Money, as it turns out, cannot buy warmth. It can buy seventeen varieties of imported marble, chandeliers that probably cost more than my mother's apartment, and enough square footage to lose a small army—but warmth?
That's apparently not in the budget.
My first full day at the Ashford estate felt like navigating a museum after hours. Every hallway stretched into another hallway. Every room opened into a grander room.
And every staff member I encountered treated me with the precise politeness reserved for unwelcome guests who've overstayed by approximately forever.
"Can I help you find something, Miss?" a maid asked, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
"Just exploring. Getting my bearings." I attempted friendliness. It bounced off her starched uniform like rain off a windshield.
"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable in your quarters. I could have tea sent up."
Translation: Please stop wandering around like you belong here, because you don't.
I was contemplating whether it was possible to get lost badly enough to accidentally escape when I turned a corner and nearly collided with a woman who looked like she'd been assembled from a magazine spread.
All cheekbones and couture, with hair so perfectly coiffed it probably had its own staff. Her smile, when she saw me, didn't reach her eyes—it barely made it past her lips before dying a cold, lonely death.
"So you're the girl." She looked me over the way one might examine something unpleasant discovered on an expensive shoe. "I'm Victoria. Arnold's wife."
"Kitty. Though I suspect you already knew that."
"Indeed. You're quite the topic of conversation."
She circled me slowly, and I resisted the urge to bare my teeth like a cornered animal.
"I must say, when I heard Damon had gotten some girl pregnant, I expected... Well, something different."
"Taller? Blonder? Less likely to talk back?"
Her laugh was a delicate, practiced thing. "How refreshing. A sense of humor."
She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something expensive and vaguely threatening. "So you're the girl who trapped my stepson. How... resourceful of you."
The accusation landed exactly where she intended it to. I felt my spine straighten, my chin lift—the armor I'd built over years of being underestimated clicking into place.
"Funny advice from someone who married into money herself." I matched her smile, tooth for tooth. "At least I'm bringing something to the table. What was your contribution again? A really firm handshake?"
Victoria's expression turned glacial. For a moment, I thought she might actually slap me—her fingers twitched at her side like she was considering it.
Instead, she laughed again, but this time there was no pretense of warmth.
"Oh, we're going to have such fun together." She swept past me, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and implied threats. "Dinner is at seven. Don't be late. Arnold hates tardiness almost as much as he hates disappointment."
Throughout the day, I pieced together the family dynamics through observation and the whispered conversations staff didn't realize I could hear.
Christopher, when he crossed paths with Victoria, maintained a politeness so icy you could skate on it. Brief nods. Clipped responses. The absolute minimum required by civility.
Damon didn't bother with such pretenses. When Victoria attempted to engage him in conversation near the library, he looked through her like she was made of particularly uninteresting glass.
"Your father wants to discuss the Henderson merger at dinner," Victoria called after him as he walked away.
"Then he can discuss it with himself." Damon didn't break stride. "I'll be busy contemplating the void."
The household whispers filled in the gaps. Arnold had remarried barely a year after the brothers' mother died. "Indecently fast," one maid murmured to another while they thought I wasn't listening.
"The poor woman wasn't even cold." Neither son had forgiven their father.
And Victoria, from what I gathered, had been positioning herself for power ever since—a chess piece that had promoted itself to queen and was now eyeing the entire board.
Dinner that evening was a masterclass in uncomfortable silence. Arnold presided at the head of the table like a king surveying disappointing subjects.
Victoria sat at his right, Christopher at his left, and Damon and I were positioned across from each other like opposing counsel.
I was halfway through soup that probably cost more per spoonful than my weekly grocery budget when Victoria struck.
"I've been coordinating with our event planners." She produced a leather folder from seemingly nowhere—did rich people just manifest documents? She slid it toward me.
"The wedding preparations begin immediately."
I opened the folder to find a schedule so detailed it made my NYU syllabi look like casual suggestions. Venue tastings. Florist consultations. Tailor appointments. Cake samplings. Photographer interviews.
All crammed into the next two weeks like sardines in a designer tin.
"The ceremony itself will be in six weeks," Victoria continued, sipping her wine with the casual air of someone who hadn't just detonated a bomb.
I nearly choked on my soup. "Six weeks? That's barely enough time to—"
"To what?" Victoria's laugh was musical and cruel, a wind chime made of razor blades. "Fall in love?"
She reached over and patted my hand with the condescension of someone comforting a particularly slow child. "Darling, no one expects that."
What followed was a montage of awkward hell that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Actually, no—I'd wish it on Victoria specifically, but that's beside the point.
Damon and I were shuffled between high-end establishments like reluctant show ponies, with Victoria orchestrating every excruciating moment.
At restaurant tastings, we sat on opposite ends of tables designed for intimate couples, the empty chairs between us screaming louder than words.
"The duck is excellent," Damon offered once, not looking up from his plate.
"Great. Love duck. Fantastic." I stabbed at my food like it had personally offended me.
At tailor shops, we stood like strangers sharing an elevator—no eye contact, no conversation, no pretense of affection.
Damon examined fabric swatches with the enthusiasm of a man reviewing his own autopsy report.
I stared at wedding dress sketches and wondered if it was possible to die from forced proximity to someone who clearly wished I'd evaporate.
Employees exchanged confused glances, their professional smiles growing strained as they witnessed the least romantic engaged couple in human history.
"They seem... reserved," one florist whispered to her colleague, watching us stand three feet apart while examining centerpiece options.
Victoria materialized like a perfectly dressed specter, her smile tight enough to cut glass. "They're private people."
Private. Right.
That was one word for two people who'd rather chew glass than make small talk, trapped in an engagement neither wanted, planning a wedding that felt less like a celebration and more like a very expensive funeral.
My funeral, specifically.
And the worst part? We had five more weeks of this to go.