All Chapters of The Deal in a Wedding Dress: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

CelesteI woke up to sunlight and the smell of burnt toast.For a moment I forgot where I was—whose arm was draped across my waist, whose slow, steady breathing stirred the hair at my temple. Then memory rushed in like cold water: the rain, the confession, the way he’d fallen asleep still holding me like I might slip away if he let go.Killian was still asleep. His face was softer in daylight—lines smoothed, mouth slightly open, one hand curled loosely near my hip. The blanket thief looked almost boyish. Almost harmless.Almost.I eased out from under his arm, careful not to wake him. My body protested—every joint stiff, every muscle reminding me I’d slept curled against someone who took up more than his fair share of space. I padded to the bathroom on bare feet, splashed water on my face, and stared at my reflection.Pale. Eyes too big. A faint bruise of exhaustion under each cheekbone. The girl in the mirror looked like someone who’d been holding her breath for months.I pressed a ha

CelesteWe didn’t go inside right away. The car sat in the driveway like a cocoon, engine ticking as it cooled, the world outside held at bay by tinted windows and the fragile bubble of what we’d just admitted. Killian’s hand was still wrapped around mine, thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles. Neither of us moved to break the silence.I stared at our joined hands. His were calloused—unexpected for a man who lived in boardrooms. Evidence of something older than Hart Industries. A life before the suits and the contracts and the walls he’d built so high.“I used to row,” he said quietly, following my gaze. “College. Dawn practices on the river. My hands never recovered.”I traced the ridge of a scar across his palm. “You never talk about before.”“There’s not much to tell.” His voice was low. “Dad died when I was twelve. Mom worked three jobs. I learned early that feelings were a luxury we couldn’t afford.”I swallowed. “And Evelyn?”He exhaled through his nose. “She was the fir

CelesteThe pancakes were perfect. Fluffy, golden, edged with lace from the griddle. Killian slid the plate across the island with the solemn pride of a man who’d conquered a small country. I stared at them, then at him, then back at the pancakes.“You used a recipe,” I said.“I used three.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, wearing yesterday’s T-shirt and a smirk. “And I only set off the smoke alarm once. Margaret opened a window and called it progress.”I took a bite. Butter and maple and something that tasted like victory. “You’re hired.”“Full-time?” His eyebrow arched. “Benefits?”I kicked his shin under the island. “Don’t push your luck.”He laughed—low, warm, the sound I was starting to collect like pressed flowers. We ate standing up, shoulders brushing, trading bites from the same fork because neither of us wanted to break the orbit. When the plate was empty, he rinsed it, set it in the dishwasher, then turned to me with the kind of focus that made my pulse stutt

CelesteThe garden was a riot of color by the time we were ready. Love-in-a-mist had exploded into clouds of blue and white, zinnias stood like bright soldiers, and the roses—after weeks of Killian’s stubborn pruning—bloomed in defiant pinks and golds. We’d strung fairy lights through the trellis, the kind that flickered like captured stars. Margaret had bullied the caterer into delivering under threat of rolling pin, and now tiny white tables dotted the lawn, each holding a single mason jar of wildflowers.I stood in the sunroom, barefoot on the cool tile, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror Margaret had dragged in from upstairs. The dress was simple—ivory silk, off-the-shoulder, cinched at the waist with a ribbon the color of forget-me-nots. No veil. No train. Just me, and the faint scar on my collarbone where the port had been removed last week.My hair was growing back in soft, dark curls. Killian called them “chemo curls” and kissed every one like they were medals.

CelesteThe house stopped feeling like a sanctuary. It became a battlefield where every creak of the floorboards sounded like a footstep, every shadow in the hallway looked like Evelyn waiting with her red dress and her scalpel smile. Killian installed new locks, changed the security codes, had Mara sweep the office for bugs. Still, her presence lingered—texts he deleted too quickly, calls he took in the study with the door locked.I told myself it was paranoia. I told myself a lot of things.---The first real fight came on a Tuesday that smelled like burnt coffee and rain. I was in the sunroom, trying to paint the zinnias before the chemo fog swallowed the colors. My hands shook; the brush left streaks of mud instead of gold. Killian burst in at noon, tie askew, eyes wild.“Pack a bag,” he said. “We’re leaving.”I set the brush down. “Where?”“Anywhere. The lake house. Paris. Fuck, the moon. Just—away.”I stared at him. “From what?”“Her.” The word cracked like a whip. “She’s