The foyer was mercifully empty when I slipped through the front door.
Small victories.
I'd take them where I could get them, considering my current situation involved sex-tangled hair, a twisted skirt, and the kind of guilt that probably required its own zip code.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and immediately wished I hadn't. Mascara had migrated to places mascara should never go. My lips were swollen in a way that screamed "bad decisions were made."
And was that—yes, that was definitely a hickey forming on my collarbone.
Fantastic. Gold star for subtlety, Kitty. Really excellent work.
I was halfway to the stairs, freedom, a shower, approximately seventeen years of pretending the last two hours hadn't happened, when Damon appeared from the hallway like he'd been summoned by my shame.
Like the universe had decided my day hadn't been catastrophic enough.
"Where the hell have you been?"
I froze, one foot on the bottom step, hand gripping the banister like it could anchor me to a reality where I hadn't just made the worst decision of my life.
"I went for a drive. Needed air."
"For three hours?"
His voice was sharp, but something else lurked beneath the anger. Something that made my stomach clench in ways that had nothing to do with guilt.
"I've been calling you. Over and over. You didn't answer."
My phone. Still on silent. Still buried in my purse along with my dignity and apparently my wedding vows.
"I turned it off. I needed to think." I risked a glance at his face and immediately regretted it.
He looked wrong. Pale beneath his usual tan. Wild-eyed in a way I'd never seen from a man who treated emotional vulnerability like a communicable disease.
"What's wrong? You look…"
The front door opened behind me.
Christopher stepped in, car keys in hand, looking approximately as wrecked as I felt but hiding it better. Because of course he was. Damon's gaze shifted between us, calculation happening in real-time.
"Both of you? Together?"
"I found her in the garden." Christopher's voice was impressively steady. "She was… Upset. I suggested a drive to clear her head."
The half-truth hung in the air, and I prayed Damon couldn't smell the betrayal seeping from our pores like cheap perfume.
But Damon wasn't looking at us with suspicion. He wasn't cataloging our disheveled appearances or noting how neither of us could quite meet his eyes.
He was looking at us with something worse. Terror.
"It's Eleanor."
Two words, and my entire world tilted sideways.
"What about Eleanor?" I was moving toward him before I'd decided to, everything else forgotten. "What happened? Is she okay? Damon, what—"
"She has a fever. 104. The nanny found her burning up in her crib, barely responsive." His hand raked through his hair. "She's at the hospital. I was about to leave when I heard the door."
The hospital.
My three-week-old daughter was at the hospital.
While I was in a backseat with my husband's brother, my baby was sick. While I was moaning Christopher's name, Eleanor was burning with fever.
While I was convincing myself that Damon didn't care, he was here—terrified, calling me over and over.
"I need to go. Now. Right now." I couldn't feel my legs. Couldn't feel anything except ice spreading through my chest. "Why are we standing here?"
"Come on." Damon grabbed my hand, my hand that had been touching his brother, and pulled me toward the garage. "Chris, you're driving. I need to make calls."
The ride was a blur of Damon barking into his phone, demanding specialists and private rooms and the kind of immediate attention only Ashford money could buy.
I sat rigid in the backseat, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles went white, trying to remember how to breathe.
Eleanor'd been fine this morning. I'd fed her, kissed her forehead, watched her tiny fist curl around my finger like she was claiming me.
And then I'd handed her to the nanny and gone to cry in a garden about my own problems.
"Kitty." Damon's hand found mine, warm and solid. "She's going to be okay. Babies get fevers. It happens. The doctors will figure it out."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Hey. Look at me."
I couldn't. Looking at him meant seeing the concern in his eyes, the fear he was barely holding back. Looking at him meant acknowledging that less than two hours ago, I'd been in his brother's car, justifying betrayal.
In the rearview mirror, Christopher's eyes met mine for a split second, guilt, maybe jealousy, before he looked away.
At the hospital, chaos swallowed us. Nurses asking questions I couldn't answer. When did the fever start? Has she been eating normally? Any symptoms?
I didn't know. I'd been too busy drowning in self-pity to notice my daughter was sick. Too consumed with my own drama to pay attention.
They took Eleanor for tests, and I shattered.
The tears came in a flood I couldn't stop, sobs wracking my body in the sterile corridor. All the fear, the guilt, the horror—it poured out like poison.
"Hey, hey, hey." Damon's arms wrapped around me, pulling me against his chest. "It's okay. They're taking care of her."
"I wasn't there." The words came garbled against his shirt. "I should have been there, and I wasn't, and she was sick and alone…"
"You couldn't have known." He pressed a kiss to my hair—tender, instinctive, like comforting me was muscle memory. "It's not your fault."
But it was. Not the fever, maybe, but everything else.
I'd been so convinced he didn't want me. So certain he'd checked out of our marriage. And I'd used that conviction to justify the unjustifiable.
Now here he was, holding me together while I fell apart. Being the husband I'd told myself he couldn't be.
Over his shoulder, Christopher stood a few feet away. Arms crossed. Face carefully blank. Watching his brother comfort the woman he'd been inside two hours ago.
The shame was suffocating.
"I'm sorry," I whispered into Damon's chest, meaning so much more than he could understand.
"For what?" He pulled back, thumbing tears off my cheeks with unbearable gentleness. "You haven't done anything wrong."
The lie lodged in my throat, too heavy to swallow, too sharp to speak.
"I should have been home. With Eleanor. With you."
"Stop beating yourself up. We're here now. That's what matters."
A nurse appeared, clipboard in hand. "Mr. and Mrs. Ashford? The doctor would like to speak with you."
Damon took my hand, leading me toward the consultation room. Christopher followed at a distance—close enough to support, far enough to hide.
As we walked, I made a silent vow.
Whatever had happened with Christopher was over. Completely. Permanently. I would carry the guilt forever, but I would never let it happen again.
Eleanor needed her mother.
And maybe, despite every lie I'd told myself, Damon needed his wife.
I just had to figure out how to be her without choking on my own shame.