throat, fingers fumbling with my zipper. "I've wanted you for so long."
"Then take me."
My skirt bunched around my waist. His hands found the edge of my underwear and yanked them aside.
I freed him from his trousers, wrapping my hand around his length, hard, hot, straining toward me, and positioned him at my entrance.
When I sank down onto him, we both moaned.
"Fuck," Christopher breathed, his head falling back against the seat. "You feel… God, Kitty."
I rolled my hips, taking him deeper, and his fingers dug into my thighs hard enough to bruise. The angle was awkward, the space too cramped, but I didn't care.
I rode him with a desperate hunger, chasing something I couldn't name—connection, validation, proof that someone wanted me.
"Look at me," he demanded, gripping my chin. "I need to see you."
I opened my eyes and met his gaze—gray and intense and burning with something that made my chest ache.
He thrust up into me, hitting a spot that made me gasp, and I braced my hands on his shoulders as we found a rhythm together.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, one hand sliding between us to find my clit. "So fucking beautiful. He's an idiot for not—"
"Don't talk about him." I kissed him to silence whatever he was about to say, grinding down harder. "Just this. Just us. Just—oh god."
His thumb circled my clit with devastating precision while he thrust into me from below, and I shattered around him with a cry I couldn't contain.
He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning my name like a prayer.
Afterward, we sat in heavy silence. Clothes hastily rearranged. Windows fogged. The weight of what had just happened settling over us like ash after a fire.
We drove back to the estate without speaking. The silence wasn't comfortable—it was suffocating, filled with everything we couldn't say and shouldn't have done.
When we pulled into the driveway, the house loomed before us like a judge waiting to deliver a verdict. Somewhere inside was Damon. Not knowing. Not yet.
I opened the car door before Christopher could say anything else.
"This didn't happen," I said, not looking at him.
"Kitty."
"I mean it, Chris. This stays between us. Forever."
I didn't wait for his response.
Just walked toward the house on unsteady legs, praying that the servants wouldn't notice my disheveled hair, my swollen lips, the guilt I was certain was written across my face in neon letters.