Working with someone you've slept with while your husband sits three feet away is a special kind of torture they don't warn you about in marriage counseling.
Not that I'd ever been to marriage counseling.
But if I ever did, I'd suggest they add a chapter: "So You've Made a Catastrophic Mistake and Now Have to Pretend It Never Happened While Collaborating on a Family Conspiracy."
Catchy title. I'd read it.
The Ashford dining room had been transformed into a war room—spreadsheets covering the mahogany table, laptops open on every surface, enough coffee cups to fuel a small army.
Damon sat at the head, coordinating his months of secret investigation like a general planning a siege.
Christopher occupied the opposite end, reviewing financial documents with the intensity of a man who'd been trained to spot fraud before he could legally drink.
And I sat in the middle, trying very hard not to spontaneously combust from shame.
"The offshore accounts are the key," Damon said, sliding a folder toward Christopher. "Father's been siphoning funds for years. These transfers don't match any reported holdings."
Christopher reached for the folder at the exact moment I reached for my coffee.
Our hands collided.
We both yanked back like we'd touched a live wire, and I knocked my mug sideways, sending lukewarm coffee cascading across three very important documents.
"Shit. Sorry. I'm so sorry." I grabbed napkins, dabbing frantically at papers that probably represented months of work.
"It's fine." Christopher's voice was carefully neutral, his eyes fixed somewhere around my left shoulder. Definitely not on my face. "The copies are backed up digitally."
"Still. I'm such a klutz today."
Damon glanced up from his laptop, completely oblivious to the nuclear-level awkwardness happening across his war room. "You okay? You've been jumpy all morning."
"Fine! Totally fine. Just... caffeinated. Very caffeinated." I laughed, and it came out approximately three octaves too high. Smooth, Kitty. Very convincing.
The universe, apparently not satisfied with my suffering, continued its campaign of cruelty throughout the day.
When Christopher stood to get more coffee, I stood at the same moment.
We both moved left. Then right. Then left again—a humiliating dance of mutual avoidance that lasted approximately seven thousand years before he finally stepped aside with a tight
"After you."
When I passed him documents, our fingers brushed, and I flinched so hard I nearly gave myself whiplash.
When we both headed toward the same doorway, we stopped, gestured for the other to go first, then both tried to move simultaneously, resulting in a collision that left us pressed together for one horrifying second.
Damon noticed none of it.
He was too focused on his mission, too consumed by the righteous fury of a man whose father had tried to steal his family. And honestly? Watching him work was... different.
The Damon I'd grown used to, sarcastic, deflecting, emotionally unavailable, had been replaced by someone sharper. More present. More determined.
He coordinated with Christopher without a single passive-aggressive comment. Actually listened to his brother's suggestions.
Even offered a genuine "good catch" when Christopher spotted a discrepancy in the accounting records.
No snide remarks about the golden child. No bitter undertones about who Father loved more. Just two brothers, working together, united against a common enemy.
It was like watching a nature documentary about an endangered species finally thriving in its habitat.
"The witness statements from the Henderson acquisition should arrive tomorrow," Christopher said.
Damon actually nodded—not a dismissive nod, not an eye-roll disguised as acknowledgment, but a real, appreciative nod.
"Good. That'll complete the pattern of coercion." Damon rubbed his eyes, exhaustion evident in every line of his face. "I'm going to check on Eleanor. She should be waking from her nap soon."
He left, and suddenly the war room felt very small.
Christopher and I sat in silence, the weight of everything unspoken pressing down like a physical force. The spreadsheets glowed on our laptops.
The coffee had gone cold. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked with the enthusiasm of a metronome at a funeral.
"Kitty…"
"We need to talk."
We both spoke at the same time, then stopped. Started again. Stopped again.
"You first," I said.
Christopher exhaled slowly, finally meeting my eyes for the first time all day. The guilt there mirrored my own—a perfect reflection of shame.
"He can't know." His voice was barely above a whisper. "What happened between us. He can never find out."
"I know."
"Not because I'm afraid of what he'd do to me." Christopher's jaw tightened. "But because I've already destroyed him once. With Stephanie. I watched him crumble, and I was the reason. I can't…"
He stopped, composing himself. "I won't do that to him again."
"I wasn't going to say anything." The words came out steadier than I felt. "Ever. To anyone."
"Good." He nodded, something like relief flickering across his features. "Good."
Silence again, but slightly less suffocating this time.
"He's different," I said quietly. "The way he's acting with you. Less... hostile."
"I noticed." Christopher almost smiled. "It's strange. Working together instead of against each other. I'd forgotten what that felt like."
"Maybe this is a fresh start. For both of you."
"Maybe." He paused. "You should know—what we did was a mistake, but the things I said about wanting you... those weren't lies. I just…"
He held up a hand before I could respond.
"I'm not saying that to complicate things. I'm saying it so you understand why I'm agreeing to bury this forever. Because I care about you. And caring about you means letting you have the life you're building. With Damon."
My throat tightened. "Chris."
"We don't need to dissect it." He stood, gathering papers with unnecessary focus. " We just need to move forward."
Footsteps in the hallway announced Damon's return. Christopher and I immediately separated to opposite ends of the table, maintaining enough distance to park a car between us.
Damon appeared in the doorway, Eleanor cradled against his chest, her tiny fist wrapped around his finger.
The sight hit me like a physical blow—my husband, my daughter, my family. The people I'd almost lost. The people I'd betrayed.
"She's hungry," Damon said, completely unaware of the emotional earthquake that had just occurred. "Want to feed her while we review the Victoria documents?"
"Yes." I crossed the room, taking Eleanor from his arms, breathing in her perfect baby smell. "I'd like that."
Our eyes met, and Damon smiled—genuine, warm, the smile I'd convinced myself he was incapable of giving.
"We're going to win this, Kitty. I promise."
I smiled back, guilt coiling in my stomach like a snake.
"I know."
We would win. We would defeat Arnold and keep Eleanor and build the family we'd accidentally created.
And the secret of what I'd done would stay buried forever.
Even if it meant carrying the weight of it for the rest of my life.