Page 71 of Play Fake
“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 thepictureof 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.”
