Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Soren
Applause.
There’s actual goddamn applause. Like, I just finished a play on Broadway, and there’s a standing ovation and all that shit. Though, this wasn’t just for a kiss.
Well, it’s not just some kiss, but our kiss.
Our first kiss.
Win’s and mine.
A kiss I initiated like an idiot with no impulse control and even less self-preservation.
Like I forgot where we were, what this is, and that I’m supposed to be acting—not catching feelings.
But the moment our mouths brushed against each other .
. . it just happened. It even feels as if it stopped being pretend.
It might have turned into something that didn’t just feel real—it was real. Unforgivably real.
And now people are clapping.
Because apparently, I’ve starred in a live-action fairy tale.
One with canapés and coordinated napkins.
It probably lands somewhere between The Princess Bride and Emotional Crisis with cocktail sauce on the side.
Not that I’ve ever watched said movie. But I’m ninety percent sure it ends with a soulful kiss.
It’s just that this one, ours, was not supposed to be in the script.
Which means—what the fuck did I just do?
I’m still staring at the space where Winnifred used to be.
The air somehow still molded to her shape.
Her heat hasn’t left my skin. Her taste?
Still on my lips. But she’s gone—bolted into the house like the kiss ignited a fire beneath her, and she needed to evacuate before she spontaneously combusted.
Which . . . fair.
If she hadn’t walked away, I would’ve kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper. With zero concern about the crowd or, the cameras or my carefully constructed, emotionally unavailable persona.
And this time, I don’t think we would’ve stopped.
Someone whistles when the clapping is over. One of my aunties is openly crying into a cocktail napkin like we just announced a palace baby.
“I told your mother this girl must be the one since you were bringing her home, and she is,” Grandma Rita crows beside me, smug and glowing and absolutely not helping. “You don’t kiss someone like that unless you mean it.”
“Grandma—”
“Don’t you Grandma me, Soren,” she snaps, waving a deviled egg like a gavel. “I’ve survived four husbands, a house fire, and decades of uncomfortable polyester pantyhose. I know the difference between a publicity stunt and a man who’s halfway in love and about to propose to the love of his life.”
I could say she’s wrong, that this is just indeed a stunt just to prove to my mother that . . . what was this supposed to prove? I can’t remember because what Grandma said hits dead center in the middle of my chest.
We’re not talking about the fabric of her pantyhose—I didn’t need to know that. Nope. It’s the whole ‘halfway in love’ bit.
I can barely process the kiss, and she’s already planning the engagement announcement.
And the worst part?
She might not be completely wrong.
This doesn’t feel halfway. It feels like I just flung myself off a cliff—and instead of splattering on impact, I landed somewhere warm, impossible, and terrifying in a way I don’t have the vocabulary to explain.
“I’m going to . . .” I gesture vaguely toward the house. “Check on Win.”
“She ran off like her dress was about to catch fire,” my cousin Helena mutters as she drifts over with a glass of champagne and way too much smirk for one human. “Didn’t realize you were into live theater, Soren. You just stole your sister’s entire night.”
“I didn’t . . . I’m not—” I’ve no idea how to finish my sentence. I realize Helena is right. Daisy might be planning my funeral because I’m dragging too much attention not only to myself but to Winnifred.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Helena walks away, but somehow, I feel like she’s about to get back at me because I ruined her favorite cousin’s party.
I run a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to swear into the sky. Fuck, what just happened in here? What did I do? We didn’t just sell this relationship. We branded it. Built an entire fucking emotional marketing campaign around a single kiss.
But did we sell it? Or just fucked it up?
I don’t get to linger on that thought because my mother descends like a hawk that smells sin and shame.
“Soren,” she hisses, voice low but razor-edged. “A word.”
Fuck me.
If Winnifred weren’t MIA, I’d already be in the car with the engine running. But I can’t do that to her. Not even now, when this whole moment feels dangerously close to every-man-for-himself territory.
I follow Mom, keeping some distance, weaving through party guests still buzzing about shrimp skewers and the Thorn family’s unexpected dip into public affection.
My feet drag like I’m heading to confession.
Which, honestly, wouldn’t be worse than whatever lecture she’s about to deliver on disgracing the legacy.
Once we’re out of earshot, she whirls around with eyes full of disapproval and a tone dipped in generational disappointment.
“What in God’s name were you thinking?” she hisses, her voice low, scandalized. “Sinning in front of the altar wouldn’t have been more offensive.”
“I kissed my girlfriend,” I reply, bone dry. “Not sure what’s the big deal, Mother.”
“That looked like foreplay on the patio,” she says, low and deliberate, each word measured for maximum judgment. “In front of family. Friends. Half the parish council. If Nana were alive to see that display, she’d have collapsed into the hydrangeas.”
A beat.
“You know she believed public affection was for French films and morally loose people.” I shrug, let it sink in, and then add, “If it helps, Grandma Rita was thrilled.”
“Your father’s mother is senile. She once married a man because he made a good cheesecake.”
“And yet she divorced, got alimony, and might be looking for husband number five,” I smirk because Grandma Rita is anything but senile. She outsmarts us all.
She glares at me. “This is not a joke. You kissed that woman in front of everyone.”
And yeah, this isn’t a fucking joke. I know because I can still feel Winnifred’s lips on mine. Worse? I’m starting to think I’ll never forget them.
Actually . . . I don’t want to forget.
I want to feel them again.
I want a do-over. One where I’m not caught off guard or thinking about who’s watching.
One where I get to kiss her like I mean it—slow, selfish, no pretending.
No fake dating agreements. Just us. Mouth to mouth.
Heart to heart. Maybe something ridiculous like fireworks in my chest and the dumb belief that if I kissed her right, she’d finally stay.
Fuck, I’m so screwed.
“You asked me to bring my girlfriend.” Not sure why I blurted that, it’s probably the worst defense.
“Oh, it worked, alright. The photographer is already asking if we should move the family portrait session to include her.”
“We could,” I mutter.
My brain is unusually betraying me faster than my mouth can course-correct.
“What?” My mother blinks, brows arching with a blend of suspicion and what-the-fuck maternal concern.
“What?” I echo too quickly. Playing innocent, as if I didn’t just say the thing out loud.
As if I’m not actively imagining Winnifred in that portrait, tucked under my arm, smirking like she knows she doesn’t belong in the picture but kind of wants to be in it anyway.
Mom narrows her eyes and folds her arms in a way that says she already knows the ending to this story, and it’s not a happy one.
“You kissed her too well, Soren,” she says, voice low, crisp. “People are going to start asking questions.”
“They did, which is why we told them our story and . . . well, here we are.”
“This woman is a Wolfcraft, Soren,” she says as if the name is contagious. Almost as if I’ve just dragged the devil’s daughter to my sister’s engagement party and offered her cake. “We don’t tangle with that family.”
There it is. Right on cue. Winnifred swears this tension between our families runs deeper than a Shakespearian tragedy, and I’ve always rolled my eyes—because Mom’s not like that.
Except, apparently, she is.
“Mom’s not like that,” I say anyway. Weak defense, especially when I sound like I’m trying to convince myself.
“This is going to end badly,” she hisses, scanning the crowd like someone might be eavesdropping. “And we’ll be laughingstocks. Again.”
I could ask something like, when were we ever laughingstocks? But I choose not to do it. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“No, you’re trying to control,” I say, softer than I mean to because the last thing I want to do is start a fight with her. “You want everyone to see a Thorn family tree without any inconvenient branches—but just so you know, Win isn’t an inconvenience.”
Her jaw ticks, but she doesn’t deny it. Suddenly, I need to find Winnifred—I just need her.
Not for damage control. Not for appearances. I just need to see her face and make sure she’s alright.
To ensure I didn’t imagine the way she kissed me back.
To remind myself that whatever that was—it happened. And it meant something. At least to me.
And I hate how badly I want her to feel it, too.
I peel away from my mother’s frostbitten silence and make my way inside. The house hums with curated celebration—laughter rising in controlled crescendos, clinks of crystal glasses, someone retelling the same story for the fourth time. The party hasn’t noticed I’m unraveling.
My steps carry me past stiff portraits of dead relatives who all look like they’d disapprove of PDA and feelings. Past rugs so antique I can see generations of denial woven into them. Past mirrored furniture that throws my conflicted face right back at me.
And then, I stop at the guest bathroom. The door is locked, light on. I’m pretty sure she’s there. I feel it in the air—the tension, the lingering heat, the echo of that kiss hanging between the hallway and my stupid heart.
I lean back against the wall and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, like I can massage clarity into my brain—like maybe if I push hard enough, I’ll make this make sense.
But it doesn’t. Not really. Because here’s the truth—bare, raw, and quietly wrecking: at first, I didn’t mean to kiss her like that.
It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t part of the script. It just happened like that and felt so natural, like we belonged.
Do I regret it?
Not even a little.
Because the second my mouth touched hers, everything shifted.
I felt her—really felt her—in a way I hadn’t let myself feel anyone before.
The way her lips softened against mine, not startled, not resisting—like she wanted it too.
Like maybe she’d been waiting for it. The way her fingers curled into my jacket, gripping like she needed something to hold onto or maybe just didn’t want to let go.
And that sound—that quiet, broken breath when I pulled her closer—it hit somewhere deep in me I didn’t know was still alive.
I kissed her like I didn’t have a choice.
Because the truth is, I didn’t want to stop.
And maybe—if I’m honest—I never really wanted to pretend in the first place.
I kissed her like I couldn’t help it.
Because I couldn’t.
For one goddamn second, it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t scripted. It wasn’t part of the bit.
It was us. Real. Possible. Dangerous. For one second, everything else—our deal, the performance, the past—fell away.
And in its place was this raw, terrifying clarity: if we let it, this thing between us could turn into something we don’t know how to come back from.
Something that doesn’t just live in the script, but under the skin.
And she knew that. Of course, she did.
Winnifred has always been smarter than me—more careful with the edges of her own heart.
So she ran. Because she recognized what I didn’t want to admit out loud: that one kiss had the power to undo all of it.
To make this real in a way we hadn’t prepared for.
To turn pretend into something that bleeds.
The door opens, and I straighten like I’ve been caught with my hands full of thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking.
She steps out into the hallway like nothing happened, calm and composed, every inch of her polished to perfection.
Lipstick reapplied. Hair re-pinned. The dress is flawless.
Whatever fell apart in that bathroom, she’s packed it away behind mascara and muscle memory.
But I can still see it—etched in her eyes, tucked into the lines she’s trying not to let show. That flicker of something fragile she hasn’t managed to hide.
It’s as if the storm hasn’t passed—it just settled under her skin, waiting. She looks put together, sure, but I know the difference between poised and pretending. And God, I want to reach for her. Just to touch her. Just to say, without saying a word, you’re not the only one undone by this.
She looks at me like she’s bracing for something. Like, she’s not sure if I’m going to break this more or fix it.
“Hey,” I say, voice softer than I mean.
“Hi.” Her voice tries to sound breezy, but even when it’s just one syllable, I can sense it’s a bit broken. As if she didn’t just flip our whole fake relationship on its head.
“I—”
“I—”
We speak at the same time. Both stop. There’s a pause thick enough to sink into, and I hate it. It’s usually easy to talk to her, even when we disagree ninety percent of the time.
I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she lies.
“You left in a hurry.”
“You kissed me like we weren’t pretending.”
That stops me.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t smile. Winnifred just says it.
I blink. Once. Twice. And then everything inside me quiets.
“I know,” I say. “Maybe I wasn’t. I probably meant it.”
And I mean it. Every single syllable, because that kiss didn’t just change the game.
It rewrote the whole fucking rulebook even before we realized we needed one.