2. Sophia
Sophia
The Heiress
Icould swear on everything in my damn trust fund that if my father texted or called me one more time, I’d make sure my face ended up on the news.
Nothin’ set me off more than feeling like the trapped, idyllic princess he needed me to be, and nothing made him more furious than me acting any other way than a wealthy heiress with a good head on her shoulders should.
He and my stepmom raised me to be prim, proper, and submissive, and as much as they hated to see past their straight, unwavering lines, they knew I was anything but.
Yet, they still tried.
My phone buzzed repeatedly from inside my purse on the passenger seat, the vibrations so loud, I knew my phone had slipped down to the bottom of my bag and met the barrel of my gun.
I wondered how my parents would feel knowing I kept a gun on me at all times, and that I’d won more competitions in sharpshooting than I ever had as a debutante.
All were small town club matches, but those still counted.
I sighed and stepped on the gas, letting the V12 engine roar over the sounds coming from my bag. I just wanted to forget about the obligations that were encroaching with each passing day, the reminders of what I was being forced into, whether I wanted to or not.
I’d hoped going to see my best friend, Lyra, in her new life would distract me from mine, but with nothing but cows, trees, and fields outside my window, it was all I could think about.
The day she moved out of our apartment a few weeks ago, I was almost happy she wouldn’t see me doing the same so soon after.
When Lyra called me and told me she’d gotten married, I thought she was jokin’.
Some odd form of warped reality had come and twisted our lives, kind of like that one Freaky Friday movie where the mother and daughter switch places.
That was supposed to be my life—gettin’ married, settlin’ down, probably thinking of kids—though her relationship seemed born of love, and the one I had was… not.
The clouds were rolling by fast, moisture in the air forcing my hair into the curly mess it naturally was. I’d tried my best to straighten it this morning, like I usually did, but the south always had other plans.
Claiming my own life, like I’d done by moving to Georgia all them years ago, had come with change. A lot of it.
A necessity that would soon be as useless as doing my hair was with this Florida weather.
My phone buzzed angrily once more, the screen on my car’s dashboard letting me know my father was calling again. I glared at my bag like it was the thing doin’ me so wrong. Like it was the reason why my life would never truly be my own, no matter how far I ran.
At least for the night I could pretend my life was different.
Before everything upended, I could spend one more night with my best friend before heading back to Georgia, packing my things, and heading back home to Texas.
Back to oil rigs and men who eyed me down like their next paycheck.
Technically, I was the biggest walking paycheck left in those parts.
For a woman, at least.
My map pulled my attention back to the road, where dirt and patches of sugar sand kicked up behind my red Ferrari, spewin’ it into thick clouds, coverin’ up anything visible through the rear and side-view mirrors.
I’d finally reached the end, the map guiding me up a winding driveway where a rather picturesque farmhouse sat at the top of a small hill.
For a beat, I paused and wondered if I should call Lyra to make sure this Carver guy who she married had given me the right address.
If it weren’t for the way my father was calling every ten minutes, I’d think Carver was hired to kidnap and deliver me back to him. Men made me weary, and men who lived in seclusion on this much land? That was like walking right into a lion’s den. And now that that thought had entered my head…
What the fuck am I doing here?
I twisted my hands around the steering wheel and debated sifting my phone out to call Lyra, hoping it wouldn’t go to voicemail again.
Maybe hearing her voice, hearing that she was safe and happy and was where she wanted to be, would put me at ease.
She’s in love. She’s in love. She married him because she loves him.
That concept alone was foreign to me. The world I was raised in showed me women in our standing were only meant to create offspring for the wealthiest men.
They raised their children—along with the help of several nannies—while their husband’s went on business trips and fucked every secretary or personal assistant they wanted.
Those children you spent your life preparing for, who were ultimately unloved while mommy shoved pills down her throat to forget about the life she could have had if her name wasn’t tied to money, would grow up the same way.
Rinse.
Repeat.
I’d fled that life, and for nearly ten years, my parents believed I was out bettering myself—going on wellness retreats, maybe spending a few days on a yacht I’d have no interest in being on.
Using the time I had to connect with myself while waiting on my future husband to finish college.
That was the deal. That charade was crushed about two weeks ago when my father showed up at the restaurant I worked in, saw me in my waitressing outfit, and almost had a coronary.
I knew the life I’d created was over before he even opened his mouth.
Pulling into a spot beside a horse trailer, I parked, then ran my nails through my hair as I stared at the wooden posts of the wrap-around porch.
I tilted my head, picturing them more metallic and sturdy, with nothin’ but a bunkbed and a toilet behind them.
Sometimes I wondered if goin’ to prison would keep me from my future, make me less desirable once bail was posted.
Who’d want a felon for a wife in a world where appearances were everything?
Or would getting thrown behind bars do nothing for my image, and get swept away like anything else the wealthy hid?
“Don’t be fucking dumb, Sophia,” I muttered to myself, then grabbed the strap of my purse and exited the car.
I stood there for a moment and listened to the silence—the complete stillness and peace of the land in a small, quiet, little nothin’ town.
I took a deep breath and worked my way to the porch steps, knowing I’d never have this life, but if anyone deserved it, it was Lyra.
Not me.
I fixed my smile to the acceptable, subtle one I’d practiced since a young age, pushing away every thought and feeling like I’d also been raised to do, and knocked on the door.