Chapter 23 Sophie
SOPHIE
The rustle of papers and zipping backpacks fills the classroom as Professor Nelson dismisses us.
My pen is still balanced between my fingers, spinning slowly, while I stare at the notes I barely absorbed.
It’s Friday morning, which should feel like a relief, but instead, my brain is already three steps ahead—packing, flight times, making sure Ava feeds Snickers while I’m gone.
I slide my notebook into my bag and sling it over my shoulder just as Beck’s voice cuts through the low chatter. “Hey, Sophie.”
I glance up. He’s leaning casually against the desk next to mine, hands shoved in the front pocket of his hoodie. His hair’s still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he looks unfairly good compared to my post six a.m workout mess.
“You got time Sunday to meet up and start the project?” he asks. “Might be good to at least outline things before the week gets away from us.”
Guilt prickles in my stomach. “Oh—uh, actually, no. I’m leaving in like an hour.”
His brows lift slightly. “Leaving?”
“For my sister’s bachelorette weekend,” I explain. “We’re heading up to Napa for a few days. I won’t be back until late Sunday night.”
For half a second, something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe—before he nods. “Got it. That sounds…fun.”
“It’ll be a lot,” I say with a laugh. “Claire doesn’t do ‘low-key.’”
“I can imagine.” His mouth tips up into a small grin. “So, you’ll miss the game tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I make a face. “I already told Ava to scream extra loud for me. I’ll be checking my phone for updates the whole time, though.”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and easy. “I’ll try to give you something worth checking for.”
The words catch me off guard, heat blooming in my cheeks before I can stop it. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my pulse suddenly skips.
“I don’t doubt you will,” I say, aiming for casual but probably failing.
He pushes off the desk, shouldering his backpack. “Well, we can figure out a time next week to get started. Travel safe, Soph.”
The way he says it—soft, sincere—makes my stomach do that fluttery thing again.
“Thanks, Beck,” I manage, offering him a quick smile before heading toward the door, feeling his gaze linger just a second longer than usual.
By the time the party bus pulls into the long, winding driveway of the villa, I’m convinced Claire missed her calling as a cruise director.
“Okay, ladies!” she announces from the front row, already on her feet before the bus comes to a full stop. “This weekend is all about celebrating love, laughter, and my last days as a Prescott.”
The girls erupt into cheers, champagne glasses clinking even though it’s barely past noon. I press my forehead to the cool window, taking in the stretch of vineyards rolling toward the horizon. The sun is warm, the sky an endless sweep of California blue, and the villa is…well, ridiculous.
Three stories of pale stone and terracotta roofs, framed by manicured hedges and white roses climbing trellises. A fountain gurgles in the circular driveway, because of course it does.
“Holy crap,” one of Claire’s college friends breathes as the doors open. “Are we in a movie right now?”
I laugh under my breath. “Nope. Just my sister’s idea of a ‘low-key’ weekend.”
Claire turns and shoots me a look over her shoulder, hearing me. “You only get one bachelorette party, Soph! We’re doing this right.”
I follow everyone off the shuttle, the warm breeze carrying the scent of lavender and citrus. A staff member in a crisp white shirt hands us each a glass of sparkling rosé the moment we step onto the gravel. Claire’s fiancé’s family owns the place—or at least one of their friends does—and it shows.
“Remind me again,” one of the bridesmaids asks as we trail behind Claire toward the massive front doors, “your parents are rich, right?”
I snort softly. “Yeah. But her fiancé is rich, rich.”
“Got it. Like ‘private jet for a wine weekend’ rich.”
“Exactly.”
The doors swing open to reveal an airy interior that smells faintly of lemon and fresh flowers. There’s a grand staircase curving up either side of the entryway, and beyond that, floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the vineyard like a painting.
Claire is in her element—handing out personalized welcome bags, ushering everyone to their rooms, rattling off the itinerary she’s clearly been fine-tuning for months. And I can’t help but smile, even as I trail behind the pack, sipping my drink.
This is her world. The flawless, glittering, champagne-fueled kind of world. Mine’s a little messier. Louder. More grounded.
But she’s my sister, and if there’s ever a weekend to let her be the star, it’s this one.
By late afternoon, the villa is buzzing with activity.
Luggage is unpacked, dresses hung, and someone’s already opened the fourth bottle of champagne.
Claire has us all gather on the back patio as the sun starts dipping toward the vineyards, painting everything in that soft, golden light that makes Napa look like a postcard.
“Okay!” she announces, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention.
She’s wearing a white sundress, her hair in perfect loose curls, glowing in a way only brides-to-be seem to manage.
“Tonight is all about food, wine, and fun. So without further ado…” She gestures dramatically toward the long farmhouse table set up under twinkle lights. “Welcome to dinner!”
The staff glide out with trays like we’re at some five-star resort, laying out dishes of roasted vegetables, herbed chicken, pasta tossed in lemon cream sauce, and baskets of fresh bread that smell downright sinful. My stomach growls, and I suddenly realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
We take our seats, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine.
Claire’s bridesmaids are mostly her friends from college—polished and effortlessly glamorous.
They tell stories about wild nights out, wedding prep disasters narrowly avoided, and share a laugh at the groom’s reaction when he saw the custom suit Claire picked.
I chime in here and there, but mostly I sit back, enjoying the rhythm of it all.
One thing about it, there is zero doubt that Tucker is madly in love with my sister.
“So, Soph.” One of the bridesmaids—Sabrina, I think—leans across the table with a sly smile. “Any cute guys back at school? Or have you still sworn off dating after Zach the Jackass?”
I nearly choke on my sip of wine. “Zach the what?”
She grins. “Claire told us everything. He sounds like the worst.”
I laugh weakly, setting my glass down. “That’s…one way to put it.”
Another bridesmaid, a tall brunette named Jules, props her chin on her hand. “I can’t believe your mom wanted you to stay with him. Like, ew. No.”
“Welcome to being a Prescott,” I mutter, earning a sympathetic look from across the table.
Sabrina nudges my arm. “Seriously, though. Anyone new?”
My mind flashes—annoyingly—to Beck. His easy grin, the way he opens doors for me without thinking twice, the solid warmth of his chest when I’d hugged him after the game. I catch myself staring down at my plate a second too long.
“Uh,” I stall, spearing a roasted carrot with my fork. “I’ve been busy. Classes. Cheer. Volunteering. You know.”
Claire raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow from the head of the table. “Translation…yes. His name is Beck, he plays football, plus our mom and dad already met him.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s new.”
Her grin is pure older-sister mischief. “Mmhmm.”
The night stretches on with toasts and laughter, the kind that bubbles in your chest and makes your cheeks hurt. By the time dessert is cleared—mini lemon tarts and chocolate truffles—the stars are out, the air cooling just enough that we all huddle closer to the heaters set around the patio.
I lean back in my chair, wrapping my sweater tighter around me, watching Claire glow in the center of it all. For a moment, I let myself breathe.
Hours later, the villa is quieter, but not by much. Claire’s “no sleeping early” decree has everyone piled into the biggest suite—hers, obviously—dressed in silk pajamas with messy hair and flushed cheeks from too much wine and laughter.
The massive bed is covered in throw pillows and snacks.
Someone set up a portable speaker playing soft pop in the background, and half the bridal party is already in face masks.
It feels like one of those sleepovers we used to have as kids—except with four-hundred-dollar skincare and Veuve Clicquot instead of popcorn and Capri Suns.
I’m curled up in one of the armchairs by the window, legs tucked underneath me, nursing a sparkling water. It’s late enough that the edges of the conversations have softened, less boisterous, more confessional.
Sabrina leans back on her elbows, curiosity lighting up her eyes. “Okay, but I have to ask. Why Zach? Like, what was it about him that your parents were so obsessed with?”
I let out a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Oh, you mean besides the fact that his parents also have a wing named after them on the PCU campus?”
A few of the girls whistle, and Claire groans. “The Pierce family. Old money. Political ties. The whole package.”
“Exactly,” I say, fiddling with the edge of my sleeve.
“My parents have been friends with Zach’s parents for years.
They sit on the same charity boards, go to the same galas.
When we started dating, it wasn’t really about us—it was about what it looked like.
A perfect, polished match. The Prescotts and the Pierces. ”
Jules raises an eyebrow. “So, basically a merger, but make it romantic.”
“Pretty much.” I smile wryly. “Our families have this…intertwined history. If we’d gotten engaged, it would’ve cemented everything—social status, influence, appearances. My mom loved that idea. Zach fits the image she’s always wanted me to maintain.”
Claire sighs from the bed. “Mom’s obsessed with that world. Always has been. I don’t think she even saw Zach. She saw a Pierce. A name.”
The words hit deeper than I expect. Because it’s true. I’d spent so long molding myself into what my parents expected, into the picture of a perfect daughter, that somewhere along the way, I lost track of what I actually wanted.
Sabrina tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Honestly? Sounds exhausting.”
“It was.” I sink back into the chair, gaze drifting to the dark vineyards through the window. “And I kept telling myself that if I just held on long enough, maybe he’d become the person they thought he was. But he didn’t. He got worse. And I finally…couldn’t do it anymore.”
The room goes quiet for a beat, softer now. Even Claire looks a little misty-eyed, though she covers it by shoving a chocolate truffle into her mouth.
“Good for you,” Jules says finally. “Seriously. That takes guts.”
My chest loosens at the unexpected solidarity. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I guess it does.”
My room is quiet when I push the door open, the soft lamp by the bed casting a golden pool of light over the crisp white sheets. I close the door behind me and lean against it for a second, letting out a slow breath.
The vineyard beyond the window is wrapped in darkness, only a few scattered lights dotting the landscape. It’s peaceful here, almost too peaceful.
I peel off my robe and crawl into bed, the sheets cool against my skin. My phone sits face-up on the nightstand, Beck’s name near the top of my messages list. I pick it up, staring at the blank text box for a good thirty seconds.
What do I even say?
I type:
Good luck at your game tomorrow!
My thumb hovers over send. It’s just a text. Friendly. Normal. Except it doesn’t feel normal, not when my heart is suddenly beating way too fast for a handful of words.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately lock my phone and set it down like it’s a ticking bomb.
Two seconds later, it vibrates.
Beck: thanks, Soph. how’s the bachelorette party?
It’s good. I think we’ve gone through about ten bottles of champagne already today, but it’s been fun.
Beck: aren’t these the things that normally involve strippers of some sort?
I can’t hold back the laugh that escapes my mouth.
Maybe some do, but definitely not my sister. Those aren’t really her style. Or mine, for that matter.
Beck: noted. so what is your style? can’t be the Pierce guy.
You.
That thought takes me by complete surprise, and I have to pause before typing out a reply that completely evades the real question.
Hmm. I don’t know. Probably a night in, cooking a meal together and eating it while watching a show. How about you?
Beck: that honestly sounds right up my alley too. I have to get to bed, but I hope you enjoy your weekend with your sister. night, Soph.
Goodnight.
I slide deeper under the covers, phone still in my hand, rereading the message like a total idiot. Finally, I tuck it under my pillow, turn off the lamp, and stare up at the dark ceiling with a warm, fluttery feeling in my chest.