Chapter Twelve
ARIA
Everett turns the car off the main road and onto a long paved drive bordered by towering evergreens and low stone walls that look like they were quarried specifically to intimidate people.
He gave the driver the night off since we're staying at the compound before the wedding tomorrow, which means Everett is driving.
One hand rests easy on the wheel. The other is near the center console like this is normal.
Like billionaires regularly drive their fake fiancées into family compounds the night before contract weddings and nobody should feel weird about it.
I feel weird about it.
Not panicked exactly. Not yet, anyway. But there's something about marrying Everett Kauffman tomorrow—even temporarily, even on paper—that feels irreversible.
Like we won't get out of this the same people we went in.
Maybe that's just me. Maybe Everett is too practiced at distance to believe a temporary marriage could change anything real.
I glance out the window, expecting maybe one ridiculous waterfront mansion.
Instead, the driveway keeps going.
And going.
Then the property opens up, and I forget how to breathe for a second.
The estate is massive. Eight custom-built homes stretch across the waterfront, each one on its own piece of manicured land.
Slate paths curve between them. Trees and sculpted hedges divide the houses without making them feel separate.
The whole thing looks less like a neighborhood and more like a billionaire family decided modesty was for other people.
And in the broad park-like center of it all, rows of white chairs have already been set up beneath the open sky. An aisle runs between them toward a flower-drenched arch facing the water.
My throat tightens.
That's where we'll get married tomorrow.
"You built all of this?" I ask.
"We each built our own," Everett says.
His tone is matter-of-fact, like he's explaining a parking arrangement instead of eight houses on twenty acres of waterfront property north of Seattle.
He gestures loosely through the windshield. "Colston's is closest to the water. Archer's is the one you can barely see."
I peer through the glass. He's right. One of the houses is almost hidden back in the Douglas fir, dark and private and easy to miss unless someone told you where to look.
"Somehow, I'm not surprised the ex-Navy SEAL built himself a fortress in the woods," I say. "And Colston's looks like it should be in Architectural Digest."
His mouth does that almost-smile again. The one that never fully commits.
"You're well-versed on my family."
I glance at him. "Isn't everyone in Seattle well-versed on your family? You're basically local royalty."
"I don't pay attention to the media."
"No," I murmur. "I'm starting to notice that."
We wind through the property, past one house after another, until he slows in front of the one at the center.
Everett's.
It isn't the biggest. That's the one beyond it—larger, broader, full of curved glass and dramatic terraces that somehow looks exactly like the sort of house Everly would build if someone handed her an unlimited budget and told her to make a statement.
But Everett's is the one everything seems to orbit.
Stone and glass. Clean modern lines. Three stories. A wall of windows facing the Sound. The kind of architecture that looks simple until you realize how much money it costs to make something look like it wasn't trying.
And tonight it's glowing.
The air smells like cut grass and salt and something floral that's probably worth more per stem than my monthly grocery bill.
A tented structure has been set up beyond the back terrace. Florals spill over tables. Strings of warm lights hang through the trees. Catering vans line the drive, and there are enough people moving in black with headsets to make it clear this is not just dinner.
It's a production.
"All of this for a rehearsal dinner?" I ask.
Everett pulls up along the circular drive and cuts the engine. Then he looks over at me.
"You do remember Everly is involved."
"Right." I let out a breath. "I almost forgot."
"Then you still have a lot to learn about Everly Kauffman."
He gets out and comes around to my side, opening the door and offering me his hand. I take it, because not taking it while getting out of a car in heels in front of an event staff would be idiotic.
His fingers close around mine.
And I hate that his hand in mine is the one thing keeping me steady right now.
"That one?" I ask, nodding toward the bigger house beyond his as he leads me toward the front door, my hand still in his.
"Everly's."
I glance at him.
"She hosts most family and corporate events. She has a ballroom and a catering kitchen."
"I'm not surprised."
"She's also probably responsible for half of what's happening here tonight even though I'm technically hosting."
"Only half?"
That almost-smile again.
Inside, his house is not what I expected.
High ceilings. Warm light. Dark walnut. Leather.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. A kitchen that opens into a living space large enough to hold fifty people without feeling crowded.
Everything expensive, but unlike the penthouse, this place feels warm.
Inviting. The kind of house you could raise a family in.
And yet it still feels untouched.
No shoes by the door. No jacket tossed over a chair. No casual evidence that someone comes home here and lets himself belong to it.
It's like the man comes home and barely touches anything. Like he doesn't trust himself to settle in.
Something about that gets to me more than I think he'd ever want it to.
"Finally," a male voice calls from the kitchen. "The groom has arrived."
Levi is already there, holding a drink and grinning like he's been waiting specifically for an audience.
Behind him, Christian loosens his tie with one hand and takes a sip of something amber with the other. He looks like he came straight from the office.
"We're early," Everett says.
Zayne walks out from the kitchen and crosses the living room. "Aria. You wore my favorite color."
"You have a favorite color?" I ask.
"I didn't until right now," Zayne grins.
Everett's hand lands at my lower back.
"Stop."
Zayne blinks innocently. "I'm being charming."
"No," Everett says. "You're being Zayne. For once, can all of you stop being yourselves until after she says I do and signs the marriage certificate. Before she gets enough sense to walk back out that door."
There's the faintest ghost of a smirk on his mouth when he says it, and the room laughs.
"She might as well know what kind of family she's tying herself to," Levi mutters into his drink.
Wes walks in already on a call, murmuring something about a purchase structure before ending it and slipping his phone into his pocket.
Archer appears next, quiet and sharp-eyed, like he'd rather be reviewing security reports than attending a family event but came anyway because family is family.
And suddenly all eight of them are here.
All Kauffmans. All in one place.
Everly materializes at my side the way she always does—already mid-thought, already three steps ahead, like she's been waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
She hooks her arm through mine.
"Come on," she says. "Before they all get louder."
She steers me a few steps away and lowers her voice.
"Thank God there's finally going to be another woman in this family. I'm drowning in testosterone."
"Only for the next year," I remind her.
She gives me a look. "Yeah. We'll see about that."
I laugh, then glance back toward the others. "It's still crazy to me that all eight of you only met five years ago. You'd never know it watching you together."
Her smile softens.
"Somehow it feels like we were always supposed to end up here anyway," she says.
Then she tips her chin toward the room. "Levi is the heart.
Colston is the bulldozer. Zayne is the glue.
Wes is the brains. Archer is the protector, and Christian is the conscience, which must be exhausting for him. Everett is..."
"The center?" I ask.
Her gaze flicks to mine. "You noticed."
"It's hard not to."
"His presence sort of demands it, doesn’t it?"
I glance back over, seeing him with his brothers.
Even when he isn't speaking, the room seems to orient around him. Not because he's trying to command it. Because everyone else, in some way, seems to take their cues from where he is.
Before I can say that out loud, headlights sweep the front windows.
Not one of the family cars. This one is white and boxy.
I turn instinctively toward the drive, and my whole body feels the shock and surprise when I read the wording on the side of it.
Brookhaven.
For one second, I can't think. I just stare.
"Everett," I say quietly, though he’s not close enough to hear me.
He's already looking toward the door and then glances back over at me.
He already knew they were coming. I can see it in the lack of surprise. In the way he’s searching my face for a reaction.
I start heading towards the door and he meets me as I stare out the large windows of the house.
"You knew," I say.
He meets my eyes. "I spoke with his physical therapist this week."
"What?"
"I thought it might help," he says. "A dry run for tomorrow."
My throat tightens so fast I can barely swallow. "For the optics?"
"No." His gaze stays on mine. "I did it for you."
My chest tightens so hard I can't get a full breath.
He turns and walks toward the front door, and I follow, slowly behind him, almost as if moving too quickly might scare the mirage away before I can get to it.
The van door opens and one of the Brookhaven therapists steps out first, smiling in that careful, encouraging way medical professionals do when they know they're walking into a moment that matters.
Then my father appears.