“You mean we’d have to be manipulative,” Claire said, wincing.
“No, I mean what I said. Careful. Get her to talk about him, ask her questions about what she likes about him, things like that. Help her realize it all on her own.”
Iris paced, her thumbnail in her mouth. “Yes. That’s perfect. It needs to be her idea or she’ll never see it. You know Delilah’s right, Claire.”
Claire rubbed her eyes under her glasses. Delilah was right. Astrid would never, ever walk away from something she’d committed to unless it was her idea. Isabel raised her to be ruthless like that, always in control, always the one with the upper hand. Honestly, this die-hard trait was why Claire believed Astrid chose Spencer in the first place. He called the shots. He wore the pants. Astrid had been the perfect student, tried hard to be the perfect daughter, and now she was the perfect business manager. So for this one area in her life, she didn’t have to work so hard. She didn’t have to constantly be thinking about how to make her relationship succeed.
She just had to say yes to everything her already-perfect fiancé said.
Claire felt an almost unbearable sadness settle over her at the thought. She had to believe there were plenty of men out there who would love partnering with Astrid, working together to be successful together—or hell, even failing together—instead of this imbalance of power she had with Spencer.
“All right,” Claire said. “It’s a start, I guess.”
“Exactly,” Iris said. “So we’re all agreed”—here she waved her hand in a dramatic circle to include Delilah—“that our plan is getting her to talk and think about Spencer and his douchebag ways.”
Claire nodded while Delilah simply stood up, tightened her robe belt, and headed for the door.
Iris cleared her throat.
“What?” Delilah asked, dropping her phone into her robe’s pocket and slinging her camera bag over her shoulder. “You want to come up with a secret handshake or something?”
Iris just glared.
Chapter Twelve
DELILAH HAD NO clue what she’d been thinking.
She’d had her own plan—annoy Astrid to within an inch of her life about the human germ she’d chosen to marry, becoming the proverbial thorn in Astrid’s side during what should’ve been the happiest time in her life. Was Delilah an asshole for hatching this little scheme? Possibly. Okay, probably. But it was harmless fun, just little dips into the river and some broken glass, a way to hold on to a little bit of control, which Astrid—and Isabel, for that matter—always had in spades. Astrid was going to do what she wanted, no matter what her stepsister did, and Delilah had no doubt these two weeks would end with the happy couple sailing off into the sunset and Delilah heading back to New York with fifteen grand in her pocket, no harm, no foul.
Besides, what did she care if Astrid married this guy? What did she care if Astrid yessed her way to popping out a hundred babies in Seattle? What did she care if Astrid tied on an apron every night to cook her man’s dinner? Maybe Astrid liked doing all those things. Feminism, after all, was about equal respect for equal work, not ensuring a woman never baked a cake or fetched a cold one.
But then Claire had turned her doe eyes on Delilah. She’d been so . . . dammit, so sweet in her care for Astrid, her genuine worry, and Delilah had cracked like an egg. She’d never given in to anyone so easily in her life, and she still wasn’t exactly sure what the hell had happened back in their room, how she’d ended up helping the fucking coven break up her stepsister’s wedding. She’d get paid no matter what—compensation was guaranteed even in the event of a wedding cancellation, a little clause she’d added to her standard contract especially for her beloved stepfamily—and so here she was, collaborating with Astrid’s BFFs, helping them take down the patriarchy one dickbag at a time.
When they reached Astrid’s door, Delilah hung back, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She’d agreed to help, but distance was good here. A there’s you and then there’s me sort of message to Iris and Claire.
But then Claire sidled up next to her, shoulder brushing hers, smelling like clean laundry and that meadowy scent Delilah remembered from that night at Stella’s.
“Do you think this will work?” Claire whispered as Iris knocked on Astrid’s door.
Her breath smelled like mint, and Delilah found herself wishing she’d thought to brush her own damn teeth.
“I have no idea,” Delilah said, and then thought of adding something salty like, Maybe Astrid and Spencer are actually MFEO, but then she turned enough to meet Claire’s eyes, saw hope and something else in all that deep brown, that same flicker of interest as when Delilah had helped Ruby with her dress, and nerves fluttered low in her belly.