Chapter 1: Goodbye to the Mansion

Some doors close with a whisper, others with a bank check and a goodbye you never see coming.

When I left the Governor’s Mansion in Maple Heights, the Governor handed me a check for fifty thousand dollars and the deed to a hundred acres of land. He slid the envelope across his mahogany desk, eyes fixed on the window behind me, as if I’d already disappeared. The room smelled like old leather and lemon polish—clean, cold, and final. Fifty grand and a hundred acres—more than some people get for a lifetime, less than what I thought I meant to him. I tried not to let my hands shake as I took it.

His voice was colder than the marble floors. "The new First Lady doesn’t want any baggage. She wants everything spotless."

He didn’t bother to look at me, his usual warmth gone, replaced with the formality of a judge handing down a sentence. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner made every second feel like a countdown.

"You can go," he said, waving a hand toward the door like I was the help. "But if, after three or five years, you really have nowhere else to turn, I can bring you back."

It sounded more like charity than kindness. I caught a twitch at the corner of his mouth—regret or relief, I’d never know.

I smiled, soft but proud. "Alright."

I tucked the envelope into my purse, the sharp edges of my new future pressing against my palm. I didn’t wait for him to say anything else. That night, I packed a battered suitcase with a few photos, a college sweatshirt, and a locket. By sunrise, I was driving a dusty Ford Taurus out of Maple Heights, chasing the horizon under a sky the color of new hope.

Two years later, I got a marriage proposal—a real one.

The letter arrived thick and cream-colored, with the Parker family crest stamped in gold. My hands shook as I ran my fingers over it, heart pounding like a warning and a promise all at once.

On the eve of my wedding, Derek Parker—my gentle, steady fiancé—took my hand as we rocked on the porch, the last streaks of sunset fading. He cleared his throat, nervous in a way I’d never seen.

"Someone big’s coming through town tomorrow. Just… be on your best behavior, okay?"

I stared, caught off guard. "Is this guest from Washington, D.C.?" My voice came out too loud, making a couple sparrows scatter from the porch rail. I clung to my mug, mind racing.

The Parkers practically ran Silver Hollow—if someone could make them nervous, it had to be someone huge. I could only think of D.C.

Derek nodded, eyes wide with awe. My fingers tapped my knee, feeling the shift in the air. My breath caught—a chill running down my spine, like my past was about to walk through my front door.

In two years, Derek only knew me as a widow—alone, with no one to call family. He didn’t know my husband never existed. My story was just that: a story, and this guest threatened to unravel it all.

I was about to ask more when a sharp knock rattled the front door. Derek squeezed my hand, jaw tight. "Stay calm. I’ll be back soon." He left, walking tall like he was heading into a boardroom, and I was left with a hundred questions.

That night, between dreams and waking, I found myself kneeling on a plush rug, hands trembling. The smell of cedar wax and heavy drapes pressed in. A golden hem swept into my view—powerful, untouchable. A man’s voice echoed, flat and final: "The daughter of the Johnson family is from a prominent line, beautiful and dignified, and is the Governor’s favored choice for First Lady. But she’s made it clear: before the wedding, you must leave the Mansion. Do you have any resentment?"

I lowered my eyes to the carpet, voice barely a whisper. "No, sir. No hard feelings."