Chapter 8
EIGHT
Heath
My front doorbell rings like a starting gun, and every muscle in my shoulders locks tight.
Sienna’s fingers lace with mine, and I glance down at her.
“Ready?” she whispers, blue eyes bright and brave.
“No,” I admit, because lying to her feels wrong in my mouth. “But I’ve got you. I won’t let them be dicks to you.”
She nods once, and I sigh as I open the door.
My family spills into my house in a flurry of designer wool, chilled perfume, and loud opinions. I’m on edge as soon as they step into my home. All I want to do is shove them out, then slam and lock the door.
My mother, Victoria, air-kisses the side of my face and leaves a print of red on my cheek that I instantly scrub off.
My father, Charles, scans the foyer like he’s appraising a property and already deciding what to gut.
My sister, Elise, sails in last, talking to our cousin, Brandon, about a gallery opening or something else pretentious.
“Darling,” my mother trills, breezing past Sienna without a second look to take in the living room, the view, the stone fireplace. “Spartan, but… it’s cute.”
“It’s perfect,” Sienna corrects softly.
She means it. She always means it. That’s one of a hundred reasons I can’t breathe when she looks at me.
“It’s… rustic,” Elise says, wrinkling her nose as if the word has splinters.
“Wilderness chic. How fitting for our Heath,” Brandon adds, flashing a grin that never meets his eyes.
My father stops in front of the picture window, hands clasped behind his back. “At least the lot is spectacular.”
“Everyone,” I say, squeezing Sienna’s hand once before facing them. “This is Sienna. My fiancée.”
For half a beat, the room is dead silent, all eyes staring at us.
Then…
“Fiancée?” my mother repeats, crisp as ice cracking on the lake. “As in… engagement?”
“Yes,” I say.
Sienna takes a breath and offers her hand. “Hi. It’s nice to—”
“Coats,” my father interrupts, slipping his off and holding it out, not to me, not to the standing coat tree he just walked past, but to Sienna.
Her fingers twitch in mine.
“I—yes,” she says, because she is polite even when people don’t deserve it. “Let me take care of that for you.”
She takes his coat and my mother’s, then Brandon’s, then Elise’s mink-trimmed thing that smells like expensive boredom.
“Careful,” Elise says, already moving on. “That one is vintage.”
“Of course,” Sienna answers, voice steady.
She slides the hangers with care, lips pressed together in a forced smile that my family doesn’t deserve. The tightness in my jaw kicks up a notch.
Everyone heads into the living room, taking in the décor, the furniture. Their eyes don’t miss a single detail. I already know that they won’t approve before they even open their mouths.
“I’ll bring out drinks,” I say, but my mother lifts two fingers without looking at me.
“Oh, Sienna, dear? A glass of champagne would be lovely. Something brut. And a splash of orange.”
“Do you have Pellegrino?” Elise asks Sienna, not me. “With lime. Thin slice.”
“Whiskey. Neat.” My father says without even glancing in Sienna’s direction.
They’re treating her like she’s a servant instead of the most important person in my life. Each order is a shove, small enough to be deniable, obvious enough to bruise. They don’t see her as mine. They don’t see her at all.
Sienna glances at me. I open my mouth to snap at my family, but she shakes her head, silently telling me that she can handle it.
She shouldn’t have to.
“I’ll get them,” I tell her.
The fridge hums as I open it, and I glance out the window as I make the drinks.
The lake is a sheet of pewter, and the trees are black ink on its rim.
I pour the whiskey, set out the lime, and find the good champagne we bought this morning.
The bottle opens with a muted sigh, and I wish I could pack my anger in there and let it hiss away.
Footsteps. Sienna slips in beside me, already reaching for flutes.
“Hey. I think it’s going okay,” she says.
I give her a dry look. “Bullshit. Don’t lie to me.”
“I was trying to make you feel better,” she whispers. “They’re rude, but I can handle it.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, too low for the living room.
“I know.” A tiny smile. “But if I don’t, they’ll keep talking to you like I’m not here.”
I lean a hip against the counter and watch her slice the lime. The knife is sharp, the line she cuts is clean.
“Are you okay?” I ask, studying her face.
“I’m fine,” she says, and because she’s honest, she adds, “Mostly. It’s a lot of… looking down noses.”
I tilt her chin with my knuckle. “They don’t get to look down on you.”
Her eyes soften. “I know you think that. That helps.”
It shouldn’t have to. I kiss the corner of her mouth, quick and impulsive, then hand her the Pellegrino.
“Thin slice of lime,” I say, and she bumps my shoulder with hers.
We carry the tray in together. I set the glasses on the stone coffee table, and Sienna offers them with that small, composed smile.
No one thanks her. Elise lifts her glass to the hearth like she’s toasting an audience.
Brandon asks if the caviar he sent arrived.
I lie and say no. The truth is, it did, and I fed it to the garbage disposal.
My mother takes one sip, then sets the flute aside as if she’s saving her palate for something better.
“Sienna,” my mother says, still not looking at my fiancée, “would you be a dear and see about the heat? It’s awfully warm.”
“It’s a fire,” I say. “In winter.”
Sienna steps to the side of the hearth and adjusts the flue anyway. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
My father gives a brisk nod. “And after that, perhaps you can take our bags up? We’ll freshen up before dinner.”
“You’re staying at the lodge,” I say.
“The Lodge?!” My mother gasps, saying the word like it’s garbage.
My father raises one eyebrow, disappointment clear in his eyes.
“I booked you rooms,” I add. “You’ll like them.”
Everyone looks like they’ve swallowed a lemon, but I ignore them, turning to Sienna.
Something muscle-deep relaxes in Sienna’s posture. It’s small, but I see it. I see all of it, how she carries herself like a person who learned young that being good makes other people more comfortable. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to be good for them. She can be whatever she is for me.
I take a seat on the couch, patting the cushion next to me for Sienna.
“Sienna, dear, would you mind topping this—” My mother lifts her glass without finishing the sentence.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “Sit.”
Sienna hovers for a second.
I make the call for her. “Sit,” I repeat, gentler, and hook my hand at her waist until she sinks onto the couch cushion beside me. I keep it there, thumb brushing the hem of her sweater, a quiet line between us and them.
Dinner is a shitshow. Not the food; that’s delicious.
Sienna cooked as if she were feeding people she loved, roasting chicken that fell apart, potatoes crisp at the edges, and green beans with lemon and toasted almonds.
She sets it out family-style because that’s how she knows meals.
She’s all hands passing, stories shared. My family eats like a presentation.
“Delicious,” my mother says, tone so neutral it’s an insult.
“Homestyle,” Elise adds, meaning unsophisticated.
My father doesn’t speak, but I can see him calculating. I can see him tallying details, the ring on Sienna’s finger, which is too large to dismiss, which annoys him, the way our hands find each other, the way I watch her like she’s the only thing in the room that matters. Which she is.
“Ronnie,” Brandon says, “you’re from here?”
“Sienna,” she corrects. “And yes. Born and raised. Wolf Valley High. Then I—”
“And your… work?” my dad interrupts before she can finish speaking.
“I substitute teach at the elementary school. I’m hoping to get a full-time position soon, but they’re hard to come by around here.”
Brandon’s smile thins.
“How… sweet,” Elise says.
“Necessary,” I say.
She pretends she didn’t hear. She always does.
By the time the plates are cleared, by me, the air is brittle. Sienna offers dessert and is told, “No, thank you, Rebecca.”
“Sienna,” I say firmly.
I watch Sienna’s eyes, and the next time she stands to gather napkins, I catch her hand and shake my head. Sit. Stay with me, I say silently, and she does.
I realize I’ve been clenching my teeth for an hour straight. The pain is a small, human thing I can control. The bigger thing in me, dark and protective, paces behind my ribs and wants out.
“Before you leave,” I say, standing.
“Leave? Darling, we only just got here,” my mother says with a fake laugh.
Everyone else joins in, and I glance at Sienna. I can tell that she’s ready for them to go, too. I just need to do one more thing, and then I’ll be able to kick them all out for the night.
“We have an announcement,” I say, taking Sienna’s hand in mine.
Sienna’s fingers tense around mine. She stands next to me. The fire throws copper into her black hair.
“We’re getting married,” I say. “Tomorrow.”
Shock ripples through the room. Elise’s glass stops an inch from her mouth. Brandon’s eyebrows climb like they’re scaling a paywall. My mother’s smile becomes an organza mask. My father’s jaw tightens a fraction, the loudest he ever gets.
“Tomorrow?” Victoria says with an airy laugh. “Spontaneous.”
“How very… romantic,” Elise says, wrinkling her nose as if she smells something poor.
“Expedited,” my father says. “Why the rush?”
“Because I want to marry her,” I answer.
The simplest truth is the hardest for them to process.
“Of course you do,” my mother says, as if humoring a child. “And of course we are… thrilled. We should—where are you registered? We could—”
“We don’t need anything,” Sienna says quickly, fingers threading with mine. “Really.”
My mother’s eyes finally land on Sienna. She does a long blink, cataloging her. Black hair, blue eyes, curves, and kindness, a dress that wasn’t picked out by a stylist. She puts the pieces together and hates the picture because it wasn’t curated for her.
“Well,” she says, smoothing her skirt. “Congratulations.”
It’s the kind of congratulations you give to a stranger who won a raffle.
Sienna swallows, finally cracking under the pressure from my family.
“Excuse me,” she says softly. “I’m going to run to the bathroom.”
She touches the small of my back under the pretense of moving past me, and that little private press of her fingers steadies me in ways my family never could.
She slips down the hall, and the second she disappears, the room sheds all pretense.
“Heath.” My mother’s voice softens by habit, a tactic. “You can’t be serious.”
My father doesn’t bother with soft. “This is reckless.”
Elise crosses her legs. “She’s not… you. She won’t fit.”
“She’s not a jacket,” I bite out.
“Elise has a point,” Brandon puts in, every inch the helpful viper. “Optics, cousin. And the prenup, obviously. Please tell me you—”
“There is no prenup,” I tell them.
“What?” they all shout at once, their eyes bulging out of their heads.
“Stop,” I order, and the word yanks the air tight. My voice has an edge. I don’t sand it down. “I’m not asking. I’m marrying Sienna. Tomorrow.”
My mother leans forward, fingertips steepled.
“Heath, darling. We worry because we love you. This… girl doesn’t understand our world. She won’t know anyone. She’s not going to be an asset for your business. She won’t anticipate—”
“Good,” I cut in. “I’m tired of all of that.”
Charles tries a different route. “Son. You don’t marry out of… what is this? Rebellion? Infatuation? You marry a partner who—”
“—who keeps the Rolodex tidy?” I ask, heat rising. “Who will trade blood for invitations?”
“We’re protecting you,” Victoria says calmly, almost pityingly. “Tomorrow is impossible. It will look desperate. People will talk.”
“They always do,” I say. “I’m done arranging my life so their sentences have fewer adjectives.”
Elise’s smile sharpens. “Then at least admit what this is. You’re rushing for the will. You’ll regret attaching yourself to… that, in a week.”
Something inside me goes very, very still.
“Listen to me very carefully,” I say, low enough that they have to lean in or miss it.
“I am with her. I am marrying her. Not for you, not in spite of you. Because I want to. Because she’s mine.
” I let that land. “You can show up tomorrow and be civil, or you can go back to your hotel and stay gone. Those are your options. Choose.”
Silence unspools. Somewhere down the hall, the bathroom door clicks open.
My father’s mouth thins. He looks at my mother. She looks at Elise. Elise looks at Brandon, who is staring at his phone.
Victoria stands. “We should let you… rest,” she says, tone delicate as spun sugar. “Big day tomorrow.”
“We’ll be there,” my father says, which means he hasn’t figured out a legal way to stop me in the next twelve hours, but he’s working on it.
“Make sure she wears something decent,” Elise says lightly.
I walk them to the door. No one offers a hug. They step out into the night air, and their car swallows them. I lock the door because I can, and because the sound of it makes something in my chest settle two inches lower in relief.
“Wow,” Sienna says from behind me, voice hesitant and wry all at once. “You sure know how to ruin a party.”
I turn. She’s leaning against the wall, hair a dark river over her shoulder, eyes still a little too bright. There’s a damp crescent where she pressed her palms to her dress to steady herself in the bathroom. I want to put my hands there instead.
“Wasn’t much of a party,” I say. “More of a performance review.”
She huffs a laugh. “Do I get notes? Areas for improvement?”
“Yeah,” I say, stepping in. My hands bracket her hips, thumbs pressing into warm fabric. “Stop fetching things for people who don’t deserve you.”
Her mouth tilts. “Yes, boss.”
I dip my head. “Don’t call me that in front of them.”
“In private?”
“In private, you can call me anything.” It comes out rougher than I intended. Honest.
Her breath softens against my cheek. “Are we… practicing again?” she asks, gentle tease in her voice, a thread of vulnerability beneath it.
“No.” Then I kiss her.
It’s not like earlier; all heat and too much.
It’s slower and deeper, the kind of kiss that plants a flag and says this is ours.
She rises into it, hands sliding up my chest to my neck, fingers finding that place at my nape that short-circuits every rational thought I’ve ever had.
I angle her head and take more, then ease back, and take again—a rhythm that feels like breathing.
Her lips part. A little sound, my favorite, catches in her throat. I swallow it and press her to the door I just locked against the world, and for a second, I’m grateful for every inch of wood and steel that separates us from anyone who thinks they have a vote.
When we finally break for air, her forehead rests against mine.
“Okay,” she whispers, a smile ghosting across her mouth. “That… doesn’t feel like practice.”
“Good,” I say, and kiss her again.