One Of Our Kinks

CHAPTER 4

Sophia

One Of Our Kinks

The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth.

After dropping Summer at school, and receiving a sticky, strawberry-scented kiss on the cheek that reminded me exactly why I was doing this.

Then I drove to Mr Ashford's house.

The rattling of my truck felt like a countdown I wasn't ready to finish.

Mrs Henley met me at the door with a polite welcoming smile, her silver hair perfectly coiffed.

She was a woman of crisp linens and a soft British accent that always made me feel more like a guest than a delivery girl.

“Morning, Mrs Henley.”

“Good morning, Sophia,” she said warmly.

“He's in the study. I believe they're waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Mrs Henley. I'll try not to track any mud in.”

“Don’t worry, a little mud won't hurt anyone dear.”

I walked toward the study and pushed the heavy oak doors.

Inside, Mr Ashford was perched on the edge of his desk.

He was wearing a white two-piece lounge set—a cashmere-blend hoodie and matching joggers.

The sleeves were pushed up to his veiny forearms, revealing a Rolex that looked like it cost more than my education.

He looks like he's posing for a magazine, and I'm trying not to sweat through my shirt.

Sharon was there, too, pacing.

She looked like a gray-and-red thundercloud in a tight pencil skirt and a blouse that matched her fiery hair.

Standing near the window was a younger man in a sharp navy suit, looking significantly less stressed than everyone else.

Sharon stopped mid-stride the second I entered.

“You're late. Let me guess, the truck was having a mid-life crisis again?”

“Actually, Sharon, I was busy saving my niece from the traumatic experience of a public school bus,” I countered, sliding into the leather chair.

“Some of us have responsibilities that don't involve color-coding our hair to our outfits.”

Mr Ashford let out a quiet, amused huff.

“Ladies, as much as I enjoy the verbal sparring, we have a legal deadline. Can we sign the paperwork before the sun sets?”

He gestured toward the lawyer.

“Sophia, this is Jeffrey Cunningham. My lawyer and the only person I trust with my secrets.”

The man in the suit stepped forward, offering a friendly hand. “Jeffrey.”

“Sophia,” I said, shaking his hand.

“I've never drawn up a contrast as speedily as this one in my entire career,” Jeffrey said, pulling a thick stack of papers from his briefcase.

“Usually, people take weeks to decide on the pet custody clauses. You two are moving at a speed that is frankly terrifying for my insurance premiums.”

He laid the documents out on the desk, flipping to the highlighted sections.

“Read it thoroughly. Every clause. Every comma. Once the ink is dry, this is a binding reality.”

I scanned the pages. My eyes skipped over the legal jargon until I saw a particular section.

I looked up at Mr Ashford.

“It says here I'll be living here, sir? Like, in this house? Every day?”

Mr Ashford leaned back, a small, lopsided smirk playing on his lips.

“Well, it's a bit hard to convince the world we're madly in love if you're sleeping five miles away on a farm, Sophia. Besides, this'll save me a whole year of strawberry delivery f*e.”

“Is there anything else you'd like to add before we finalize?” Jeffrey asked, tapping his pen.

I looked at Mr Ashford.

I thought of my mother and Daphne.

If I was going to be a villain in their story, I was going to be an untouchable one.

“Just one thing. I want a fidelity clause.”

The room went dead silent.

Jeffrey's pen stopped mid-tap.

Sharon's eyebrows shot so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“A fidelity clause?” Sharon repeated, sounding like she'd just heard me suggest we sacrifice a goat.

“Sophia, you do realize this isn't a real engagement, right? He's not actually your fiancé.”

“I know that,” I said, looking Sharon dead in the eye.

“But the world won't. I won't have the man I'm publicly tied to being photographed leaving a club with a different woman every weekend.

I'm not doing this to be humiliated. If I'm the ‘fiancée,’ then for the next year, Andrew Ashford is off the market. No side pieces. No exceptions.”

​

Mr Ashford's eyes widened slightly, a look of genuine surprise on his face.

He let out a low whistle.

“So, I can't mess around? That's the price?”

“That's it,” I said firmly.

“You're sure you don't want something else?”

Mr Ashford asked, his voice tilting into that dark, playful register.

“A house in your name? Diamonds? A car that doesn't sound like a dying lawnmower?”

“No, sir. I want your word and your signature on that clause, or I'm not doing it.”

Because money can be spent, but a man's reputation is the only thing that can keep my mother's mouth shut.

“If that's the case then I'll expect the same from you.” he said.

“Fair enough.”

Mr Ashford looked at me for a long beat, then looked at Jeffrey.

“Add it in. I think I can manage to be a one-woman man for a year. It's a deal.”

Jeffrey shrugged, scribbled a note, and we all signed.

“This contract stays behind these doors. If a word of this leaks, the legal fallout will be the least of your worries.” he warned, packing his things.

“We'll talk later,”

He nodded to Sharon—who gave him a familiar, weary wave—and let himself out.

“So, what now?” I asked the two of them.

​

Mr Ashford reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small red velvet box.

He flipped it open.

Inside was the ring from the photo—a flawless princess-cut diamond that looked like it had been carved out of a glacier.

​”Now, we mark the territory.” He said, standing up and walking around the desk.

He took my hand—his fingers were warm and surprisingly steady—and slid the ring onto my finger.

It was heavy.

It felt like a golden shackle, but a very, very beautiful one.

“It's… it's beautiful,” I whispered, genuinely transfixed.

“I'm glad you like it. Because now we move on to the important things.”

“Like what?”

Sharon stood up, smoothing her skirt.

“Like the fact that you look like you just crawled out of a haystack.

You've just signed a million-dollar contract to be a fiancée, Sophia. You can't go around addressing him as ‘Mr Ashford’ or ‘Sir’ like you're his stable hand. You need a complete overhaul.”

Mr Ashford chuckled.

“We could just tell everyone the ‘sir’ thing is one of our kinks. People love a bit of scandal. It makes the love story feel more… authentic.”

​”Be serious, Andrew,” Sharon snapped, then turned to me.

“Get up. We're going shopping. You need a haircut, a makeover, and an entire wardrobe that doesn't involve the word ‘plaid.’

And we have exactly six hours to do that,”

“And after that? When she's done peeling my skin off?”

“After that, you come back here,” he said, checking his watch.

“And we get down to the ‘knowing each other’ part. We need a backstory that doesn't have holes. But for now, I'm late for a board meeting. Try to survive Ronnie. And don't worry—I’ve already cleared a spot in my bed for the new you.”

My heart did a violent somersault.

His bed?

After dropping that bomb, he just… left.

I followed Sharon out, the heavy diamond weighing heavily on my finger.

I was officially a million-dollar lie, and as the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind me, I realized the hardest part wasn't going to be the acting—it was going to be remembering that none of this was real.