Chapter 2: The Hayes Brothers’ Secret

Noah stood waiting, worry in his eyes. He wiped away my tears and promised, “There’s no way I’m letting you marry Caleb. Not if I can help it.” His voice was steady, and for a moment, I believed him. We’d grown up together—Noah had always kept his promises, but this was different. The President’s word was law, and neither the Simmons nor the Hayes family dared defy it.

Noah squeezed my hand, hope flickering in his gaze. “Mrs. Chen is my mom’s friend. The President likes her son—a real golden boy. If Mrs. Chen steps in, we might have a shot.”

I wanted to believe him, but in D.C., even miracles had a price. Still, Noah swore he had a plan.

Three days later, Mrs. Chen called me to St. Paul’s. She wore pearls and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, her voice smooth from years of charity galas. “In a month, the President will visit Liberty Mountain for the founder’s memorial. The fifth Hayes son will fake a fall by the cliff. Noah will save him. The President can’t tell the brothers apart—if we play it right, he’ll reward Noah, thinking he’s the second son. The family will swap the names, and the marriage will be yours.”

It sounded like something out of a soap opera, but in D.C., stranger things had happened. The plan was risky and ridiculous, but it was hope.

Mrs. Chen’s voice was calm, as if we were planning brunch. “Just wait and you’ll marry Noah.”

Suppressing my excitement, I asked, “Will the fifth son really risk it for us?”

She brushed my worry aside with a practiced wave. “They’re brothers—it’s a small favor.”

I went home, nerves humming. Rachel, ever the perfectionist, sent a D.C. etiquette tutor to whip me into shape. “Don’t embarrass the Simmons name,” her message read. I gritted my teeth and endured, counting down the days until the ceremony.

The President made his trip to Liberty Mountain. I waited for news. Days passed—nothing from Mrs. Chen, no sign of Noah. Anxiety chewed at me. Finally, I begged Mom to reach out to Mrs. Chen.

Mom, torn between her daughters, finally relented. The next day, she returned with bad news. “Mrs. Chen said the plan failed. The fifth son slipped, but Noah didn’t step forward. If not for the fifth son’s own reflexes, he might have died. When Mrs. Chen asked Noah why, he acted like he didn’t know what she was talking about. She was furious.”

My heart dropped. This wasn’t the Noah I knew. Something was wrong.

Mom’s voice was gentle but heavy. “Sometimes, love means letting go. Noah’s given up. Maybe you should, too.”

But I couldn’t accept it. “Mom, he wouldn’t just give up. I have to know what happened.”

She tried to hold me, but I pulled away, determined for once to have the last word.

The words echoed in the empty kitchen: “The lives of 187 Simmons family members depend on you.”

My disappointment was bottomless. Why should I bear this burden?

I wrote letters to Noah—ten a day, until my pen ran out of ink and my hope faded to a dull ache. No reply. No one would tell me where he’d gone.

Finally, I cornered Caleb at a coffee shop, the hiss of the espresso machine and rain tapping the window, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He looked tired, guilty. “Noah’s let you down. He’s at the Hamilton Institute now, as director.”

The Hamilton Institute—closer to the White House than even the National Academy, a stepping stone to the Cabinet. Noah’s future was bright, but my heart broke. “He hasn’t even finished grad school,” I said, desperate for a reason.

Caleb’s eyes flickered. “Don’t ask more. The President is old and moody.”

I saw the exhaustion on his face and realized the truth: the Hayes family had bargained Noah’s love away for his career.

Caleb insisted it wasn’t so, but the words rang hollow. I turned away, hollowed out.

On the seventh of May, with a string quartet playing and the scent of lilies in the air, I walked down the aisle on autopilot, my face frozen in a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. Dad beamed, Mom wept, and the town watched, thinking it was a day to celebrate.

Rachel leaned in, her voice cutting and bright: “C’mon, sis, at least pretend you’re happy. If I can charm the President after Derek, you can at least fake a smile for Caleb.”

Her perfume was suffocating. I fought the urge to flinch, knowing it would only make her happier.