Chapter 1: The Return

My family hauled me back from the rural South like I was some old trunk they’d forgotten in the attic. My stepsister, Harper, gave my vintage dress a once-over and let out a snort. “Seriously? You think you’re June Cleaver or something? Stuck in the Stone Age much?”

I just offered her a quiet smile, biting back a retort as I moved to the coffee maker. I brewed her a fresh cup—carefully, methodically—stirring in the laxative with a flick of my wrist, my heart thumping with anticipation. I handed her the mug, my fingers steady, feeling a wicked little satisfaction curl in my chest.

I watched her take that first sip, the bitterness wrinkling her nose. She didn’t catch the sly tug at the corner of my mouth as I wiped my hands on my apron. Sunlight poured through the kitchen window, catching on the faded hem of my dress. The old percolator hissed, filling the room with the rich, nostalgic scent of Maxwell House coffee, and for a second, I felt like I was standing in two worlds at once.

When I returned to the Callahan family, aside from my father, no one welcomed me. Least of all my stepmother and stepsister.

The foyer was cold, echoing with the faint scent of Chanel No. 5 and the sharp tang of Clorox from the housekeeper’s morning mop. My stepmother’s Louboutin heels clicked on the marble as she gave me a once-over, her lips pressed into a Botoxed line. Harper’s eyes darted to my suitcase, like she expected mothballs or some embarrassing secret to tumble out.

“Who even wears stuff like that anymore?” Harper sneered, her phone already out, framing me for her Instagram story. “Are you sure you’re not stuck in the last century?”

She circled me like a predator, holding her phone high, probably picking out the best filter—maybe Clarendon, maybe Lo-Fi. Her followers would eat this up. I kept my hands folded in front of me, letting her words hang in the air, refusing to flinch or give her the drama she wanted.

I sat quietly and gracefully on the living room sofa, a total misfit among the Pottery Barn throw pillows and all the latest smart home gadgets—Alexa glowing blue, a Roomba humming in the corner, and a Nest thermostat glowing above the fireplace.

The sofa was buttery-soft leather, the throw pillows monogrammed with our initials. Alexa blinked on the coffee table, and the 75-inch Samsung TV played muted CNBC headlines. I perched at the edge, back ramrod straight, hands in my lap, feeling like the only antique in a room curated for Architectural Digest.

Stepmother let out a heavy sigh, “Savannah, if people see you dressed like this, they’ll think we’re neglecting you… Especially with the Whitmore family—your wedding’s coming up. You should care about both families’ reputation, right?”

She smoothed her silk Theory blouse, her voice sticky-sweet but her gaze razor-sharp. I caught her nails—perfect almond-shaped gels in the latest OPI mauve. I could see her already plotting how to spin this at the Peninsula Club or the next PTA wine night. In her world, image wasn’t just everything—it was survival.

I stayed silent, keeping my face blank.

Marriage. That was the real reason they’d dusted me off and brought me back.

The word dropped like a lead weight in the room, settling between us. My fingers picked at the lace hem of my dress, the familiar fabric suddenly feeling thin, not nearly enough to protect me from what was coming.

“Savannah,” my father said from across the table, his voice deep and businesslike, “your engagement to Harrison Whitmore was arranged a long time ago. The Whitmores want to get engaged first. Get ready—you’ll meet Harrison tomorrow night.”

He sounded like he was announcing a merger, not his daughter’s future. His Brooks Brothers tie was perfectly straight, his hair silver at the temples. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw regret flicker in his eyes, but it vanished as quick as it came.

I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper: “Alright.”

Dad, satisfied, headed upstairs.

His footsteps echoed on the hardwood, growing fainter as he disappeared. The silence he left behind was thick, like the air before a thunderstorm.

The second he was gone, Harper pounced: “Do you even know Harrison? Do you get him at all? You really think he’d ever go for you? You two are so not a match!”

She leaned in, her voice sharp and mean, the kind of tone meant to draw blood. I caught the sickly-sweet scent of her peppermint gum, the envy in her eyes almost palpable.

I dropped my gaze, folded my hands, and let my voice tremble just enough: “You’re right. I don’t know him, I don’t get him, and I’ve never thought about marrying him… Honestly, I’m terrified, but what can I do? Dad’s the boss.”

My voice cracked just a little, my shoulders sagging as I stared at the floor, letting my vulnerability seep through. It was an old trick, but it always worked—people love to underestimate the quiet ones.

Meek, innocent, pitiful—I slipped into the role like a second skin.

I watched as doubt flickered in Harper’s eyes. For a split second, she seemed to wonder if she’d gone too far, if maybe I really was as weak as I looked.

Harper hadn’t expected me to fold so easily and froze, thrown off her rhythm.

She hesitated, lips parted, clearly scrambling for her next insult. I kept my gaze glued to the rug, the picture of wounded pride.

After a pause, she spat, “You’re really pathetic!”

She tossed her hair and stomped to the far end of the sofa. Her words echoed, but I let them roll off me like rain on a waxed Barbour jacket.

Stepmother rolled her eyes, sighing with Oscar-worthy drama: “You went down South at three, so obviously you don’t know Harrison. He’s the only Whitmore heir, but his temper’s ice-cold. Refused to take over their global company, ran off to join the Army Rangers—came back with a wild streak.”

She recited his résumé like she was reading it off his LinkedIn, a mix of awe and warning in her voice. I pictured Harrison: square jaw, military posture, the kind of guy who’d rather skydive than play golf at the club. He sounded dangerous—and that made him interesting.

She draped an arm around my shoulders, squeezing a little too tight: “Look at your skinny arms and legs. If you marry him and he roughs you up, what’ll you do?”

Her perfume was choking up close, her grip almost bruising. I shifted away, feigning discomfort, letting her believe she had the upper hand. I stared at my knees, making my voice small and shaky.

I slid a little further from her and murmured, “Yeah, what would I do…”

I let the words trail off, inviting her to play the hero, knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist meddling.

Stepmother jumped at the chance: “You don’t have to be the one in this family alliance. If you’re not up for it, Harper can go instead. She’s tough—she won’t take crap from Harrison.”