Chapter 1: The Price of Playing Nice

When I was younger, I dated Tyler Grant for three months—back before things fell apart.

Back then, everything felt like the start of something big, but in reality, it fizzled out before it even had a chance to spark. I remember the way Tyler used to lean against his old Chevy, arms crossed, giving me that half-smirk that said he knew something I didn’t. God, that look. Even then, I could tell I wasn’t the wild card he was looking for.

He said I was too well-behaved—not wild enough to keep things interesting.

His words stuck with me, echoing in my head late at night when the house was quiet and the only sound was the hum of the fridge. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be exciting. Still, trying to force it felt like wearing someone else’s skin. I was the kind of girl who remembered to send thank-you notes and always got her library books back on time—straight-up poster child for “Midwest nice.” Tyler needed someone who’d sneak out past curfew, not someone who worried about overdue fines.

I spent a couple weeks hanging out with my childhood friend, Mariah, who practically invented the rebel act. She blew a smoke ring in my face and told me to quit pretending—I was never going to be the bad girl type, so I should just stick to my books.

Mariah was a force of nature, always in ripped jeans and combat boots, with chipped nail polish and a devil-may-care attitude that made people stare. She’d laugh at my attempts to keep up—always with that raspy voice, all cigarettes and midnight secrets—and tell me stories about skipping school or sneaking into concerts. When she called me out, it stung, but deep down I knew she was right. Some people are born to break the rules. Me? I was meant to color inside the lines and maybe alphabetize the crayons.

I accepted it. Honestly, it wasn’t as cold as it sounds. After a lot of late-night soul-searching and realizing love wouldn’t pay my rent, I set my sights on landing a rich guy.

It wasn’t as cold as it sounds. My mom used to say, “Romance is nice, honey, but you can’t eat it for dinner.” She wasn’t wrong. I wanted more than just butterflies; I wanted security, the kind that comes with a solid 401(k) and a house that doesn’t have leaky pipes. So I traded daydreams for a plan.

That guy was Carter Whitman—loaded, generous, and good-looking. If he had a flaw, it was way too many exes and a revolving door of female friends.

Carter’s the kind of guy who never has to check his bank balance. He throws parties just because it’s Thursday, tips like he’s allergic to small bills, and always knows the hottest new place in town. I mean, does the guy ever get a text he ignores? There’s always some girl blowing up his phone, some old flame lurking in the background, and a string of inside jokes I’ll never be part of.

Just as I slipped Carter’s proposal ring onto my finger, I paused for a second—heart pounding, thinking this was it, my big leap. And then my phone buzzed with a call from the doctor’s office—a sonogram showing his so-called “close friend” was eight weeks pregnant.

It was one of those moments where the world tilts, and you’re left sitting there, staring at your phone, wondering if you heard right. I remember the ring felt heavy on my finger, like it suddenly didn’t fit anymore. My coffee went cold. I just sat there, lost.

I sat in the coffee shop for a long time, turning it over in my mind, before finally saying, honestly, “I really do love Carter, and I can’t just let go.”

The words came out softer than I meant, almost like I was convincing myself. My hands shook a little as I traced circles on the tabletop, waiting for some kind of clarity that never came. Nothing. The smell of burnt espresso and old pastries filled the air, grounding me in the moment.

“How about you have the baby? I know I’m still young, but I don’t mind being a stepmom.” My stomach flipped as I said it, nerves prickling under my skin. Who even volunteers for this stuff?

I swear, I meant it.

I even tried to smile, hoping she’d hear the honesty in my voice. I pictured us—awkward, maybe, but figuring it out, like some patchwork family you see in movies. Yeah, right. But reality isn’t that simple, and my words just hung there between us, heavy and misunderstood.

But apparently, she took it as sarcasm. Of course she did.

She stared at me like I’d just insulted her, her mouth tightening into a thin line. I could feel the tension crackle, sharp as broken glass. Yikes. I wanted to explain, but the moment had already slipped away.

When she realized I wouldn’t leave Carter on my own, she started in on all their old stories.

Her voice got this dreamy, far-off quality as she recounted every little detail, like she was trying to paint me out of the picture with every word. It was almost impressive, the way she made even their boring trips sound cinematic. Almost.

How they went to New York to see the city lights—hiked up snowy mountains… spent New Year’s Eve together.

How one minute Carter was FaceTiming me, saying he missed me, and the next, he was tangled up with her.

She was a hell of a storyteller—listening to her, I felt like I’d wandered into some over-the-top soap opera. Was I supposed to take notes?

I half expected her to pull out a photo album, the way she described each scene. Her eyes sparkled with a kind of pride, like she wanted me to feel small, to remind me that Carter’s world was bigger and brighter than anything I could offer. I just sat there, picking at the sleeve of my sweater. What else could I do?

After quietly listening for over ten minutes, I glanced at the time and politely interrupted, “Sorry, I’ve got to get back to work.” I could feel my heart pounding—anything to get out of there.

I said it with a practiced smile, the kind you use with strangers at the DMV. I could feel her gaze burning into me, but I refused to flinch. Not today.

Her face changed instantly. She glared at me, but didn’t say a word.

The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. For a second, I wondered if she might actually throw her coffee at me. I almost wished she would.

I put on my coat. Then, scarf around my neck, I stood to leave, movements stiff with adrenaline.

The café’s warmth clung to me, but I could already feel the chill waiting outside. I adjusted my scarf, fingers fumbling with the knot, and tried to keep my head high. Fake it till you make it.

“Are you really so shameless you have to cling to Carter? With that whole perfect-wife act, do you really think a guy like Carter, who’s seen every kind of woman, would actually want you?”

Her voice cut through the hum of conversation, sharp enough to make everyone in the place look up. I felt every pair of eyes land on me. My cheeks burned, but I didn’t let myself shrink away. I kept my posture steady, even as my insides twisted.

I paused and looked back at her. My heart thudded in my chest.

She was so worked up, her face twisted with anger.

But beautiful is beautiful—even with that look, she was still out of my league.

I smiled, but didn’t say anything. Inside, I was screaming a hundred things, but all I could do was keep my mouth shut.

It was the kind of smile you give when you’ve got nothing left to say, a mix of resignation and defiance. That’s all I had left.

I really didn’t want to break up with Carter. Honestly, it’s pathetic, but there it is.

Out of all the men I know, he’s the best catch I know.

His family’s wealthy, he’s upbeat, and he’s generous with me. Seriously, he spoils me.