Page 22 of Married to the Devil

“How’d you get this last minute?” I whisper to Beth as we’re walking through the space. It’s set up for another event later in the evening but the owners let us take a quick glance around to start prepping.

“How do you think?” She rubs her fingers together and waggles her eyebrows.

I laugh, picturing Beth as a fiendish villain with endless pockets. “What’s the budget at now?”

“Well, since the timeline moved up⁠—“

“It did what?! What’s our deadline?!”

“Two weeks,” she admits sheepishly.

“Beth!”

“I know, I know. I only found out this morning. The lawyer sent an email, but also made it clear that money is no object⁠—“

“We can’t plan a Rotesbury wedding in two weeks. There’s no way we’ll get vendors.”

“Patrice can do the flowers, I already talked to her, and Larry’s catering isn’t busy⁠—“

“Larry’s catering is shit, that’s why.”

“They’re not that bad.”

I groan and lean against an ornate bannister. “I’ll make some calls. This is crazy, Beth. How are we going to pull this off?”

“Grit, hard work, and determination.” She hugs me tightly. “Imagine the check at the end. During the next two weeks⁠—“

“As I barely see my daughter,” I mutter irritably.

“—picture her in brand new shoes.”

“You’re a monster.”

“I most certainly am not.”

She’s right. Beth’s lovely. She’s only doing what she thinks is best for our business, and I can’t even come up with a good reason why we shouldn’t take this, so long as the client understands we’re doing the best we possibly can on an insane timeline.

Besides, I’ve met monsters.

I had one in my kitchen the night before.

Rafe keeps fluttering into my mind as we get to work. I try not to think about him, but he appears whenever he likes: when I’m picking Hattie up from school, when I’m cooking dinner, when I’m alone in the living room scrolling on my phone. I’ve done my best to push him from my thoughts over the years.

But now he’s back and I don’t understand why.

At least it seems like the men are gone. I don’t notice any strangers pacing me on the sidewalk or any odd cars parked near my house.

Marnie steps up. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She straight up moves in, dumping her bags in my third bedroom, and declares it hers for the next two weeks. “At least until you’re rich as hell,” she says, cracking open a bottle of wine on a Tuesday evening. “Then you’re paying my nannying rates.”

“Which are?”

“Exorbitant. Just ask Dennis’s lawyers.”

I survive. That’s about all I can do. Catering is a pain but I call in some favors, pay double rates, and lock down staff and food. I even get a live band, which demands way more money than they’re worth, but it’s easy to spend on someone else’s account.

Each night I read and sing to Hattie. It’s a week after Marnie moved in when my little girl hugs me before going to sleep and peers at me with those disconcerting gray eyes. “Mommy, do you know where Daddy is?”

I go cold all over. “What do you mean, baby? I told you, your dad doesn’t live with us.”