I step closer, and there it is in black blocky print: “Ceremony Arch – Assembly Required.”
Fantastic.
I unlock the door, toe it open, and manage to carry the box inside, slamming it a little harder than necessary against the wall by the entry.
Muffin lifts her head from the rug and yawns, unimpressed.
“You could’ve warned me,” I mutter.
She flops back down.
I kick off my shoes, drop my bag by the couch, and head to the kitchen, where a brown paper bag waits on the counter. Thai, judging by the smell.
Thanks, Carly.
My assistant had dinner delivered.
I grab a fork and shovel half the container into my mouth before I even pour a drink. It’s barely warm. I don’t care.
After a few minutes, I exhale, finally slowing down enough to register my own exhaustion.
The day from hell.
Feldstein moved up the timeline on the revised motion. A key witness canceled last minute. And the client—the one who could make or break my future at the firm—sent a four-word email that simply said, “Your strategy better work.”
No pressure.
I wash my hands, pour two fingers of whiskey, and walk toward the window.
Outside, the light is starting to change. The estate is quiet.
Too quiet.
Except for the giant cardboard reminder that this place doesn’t belong to me this week.
I glance at Muffin.
She blinks.
I head for the back door, whiskey in hand.
It’s time to take a walk.
Not to change my mind, but to verify what I already know—the north lawn is a logistical nightmare.
The sun is just starting to dip as I head back out.
I tell myself I’m checking the drainage slope and sprinkler layout. I tell myself I’m being thorough, responsible, and cautious. I tell myself this has nothing to do with Mason’s phone call.
Damn, Mason.
Muffin trails behind me like a heat-seeking meatloaf.
We round the hedges near the edge of the north lawn, and I stop.
I don’t want to admit it, but… yeah. It’s beautiful.
The way the trees frame the view. The light filtering through the leaves. That soft hush of wind right before sunset. Itfeelslike a wedding spot.
