Chapter 1: The Slap Heard ’Round the Lake House

Fury snapped through me and I slapped him, my silver bracelet jangling like a tiny alarm.

The sharp crack bounced off the high ceilings, slicing through the polished wood-paneled hallway—a sound so out of place it felt like smashing a rule nobody bothered to write down. My heart jackhammered in my chest, adrenaline flooding my veins. I braced myself, breath trapped in my lungs, waiting for Graham to retaliate—half-expecting the kind of icy, dangerous silence my parents used to serve me when I dared to talk back. The air thickened with the scent of cedar and expensive aftershave, reminding me just how out of my depth I was.

The live chat went off like fireworks:

[Is this girl for real? Besides the villain boss, who even cares if she lives or dies?]

[LMAO, she’s totally got a thing for the golden boy. This is gonna be a trainwreck.]

Somewhere in the house, a phone buzzed with the rapid pop of notifications. The irony wasn’t lost on me—I was locked up, but the world was still tuning in, judging from their couches behind anonymous handles.

I looked up, dazed and confused.

The chat froze, then came roaring back:

[Yo, no one told me the side chick looked like THAT.]

[Boss, are you blind? If you won’t simp for her, I will!]

[Sis, that dude’s a walking red flag. Bet he’d simp for you if you snapped your fingers.]

I could practically hear the snickering through the screen, the meme-makers already at work. For a split second, I wondered what my mom would say if she saw this circus. I tried to channel the same frosty stare my mom used to freeze out the tennis club gossips—unsure if it ever actually worked.

Before I could process the last comment, something wet flicked against my palm.

I jerked my hand back, eyes wide.

The sensation was so strange, so animal, that for a second I half-expected a stray dog to be underfoot. But then I saw Graham Carter, not a hair out of place, calmly straightening his tie like nothing had happened. The spot tingled, hot and weird, and I wiped it on my jeans like I could erase the whole thing.

Graham Carter pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble:

"Still want to hit me?"

His suit was perfectly tailored, muscles lean and shoulders broad. He looked like the kind of guy who graced Forbes covers, not the kind who’d pull off some bizarre power play like licking my hand. I half-expected him to whip out a spreadsheet and explain it as an ROI calculation.

My courage fizzled. I tucked my hand away, glaring at him, bracing for more. My cheeks burned. I busied myself with the bracelet on my wrist, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.

In Maple Heights, Graham Carter was a legend: MIT grad, Peace Corps at twenty-two, running the Carter empire at twenty-four. But my most vivid memory was from last year, sneaking into a Carter gala with my ex-fiancé. The ballroom was ice-cold, the AC blasting, but sweat still prickled my back under the too-tight dress. That night, everything felt too big—except the secret I accidentally stumbled across.

I’d picked up Graham Carter’s medical report by mistake, staring blankly at the word: Impotence.

I blurted out, "Um, Mr. Carter, you, you… can’t… you know… anymore?"

Mortified, I wanted to sink into the marble floor, but the words echoed between us like a car alarm.

Graham pinched the report between two long fingers, completely unfazed. "Yeah, got injured overseas."

He said it like he was giving a weather update, and suddenly I felt like the jerk.

"But… can it still work?"

He thought for a second, then smirked. "If I meet someone I really, really like, then I can use it."

There was a challenge in his eyes, and my hands started to tremble. I fumbled, "Haha, mm, um, okay, I hope you can use it soon. No, no, I mean, I hope you find someone you like soon."

After all that, I just dug a hole for myself. I shook my bracelet, anger flaring: "When are you going to let me out?"

The metal bit into my skin, the jingle sharp in the silence. Graham’s tone turned glacial: "What, can’t wait to go find your ex-fiancé?"

His words stung, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. "No, you suddenly brought me here, and I haven’t even quit my job at the coffee shop."

I was the eldest daughter of the Brooks family, raised in luxury, with a childhood fiancé. On paper, it sounded perfect—reality was more private tutors than sleepovers, designer cakes I never finished. Still, it was my world—until it all fell apart.

A month ago, I was blowing out my twentieth birthday candles when chaos crashed in. A scholarship girl burst in, dropped to her knees, and sobbed: "Miss Brooks, why did you frame me for stealing your diamond necklace? I can’t pay you back. Can I work as a maid in your house instead?"

The gasps could’ve shattered glass. I clutched my phone, numb, everyone’s eyes pinning me like a bug. I stared, dumbstruck—no, girl, who even are you? And besides, I only wear pearls.

Before I could defend myself, she fainted. Aunt Regina shrieked, the butler called 911, and suddenly I was the villain in a live family drama. She was rushed to the hospital. A DNA test later, the truth dropped: she shared my mom’s DNA.

She was the real heiress. I was the fake.

My parents pointed and hissed, "You little jinx! If you hadn’t taken Lila’s place, would we have lost her for so long?"

My fiancé’s stare was ice: "I misjudged you. Lila is kind and strong. You’re not even fit to carry her shoes."

My whole life, I’d been Natalie Brooks, but suddenly the name felt like a costume that didn’t fit anymore. I wasn’t a Brooks anymore—just a glitch in the family photo.

It was December, and I didn’t even have a thick coat when they kicked me out. I rubbed my arms, standing outside as my breath fogged in the cold. The mansion glowed behind me like a snow globe I’d never get back inside.

A smart woman knows when to cut her losses—but starving wasn’t my style. Heard making smoothies paid fifteen bucks an hour, but working at the coffee shop was better. I could even crash there at night.

The bell over the door chimed, and the smell of burnt espresso and lemon muffins clung to my apron. Sometimes, I’d sleep in the back booth with a half-finished crossword and coffee-stained hair.

I decided the coffee shop was the way to go. After three hundred lattes and a hundred muffins, a Tesla pulled up. My ex-fiancé’s uncle, the real Carter power—Graham Carter—walked in, holding a black umbrella.

He stood tall in a suit, noble and aloof. "Natalie, let’s go. Now."

His presence sucked all the air out of the room. Rain dripped from his umbrella, pooling at his feet. I ripped open a muffin wrapper, pouring myself coffee: "You’re the thirteenth old dude this month who wants to rescue me. Take a number."

Graham’s frown was intimidating. "Someone else harassed you?"

He gestured, and men in black suits stepped up. "Miss Brooks, sorry." They stuffed me—kicking and struggling—into the back of the Tesla, and sped off.

My heart pounded as the city lights blurred past. Was this how every true crime podcast started? My protests were muffled by the plush leather and the scent of new car. At least I didn’t spill my coffee.

Graham Carter locked me up in his lake house in the woods. The place was all glass and steel, with a view so perfect it felt fake—like living inside a screensaver. Every meal was helicoptered in.

My first escape attempt? Graham locked the door. I cursed, "You creep! Kidnapping your nephew’s ex—aren’t you afraid your grandma will haunt you?"

Actually, Graham was only twenty-six, just six years older than me. He lifted his eyelids, a half-smile playing on his lips: "What, still thinking about that useless nephew of mine?"

The silver key spun in his palm, casual and taunting. "Last week, he got engaged to the real Brooks heiress. Swore you tricked him, and now he’ll only marry her."

He delivered the news like stock prices—matter-of-fact. Something twisted inside me. I pouted, and that night, I ate two pieces of foie gras, a steak, and a lamb chop.

Fine, lock me up. I’ll eat you out of house and home and order dessert twice.

On my third escape attempt, Graham’s eyes—cold behind gold-rimmed glasses—locked on me: "Natalie Brooks, you’re hopeless, huh?"

His eyes were hard, but there was something like worry flickering behind the glasses. The pure silver bracelet on my wrist jingled, making my skin look even paler. I slapped him in anger, then saw the live chat.

[Snowy skin, rosy cheeks, big round eyes—girl’s got main character energy, y’all. Protect at all costs.]

[Oh no, baby, don’t slap him. His face is thick, but what if you hurt your precious little hand?]

[Can’t you see he’s loving it? Dude’s pressing his face into your hand like a cat.]

The scrolling comments were a digital Greek chorus, half-meme, half-support group. I puffed out my cheeks: "I’ve seen your medical report. You can’t do it anymore, so why keep a beauty locked up? Better let me go."

Graham laughed, his fingers—long, callused from the gun range—pinching my cheeks. "Who says that’s the only thing that can be used?"

His words dripped with innuendo, my cheeks burning hotter than a steam wand. My whole body buzzed with mortification.

Don’t dare hit him, afraid he’ll lick my hand. Don’t dare kick him, afraid he’ll touch my feet. Even cursing him feels dangerous—like he’d get off on it.

I shot him a look, half-scowl, half-plea, then wrapped my arms around myself and tried to disappear into the couch. Who says the villain’s evil? I’m the one suffering here—weak, helpless, trembling.

I spun around in frustration. "Graham Carter, weren’t you supposed to be expanding the company overseas? Why’d you come back?"

He looked down at me, and I suddenly noticed how long and dark his lashes were—like crow feathers. When he looked down, my heart fluttered. For a split second, he was just a person, not a CEO.

"For you."

The chat filled in the blanks:

[Because of you, silly. If the villain boss hadn’t come back, you’d have starved.]

[Girl, remember that foster kid you helped? That was him.]

[He was skin and bones, covered in bruises. You bandaged him, comforted him, gave him candy—you were his lifeline.]

[Boss’s backstory is tragic: bad brother, creep dad, only brought him back for the Carter name. He did in years what others do in decades, just to break free—and be with you.]

[He comes back, sees his white moonlight likes his nephew, leaves heartbroken, goes on dangerous missions. Almost loses his little brother. Now he’s back to protect you.]

I sank onto the sofa, piecing it all together. Graham Carter and I—was there really a connection like that?

I was stunned, my face burning: "You… like me?"

Graham’s gaze was calm as a lake, then he smiled and ripples spread across the surface: "I’ve liked you for sixteen years."

My stomach flipped. Sixteen years? I hadn’t even kept a plant alive that long. His voice was so steady it almost sounded like a business deal—except his fingers trembled slightly on his glass.

Heat shot up my neck: "Then why, after locking me up so long, except for me slapping you, you haven’t even touched me?"

As soon as I said it, I clapped my hands over my mouth. Too late.

My hands felt sticky, my breath shallow. The space between us shrank, the world tilting. Graham’s eyes darkened. He pulled me down onto the sofa, tugging on my bracelet so I couldn’t move. A kiss landed on my lips—gentle, trembling, tender. Just a brush, softer than his reputation.

My body shivered, my heart pounding. His kiss was feather-light, my lips tingling, and I instinctively licked them. Graham’s breathing grew ragged. Suddenly, he kissed me again, harder, until the world spun.

When he let me go, his fingers brushed my lips, his voice low and magnetic: "Like it a little rougher, huh?"

His thumb lingered at my mouth, and I shivered all over. I bolted for my room, diving under the covers, cheeks burning. The ceiling fan spun overhead, mocking me for being such a mess.

The chat scrolled on:

[Villain’s fingers are so long, who can resist, lmao.]

[His stomach’s still weak, but there’s always medicine.]

[And those Peace Corps muscles? Pecs, abs, biceps, v-line—chef’s kiss.]

[Stop! As a mom-fan I can’t take it!]

My face went up in flames. Graham can’t do it. At most, he can kiss me twice—what else could he do?

The bracelet on my wrist was heavy and inconvenient. After an hour of tossing and turning and getting smacked by it, I marched to Graham’s room: "Creep, unlock this bracelet for me!"

But I froze at the door. Cool mist, cedarwood in the air. Graham had just finished a cold shower, hair wet, not even wearing a towel. Water ran down his chest and abs, over his skin and down, down…

My brain short-circuited. I blurted, "Aren’t you supposed to be unable to use it?"

Graham just laughed. He walked over, cool and fragrant, brushing his wet fingers against my face. "I said, when I see someone I really like, I can use it again."

It felt like a dare. I forgot why I was mad—my brain full of static. I snatched the key, unlocked the bracelet, and ran out even faster than before. I downed three iced teas before my heart finally slowed.

Thank goodness Graham can’t do it. Otherwise, with his hardware… I’d probably die.

Outside, cicadas buzzed, the relentless hum of summer in upstate New York. I pressed my forehead to the glass, letting the world remind me I was still safe—for now.