Chapter 92: To Get Advice

That evening, Catherine lay sprawled across the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might hand her answers.

Maximilian was in his office, “working.” For a professor, he spent an alarming amount of time on his phone and laptop. Academic research, she assumed. Or secret world domination.

Her thumb drifted to her phone’s “Recents”, and stopped on Dorian’s name.

Yes. She had saved it.

Did she want to marry him?

No.

The answer was still no.

So why did her heart sprint every time she thought of him?

Her fingers hovered over his name, then retreated. She tossed the phone onto her stomach and exhaled.

Maybe it wasn’t love she hated. Maybe it was “marriage”.

Marriage.

The word summoned Maximilian’s face with irritating precision.

Her heart thudded, different from when she thought about Dorian. Not sharp and reckless. Deeper. Steadier. Like a drumbeat under her ribs.

She groaned and pressed her palm to her chest.

How had she… Catherine, who had survived a lifetime of war, betrayal, and court politics, ended up mentally unraveling over two men she did not even intend to marry?

This was humiliating. She needed to get back to work soon. An idle mind was clearly a traitor.

She scrolled down her phone again.

Samantha. Her eldest brother’s second-born. Older than her, and infinitely more experienced in “love.”

By a burst of reckless courage, Catherine pressed call.

—

Back home, Samantha was halfway out her bedroom window, stiletto dangling from one foot, purse clenched between her teeth.

Her phone buzzed.

“Aunt Catherine?”

She nearly fell back inside.

“That’s odd… you calling me,” Sammy answered, balancing on one heel and buckling the other, phone wedged between ear and shoulder.

Catherine forgot how to speak. “Um…”

This was a mistake.

“Yes?” Sammy prompted, already suspicious.

“You have… experience in dating, right?”

Silence.

Sammy froze.

Her aunt. Her dignified, emotionally constipated aunt. Calling her about dating?

“A lot,” Sammy said slowly. “Why?”

Catherine swallowed. “I have this… friend.”

“Friend,” Sammy echoed.

“Yes. A distant friend.”

Sammy’s lips curved. “Of course.”

“There are two men,” Catherine rushed on, “and this friend cannot—”

“—decide between them?” Sammy dropped her purse and scrambled onto her bed, abandoning her escape mission entirely. The bar could wait.

This was historic.

Catherine hummed. “She doesn’t like either of them. She doesn’t even want marriage, but…”

“Ah,” Sammy said, instantly alert. “Interesting. Very interesting. Tell me about the men. How does each of them make you—uh—her feel?”

Catherine hesitated, searching for words. “They both make her heart race. They both try to protect her, in their own ways… and…” she faltered, softer now, “they’ve both hurt her too.”

Sammy winced. “Oh. That is tricky. Have you known them long?”

“Know them?” Catherine cleared her throat. “I don’t know them. My friend knows them.”

“Right. Of course.” Sammy pressed her forehead into her palm, biting back a grin. This was scandalously good. If she told Grandfather, she could probably negotiate a car out of it.

“And maybe… she’s known them for a very long time,” Catherine added, almost reluctantly.

“So she does like them both—”

“She does not,” Catherine cut in immediately.

Sammy inhaled slowly, patience stretching thin. This is why I don’t deal with first-time romantics, she thought—but still, she’d help.

“Okay. Is this a situationship? Or still in the talking stage? Emotional limbo?”

“…I don’t know what any of that means.”

Sammy dragged a hand down her face. “Fine. Has she slept with them?”

“What? No!” Catherine snapped, scandalized.

Sammy laughed. “Alright, alright. Then at least tell me she’s kissed them.”

Catherine opened her mouth to deny it…and stopped.

She had kissed Maximilian.

And when she thought about it, her heart swelled in her chest—warm, steady, terrifyingly alive.

“Just one…” Catherine admitted, barely louder than a breath.

Sammy groaned. “Then tell your friend to sleep with both and figure out who she’s compatible with.”

“Sleep with—? Samantha!” Catherine bristled, sitting upright. “Do not forget you are speaking to your aunt.”

Sammy rolled her eyes.

“I can hear that eye roll,” Catherine snapped.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I grew up with you.”

A beat of silence.

Then Sammy sighed, the mischief softening into something gentler. “Okay. Real answer.”

Catherine waited.

“Your heart doesn’t race for no reason,” Sammy said, voice quieter now. Her aunt was not some indecisive, reckless person. She was just confused, that was all. “Figure out why it’s racing. Is it excitement? Love? Fear? Safety? Danger?” She paused. “And if they both feel the same… step back from both of them for a while.”

“Step back?”

“Yes. Give yourself space. Then ask yourself this—when everything goes quiet… whom do you miss first?” Sammy’s tone turned thoughtful. “Close your eyes. See whose name your heart reaches for.”

Catherine swallowed, more confused than before… but also… steadier.

She was about to ask another question, but she heard movement from down the hall.

Maximilian.

The call ended before she could think twice.

Moments later, he moved into the kitchen, likely starting dinner as if he hadn’t just rearranged her entire emotional stability by existing.

Catherine flopped onto her bed, face buried in her pillow.

Why does my heart pound when I’m near them?

Should I really follow Sammy’s insane advice?

Her ears burned just thinking about it.

She pressed a hand to her chest.

Still racing. Still warm.

Still impossible.

Her thoughts tangled and softened, drifting like loose threads, until sleep quietly claimed her.

—–

Meanwhile, Samantha flew down the stairs as if she’d just uncovered state secrets.

Her parents were on the patio, as usual—wine in hand, deep in conversation. William was mid-sentence, recounting his meeting with Dorian, when Samantha burst in.

“Guess who called me?!” she announced dramatically.

William blinked. “If this is about your credit card—”

“Cathy,” she panted.

William’s expression darkened.

She straightened instantly. “Aunt Catherine,” she corrected sweetly. “And she has two suitors.”

Silence.

Miranda nearly spilled her drink. “Two?”

“She’s confused, Mom,” Samantha continued, pacing now. “They both make her heart race. She asked me for advice.”

William slowly set his glass down.

“She asked you?” he repeated.

Samantha lifted her chin proudly. “Obviously. I’m the most experienced.”

That was… debatable.

“She didn’t explicitly say marriage,” Samantha added quickly, because accuracy was flexible, “but it’s serious. Very serious. Emotional turmoil level serious.”

Miranda gasped softly and pulled Samantha down to sit beside her. “Tell us everything.”

“I’m telling you,” Samantha whispered conspiratorially, “I’m going to be a cousin again.”

William stared into the distance, processing.

His baby sister.

Two men.

Heart racing.

He suddenly needed something stronger than wine.

—

While the Preston family patio buzzed with excitement and premature wedding fantasies… Elsewhere, under the cover of night, a different kind of conversation unfolded.

No laughter.

No wine.

Just quiet malice.

“It’s done,” one man said, dusting off his hands as if finishing a chore. “They won’t recover from this.”

In the darkness beyond the Preston family ranch, something smoldered.

And by morning, the celebration would turn to fire.

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