Marrying Little Miss Valak

CHAPTER 7

Sophia

Marrying Little Miss Valak

The Rusty Anchor was the kind of place where the air was 40% neon light and 60% bad decisions.

It was the heart of Lindsborg and the only bar where you could get a craft cocktail that tasted like jet fuel and a side of a hot life-altering gossip.

I pushed through the doors, the midday sun at my back, and for a second, the room went dead silent.

Hanson, the owner, was polishing a glass behind the bar, and Jimmy, the other bartender, was restocking the kegs.

Both of them looked right through me.

They were looking for the girl in the muddy boots and the oversized flannel. They didn't recognize the woman in the tailored cigarette pants and the silk blouse that cost more than their liquor license.

“I'm looking for the loudest ginger in the building,” I said, leaning against the sticky mahogany bar.

From the far end of the counter, a head of familiar deep ginger curls popped up like a jack-in-the-box.

Delilah—all four-feet-eleven of pure, unfiltered chaos froze.

She was wearing a crocheted halter top that left little to the imagination, courtesy of her grandmother’s “Hot Summer of ‘69” collection.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

She started, her voice professional before her large bottle green eyes finally locked onto mine.

Her jaw didn't just drop, it practically hit her toes.

“Sophie? Is that you under all that… expensive-looking structural integrity?”

“It's me, Dee,” I laughed, sliding onto a stool. “And apparently, I'm invisible today. Hanson didn't grunt at me.”

“Holy mother of pearls!” Delilah shrieked, vaulting over the bar with the agility of a caffeinated squirrel.

She grabbed my face, turning it left and right.

“You look like you were sculpted by a Swiss watchmaker. And your hair! It's so sleek I could ice-skate on it. But wait—”

She stopped, her gaze dropping to my left hand.

“Was that text lying, or did you actually snare the King of the Billionaire Bastards?”

“The ring is real, if that's what you're asking,” I said, lifting my hand.

Delilah grabbed my wrist, pulling my hand toward her face until she was practically cross-eyed staring at the diamond.

“Good god, Sophia. This thing is the size of a skating rink. I think I can see my future in the reflections, and it looks like I’m finally retiring to a private island.”

She looked at me, her expression turning uncharacteristically serious.

“How? When? I'm your best friend. I know what you eat for breakfast, and I didn't even know you were in the same area code as Andrew Ashford. How did you pull off hiding this from me?”

“It happened fast, Dee,” I said, giving her the line I'd rehearsed.

“It all started last year, during my tutoring lessons with Noah, with the constant meeting between us, we just… sparked. He's private. I'm private. We didn't want the Lindsborg gossip mill turning our lives into a three-ring circus before we were ready.”

Delilah squinted at me, her pouty pink lips twitching.

“I want to believe you’re a secret romantic mastermind, but this feels like a plot twist from a telenovela.

Still, I’ll take it. As long as you’re happy and not being held hostage by a man with a god complex.”

“I'm fine,” I promised.

I'm just a very well-paid actress.

“And Daphne?” Delilah asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Please tell me there were sparks and a smell of ozone.”

“Better,” I leaned in.

“She accused my fiancé’s driver of being a common mugger. She thinks he pried my ring off the ‘unconscious fingers’ of some socialite in a parking garage. She's currently in a state of clinical salt-infused denial.”

Delilah barked out a laugh so loud Jimmy jumped.

“That sounds like our girl. If it didn't happen to her, it must be a felony. God, I'd pay a year's tips to see the look on her face when Ashford walks into your house for dinner.”

“DELILAH! The tap’s acting up again!” Jimmy hollered from the back, his voice strained.

“Kick it, Jimmy! If that doesn't work, tell it its mother was a toaster!” she yelled back without looking away from me.

She turned her attention to her nails, which were painted lime-green.

“Speaking of people who are going to have a heart attack, have you heard from Xavier?”

My heart gave a small, familiar tug.

Xavier Carmichael. My other half.

He and I had been inseparable since we were six years old, long before we'd picked up Delilah in our high school years.

He'd been away for almost two years, living the life of a tourist who spends his days at a pottery wheel.

“No, actually. I was thinking about him the other day. I haven't talked to him in a month.”

“Well, I caught him on a FaceTime last night,”

Delilah said, her voice dropping into a tone of pure dread.

“He's planning on proposing. To her.”

I felt the air leave my lungs.

“To Chelsea? You're joking. Tell me you're joking. That's not a marriage proposal, that's a suicide pact.”

She sighed.

“He's dead serious. He's shopping for rings. Not Ashford-sized rinks but rings nonetheless.”

“Why didn't he tell me?” I asked, a sting of genuine hurt blooming in my chest.

“He knows I hate her. He knows we hate her.”

“He said he tried calling you three times last week and it went straight to voicemail. He thought you were ghosting him.”

I groaned, my face in my hands.

“Daphne. She ‘accidentally’ knocked my phone into the sink while she was trying to film a makeup tutorial, and then Summer tried to dry it out by putting it in the microwave. The thing literally hissed at me before it died. I just got the new one activated yesterday.”

Delilah giggled, patting my shoulder.

“Well, look at it this way. You're engaged to a mogul and he knows nothing about it. I'd say you're both even on the ‘Massive Life Secret’ scoreboard.”

“I suppose,” I muttered.

“But seriously, Dee. Why is he actually thinking of marrying little miss Valak? Did he inhale too much clay dust? Is she holding a puppy at gunpoint?

“It's Válek, Sophie,” Delilah giggled.

“I know what her name is. I'm sticking with Valak. She has the same soul as that demon nun from The Conjuring. She's a vapid, soul-sucking social climber who treats Xavier like a fashion accessory.”

“I agree,” Delilah said, wiping a spill on the bar.

“But he's convinced she's ‘changed.’ I told him the only thing she found was his bank account, but he thought it was funny.”

“We have to stop him,” I said firmly.

How can I worry about Xavier when my own life is a house of cards?

“You worry about surviving the Ashford-Lorraine-Daphne trifecta first. One war at a time, babe.”

Before I could retort, my phone started to vibrate with a shrill, unfamiliar ringtone.

I fished it out, my heart skipping when I saw the caller ID.

It's Miss Tammy. Summer's teacher.

I hit accept immediately.

“Hello? Miss Tammy?”

“Sophia? Thank goodness,”

The teacher's voice was high-pitched and strained.

I could hear a muffled commotion in the background.

“You need to get to the school immediately. There’s been an incident with Summer.”

My blood went cold.

“Is she hurt? What happened?”

“She isn't physically injured, but she's… she's in a state. There was a physical altercation during recess.

A group of children were cornering her about her clothes and her ‘junk truck,’... She's in the principal’s office, and she refuses to speak to anyone but you.”

Those little beasts!

I hung up, and grabbed my purse.

“What is it?” Delilah asked, her playfulness vanishing.

“The vultures are circling. They're bullying Summer for being the poor kid. I have to go.” I said, heading for the door.

I ran out of the Rusty Anchor, the sunlight blinding me as I sprinted for my truck.

My five-year-old was fighting battles I didn't even know she was fighting, and I was going to help her be the flawless victor.