Chapter 3

The christening was a spectacle. Two hundred guests filled St. James Cathedral, every pew packed with Ashfords, their associates, and the social elite of Chicago's North Shore. Crystal chandeliers threw prisms of light across the vaulted ceiling. A string quartet played Pachelbel. The flowers alone probably cost more than my annual nursing school tuition.

Lily, dressed in the Ashford family christening gown—not the Burberry outfit Victoria had chosen, a rare victory Eleanor had granted me only because the antique gown photographed better—slept through the entire ceremony.

I stood at the altar beside Dominic, who held Lily with the practiced ease of a man who'd been coached by a photographer beforehand. He smiled for the cameras, the picture of a proud father. His hand rested on my lower back, a gesture of possession, not affection.

"Beautiful family," the bishop murmured as he anointed Lily's forehead.

Behind us, in the front pew, Victoria sat beside Eleanor. Both wore white—a choice that made my cream dress look dingy by comparison. Victoria caught my eye during the blessing and mouthed something I couldn't quite make out. The woman beside her leaned over and whispered something that made them both smile.

At the reception—held at the estate, naturally—I was passed from guest to guest like a decorative object. "You must be so happy." "Dominic is such a wonderful man." "Eleanor must be thrilled to have a grandchild."

No one asked me how I was feeling. No one asked about my recovery, my sleep deprivation, the fact that I'd been bleeding for three weeks straight and hadn't seen my own doctor because Eleanor's Dr. Patterson had declared me "fine."

I escaped to the kitchen to pump breast milk—a necessity Eleanor found distasteful but couldn't argue with since Dr. Patterson had reluctantly confirmed its benefits. The industrial kitchen was empty except for catering staff who averted their eyes as I set up in a corner.

That's when I heard them.

Victoria's voice, carrying through the service hallway that connected the kitchen to the library. And Dominic's, low and intimate in a way I hadn't heard him speak in months.

"She looked miserable up there," Victoria was saying. "Like a hostage at her own daughter's christening."

"She's tired," Dominic replied. "The baby keeps her up."

"I wouldn't keep you waiting, you know." Victoria's voice dropped, silk over steel. "If it were me, I'd have given you a son by now."

A pause. My hands froze on the breast pump, milk dripping unnoticed onto my dress.

"Vic..." Dominic's voice was strained, caught between warning and want.

"I'm just saying." The rustle of fabric. A sharp intake of breath. "I've waited long enough, Dom. We've both waited long enough."

"Not here. Not today."

"Then when?" Her voice cracked with genuine emotion—the first real feeling I'd ever heard from her. "You married her. You had a baby with her. And I'm still standing in the front pew like some pathetic—"

"You know why I married her."

The words stopped my heart.

"The optics," Victoria continued bitterly. "The polls. The wholesome immigrant success story for your father's senate campaign."

"It worked," Dominic said quietly. "Dad's numbers went up twelve points after the wedding."

I pressed my hand against my mouth, physically holding in the sound that wanted to escape. My marriage—the proposal, the wedding, the pregnancy—was a political strategy. I was a campaign prop. A demographic checkbox.

"And now?" Victoria pressed. "The campaign's over. Your father won. You have your heir—even if she is a girl. How much longer do I have to pretend?"

"Just... give me time. After the midterms. I'll handle it."

"Handle it how?"

"The prenup is airtight. She gets nothing if she leaves. And if I file..." Another pause. "My lawyers say I can get full custody. Her background, the financial disparity—no judge will side with her over an Ashford."

"And then?"

"And then it's you and me. Like it was always supposed to be."

I heard the sound of a kiss—soft, deliberate, unhurried. The sound of two people who had done this many times before, in many hidden rooms.

I sat in that kitchen corner, breast milk soaking through my dress, tears streaming silently down my face, and felt the last remnant of my naivety die.

Everything had been a lie. Every moment, every touch, every time Dominic had looked at me and said "I choose you"—all choreographed. All calculated. I was cast in a role I never auditioned for, and now that the show was over, I was scheduled to be written out.

But they'd made one critical miscalculation.

They thought I was still the desperate diner waitress who'd sign anything without reading the fine print.

I wiped my eyes, cleaned the breast pump, and straightened my dress. Then I walked back to the reception with a smile so convincing that Eleanor herself complimented my composure.

"You're finally learning to be an Ashford," she said approvingly.

"Yes," I replied, my voice steady. "I'm learning exactly what that means."

That night, after the guests had gone and Dominic had disappeared to "drive Victoria home," I added to my notebook:

October 28th. Overheard Dominic and Victoria in library during christening reception. Confirmed: marriage was arranged for political purposes (Senator Ashford's campaign). Dominic plans to file for divorce after midterms and seek full custody. Victoria and Dominic are in an ongoing romantic/sexual relationship. They kissed. No witnesses, but catering staff from Marcello's were present in kitchen—may have heard portions.

I stared at the words, then added one more line:

He wants to take my daughter. Over my dead body.