Chapter 1: The Sting of Obligation

At the charity polo match, Chris Howell’s mallet slammed into my calf, hard enough to make me stumble—just so his mentor’s daughter could take the prize.

The sting from that blow still lingered on my skin—though by now, the bruise had faded, replaced by a deeper ache that had nothing to do with muscle. The field, the sunlight bouncing off the horses' coats, the smell of fresh-cut grass—sometimes it all came back to me in flashes, especially in the quiet hours after dinner, when I’d rub my calf absentmindedly and remember how Chris hadn’t even looked my way. The crowd’s cheers blurred into static. I pressed my palm over the bruise, wishing it would swallow the ache growing inside me.

Half a month later, he finally showed up at our house in Evanston.

I still remember the sharp autumn light slanting through the big maples out front, coloring the porch steps in streaks of gold. Mom’s favorite pumpkin-scented candle was burning in the hallway. A faint breeze rattled the storm windows, carrying the distant rumble of the El. Chris came in like he always did—barely knocking, a little too at home. His eyes swept the foyer, but he didn’t linger, his presence like a cold draft slipping through the open door.

“Before my mentor passed, he asked me to look after Lily.”

His voice was even, not quite apologetic, not quite proud. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, as if he was just delivering news instead of an explanation for months of silence.

“She’s like a little sister to me, that’s all. Don’t make it weird.”

I nodded silently, saying nothing. My jaw locked. I bit the inside of my cheek, tasting metal.

It was funny, in a way—how my silence said more than any accusation could. I could feel the words crowding my chest, but they stayed locked behind my teeth. I simply studied the faded wood grain of the hallway floor, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattle.

He didn’t know.

That day, when I got home, I agreed to the engagement, my signature sealing the deal on a stack of monogrammed stationery from the Parker family.

I did it quietly, over a mug of spiced tea, the steam curling around my fingers. I felt nothing, or maybe everything at once—like plunging my hand into a snowbank and not being able to tell if it was numb or just cold.