Chapter 1: The Night Everything Broke

The year I turned eighteen was the year I first saw Julian Pierce—and from that moment, I was hooked.

It was the kind of crush that hits you out of nowhere, like a summer thunderstorm—fast, loud, and impossible to ignore. I remember standing out there in the sticky dusk by the old high school gym, watching him lean against his battered Chevy, all easy confidence and lazy grins, and thinking, Lord, I’d never seen anyone so alive. I swear, the whole world tilted just to give him center stage. For a second, I couldn’t even breathe.

I ignored every bit of small-town etiquette, brushed off my parents’ warnings, and followed him around like I’d been put under a spell. I trailed after him everywhere, day after day, not caring who saw. Sometimes I think back and wonder if I ever even tried to stop myself.

Didn’t matter if folks whispered about me at the diner or if my mama shot me those looks over the dinner table. I followed Julian from the football field to the riverbank, sneaking out after curfew just to catch a glimpse of him under the streetlights, my heart pounding like it was gonna break out of my chest. All those rules just faded away, like static on the radio. I barely even heard them anymore.

That all changed on my eighteenth birthday, when Julian threw me—hair a mess, knees scraped up—onto the front porch of the Stewart house.

The porch light flickered overhead, catching the wild tangle of my hair and the dirt smeared across my legs. I remember the screen door slamming behind me. That slam still rings in my ears. My dad’s face showed up in the doorway, jaw clenched, eyes already full of questions I couldn’t answer. I’ll never forget that look.

“Mr. Stewart, your daughter’s got no shame. Now that she’s not pure, no Pierce’ll have her.”

Julian’s words sliced through the night, loud enough for the neighbors to hear if they were listening from their porches. He didn’t even look at me when he said it, just flicked his cigarette into the flower bed and walked off, leaving me standing there, gutted, under that porch light.

After that, Julian signed up for deployment at a remote Army base out in the Nevada desert and vanished from my world.

He left behind nothing but rumors and a ghost of his laughter echoing down Main Street. Sometimes I’d see his mother at the grocery store, her face pinched and proud. She never looked at me. Or maybe she did, and I just didn’t see it. I’d wonder if he ever thought of me under those endless desert skies, or if he’d already forgotten.

That’s when it hit me: all those sweet words, all that affection—it was just payback for Savannah Blackwell. The girl he’d lost, wild-hearted Savannah, who died years before.

The truth washed over me in slow, sickening waves. Every time he’d brushed my hair from my face, every promise whispered in the back seat of his car—it was never about me. I was just a stand-in for a memory, a way to scratch at old wounds that never healed. The town still talked about Savannah, the girl who ran barefoot through the woods and died too young, and now I was tangled in her legend, too.

I still remember the night they came for my father. Later, he was framed and arrested over the scandal, dying in jail from heartbreak and humiliation.

They said it was embezzlement, but everyone knew better. That shame followed him right to his grave. I never got to say goodbye—just a phone call in the middle of the night, my mother’s voice shaking as she told me he was gone. After that, folks in Maple Heights stopped meeting my eyes at church. I felt it every Sunday.

My mom stopped getting dressed in the morning. She started talking to people who weren’t there, spiraling into depression and delusions.

She wandered the house in her bathrobe, talking to shadows, clutching old photographs like they might keep her anchored. Sometimes she’d call me by Savannah’s name, and I’d just let her, too tired to argue anymore. There were days I barely recognized her, and nights when I wondered if she recognized me.

And me? Once the pride of Maple Heights, I became someone else’s kept woman, trampled into the mud by every pair of boots that passed by.

There was a time when people would nod and smile at me on Main Street, when teachers would ask me to help out at the bake sale or the church picnic. I remember Mrs. Wallace pressing a pie into my hands, or the way Pastor Greene would ask me to sing at the Christmas service. Now, I was a ghost in my own hometown, the girl you didn’t talk about at family dinners.

Ten years later, I saw Julian again.

My stomach flipped. I’d almost convinced myself I’d never run into him again, that our lives had split for good. But fate, especially in a town like this, has a mean sense of humor. That night, it threw him right back into my orbit, just to see what I’d do.

“Miss Stewart, Mr. Yeager’s throwing a party at the Magnolia Club tonight. He wanted me to remind you to dress up nice—don’t embarrass him.”

The housekeeper dipped his head, but I caught the sneer anyway. He didn’t even try to hide it.

He wore the Yeagers’ uniform—a crisp white shirt, pressed slacks—but his voice dripped with contempt. Even the way he stood said it: I was furniture, not family. In this house, respect was just another cheap mask people wore when it suited them.

I answered coolly and took Ronnie back to our room. The hallway lights flickered as we walked, shadows stretching long across the floor.

I kept my voice even, not letting the housekeeper see the way my hands trembled. Ronnie’s little fingers found mine, squeezing tight. I drew him close, trying to shield him from the world we lived in. Our room was small, but when I closed the door, I could almost pretend we were safe for a little while.

Ronnie was only nine, but more grown-up than most kids. Still, at times like this, his small hand would grip the hem of my dress, holding on like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.

He’d learned too early how to read a room, how to sense when trouble was coming. I knelt down, smoothed his hair, and whispered, “It’s okay, baby. I’ll be back before you wake up.” It was a lie, but I needed him to believe it—just this once.

I didn’t have a choice. I was Mason Yeager’s kept woman. My survival depended on him, so I couldn’t say no, no matter how much I wanted to.

Sometimes I’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the times I’d said yes when every bone in my body wanted to scream no. But the rent was paid, and Ronnie was fed, and that counted for something in a world that had taken everything else from us. That was what I told myself, anyway.

After soothing Ronnie and fixing my hair and makeup, I rode in the Yeager family’s black SUV to the Magnolia Club. The city lights flickered by, cold and distant.

I checked my reflection in the backseat window, painting on a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. The Magnolia Club’s neon sign buzzed as we pulled up, the doorman giving me a knowing nod, like he saw right through me. The air inside was thick with perfume and cigar smoke, the kind that sticks to your skin.

The Magnolia Club was buzzing more than usual on this early spring night. Glasses clinked, laughter spilled out from behind closed doors, and the air vibrated with secrets and deals. Even the waitstaff moved with extra care, eyes wide and backs straight. You could smell the money in the air, mixed with the faint tang of whiskey and cologne.

“Hey Mason, you really outdid yourself. I heard this Miss Stewart was once the most sought-after girl in Maple Heights. Back then, catching a glimpse of her was like trying to touch the stars.”

Cliff Anderson’s voice boomed out, all fake awe and good-old-boy charm. I felt their eyes on me—measuring, remembering, trying to match me to the stories they’d heard in locker rooms and pool halls.

“Aw, you’re too kind, Cliff.”