Chapter 1: The Parade of Betrayal

My best friend and I got thrown headfirst into the pages of a novel—two girls from the real world, forced to complete missions together. She’s sharp as a tack—always the brains of the operation, running strategy for the general’s kid. Me? I’m all muscle, so I wound up playing bodyguard for the weak, sickly, broke honors student.

Five years later, the orphaned son became a decorated general, and the pale, bookish scholar rose to lead the Ethics Committee. But now, both of them were parading the heroine—and her family, the ones who destroyed their own families—back into the capital. One sought revenge for her, the other fought to clear her name.

The bonus mission? Make the two leads fall for us. Simple, right? But as Natalie turned to me, her eyes shining with tears, she asked, “I don’t want to do the bonus mission anymore. Do you still want to?”

I shook my head. “If you’re out, I’m out too.”

---

On the day the Sullivan family rolled back into Maple Heights, their motorcade was pure spectacle. Jewel-studded tassels glittered from the main SUV’s roof rack, gold-trimmed tinted windows flashed in the sun, and the security detail—all ex-military, all deadly—moved in perfect, silent sync.

The scent of fresh-cut grass mingled with exhaust fumes as the convoy rolled by, and somewhere, a neighbor’s radio blared Bruce Springsteen, half-drowned by the rumble of engines. Even on a sun-bleached June afternoon, you could feel tension crackling through the neighborhood. Folks watering lawns or walking their golden retrievers froze mid-step, hands shading their eyes as the convoy passed. Behind the fluttering American flags on the porches, I could practically hear the Maple Heights grapevine coming alive, itching to dissect every second of the Sullivans’ return.

I sighed, pointed out a few people in the procession to Natalie. “Guy up front? I recruited him. Fourth in the third row—he’s allergic to peanuts. Saved his life once. Fifth in the second row, favorite rescue dog? I found it for him. Damn that Sean Carter, using my secret guards to escort the heroine back. That really ticks me off.”

My finger left a faint smudge on the rough bark as I pointed, and Natalie, perched unsteadily beside me, groaned. I couldn’t help remembering all those late nights training those guards, teaching them to slip through crowds like shadows—now all that work, marching for the Sullivans. My jaw clenched, but what could I do? Sean always had a knack for using what I gave him in ways I didn’t expect. It’s like building a house, then watching someone else throw the housewarming party.

Natalie shivered, clutching my arm. “Couldn’t we just watch the circus from your bar? Did you really have to drag me up a tree? I’m terrified of heights.”

Her knuckles were white on the branch, and she kept glancing down like the grass was a mile below. Her voice had a quiver I only heard when she watched horror movies alone at my place, bundled under three blankets and still peeking through her fingers. I almost laughed, but squeezed her hand, feeling her nails dig into my skin. “Trust me, this is the best vantage point in the whole block. Plus, the bar’s probably swamped by rubberneckers.”

“...The manager said Sean Carter took all my hidden whiskey to throw a party for the Sullivans. I got mad and left... Hey, wait, isn’t that your Lucas Grant?”

I jerked my chin toward the tail end of the parade, sunlight flashing off the badge on the chestnut horse’s saddle. The bottle of bourbon I’d been saving for months flashed through my mind, now replaced by the sight of Lucas Grant riding tall, looking like he belonged in a military recruitment poster. "Figures," I muttered, "he’d show up on horseback. Never did like sitting in the backseat."

At the parade’s tail, the youngest major general since the founding of the state rode a tall chestnut horse, guarding the rear. The War Hero—bloodied from countless battles—now gazed tenderly at the woman peeking out from the lead SUV, his eyes brimming with affection.

It was the kind of look you’d see in those sappy Hallmark movies Natalie and I always pretended to hate but secretly binge-watched with popcorn and cheap wine. Even from here, I could see the gentleness in his eyes, the way his shoulders softened when he spotted her. The sight stung more than I wanted to admit. All those years we’d spent pulling him up from rock bottom, and now he barely looked back.

Natalie stopped trembling and, gloomily, plucked a few arm hairs from my sleeve. She muttered bitterly, “Unbelievable.”

Her little ritual of pulling at my sleeves was a stress tic. I watched her lips twist, her eyes fixed on Lucas, wishing I could do more than sit up here like two squirrels in a tree. The unfairness of it all pressed down, heavy as a thundercloud before a summer storm.

Natalie and I got dropped into this novel, our main mission to help the two male leads rise to the top. Back then, Sean Carter was just a broke, down-on-his-luck honors student in a white hoodie. Lucas Grant was an orphan from a disgraced military family, his prospects bleak.

I remembered it like yesterday: Natalie in a thrift store blazer, me in a Goodwill hoodie two sizes too big, plotting late into the night over Kraft mac and cheese and 7-Eleven coffee. Back then, nobody would’ve bet on Sean or Lucas—let alone us. We built them up from scratch, brick by brick, one sleepless night after another.

Over five years, Natalie and I—one tough, one clever—worked side by side, each covering the other’s weaknesses, helping the two reach their current heights.

Five years of hustling, scraping through every crisis this world threw at us. She’d talk circles around politicians, I’d break up fights in back alleys. She planned, I punched. Together, we were unbeatable. Or so we thought.

With the main mission done, the system asked if we wanted to leave or stay for the bonus mission—winning over the two leads. We both chose to stay, no hesitation. After five years of close teamwork, we thought the bonus mission would be a breeze. Who could have guessed that, after just a few days, the two of them would forgive the heroine who ruined their families and bring her entire family back to Maple Heights together. So cheap.

Even the system’s pop-up had felt cocky about it—"Bonus level unlocked: romance, easy mode!" If only. Joke’s on us. Turns out, love triangles are just as messy in fiction as they are on reality TV. The bitterness burned in my gut, sharp as whiskey on an empty stomach.

Natalie said, “The case files overturning the Sullivan family’s conviction were compiled by your Sean Carter himself.”

I said, “Those who sentenced the Sullivans back then have all been dealt with by Lucas Grant these past days.”

“Your guy.”

“My guy.”

We both said it at the same time, voices heavy with disappointment and just a hint of old loyalty. It was the kind of call-and-response we’d fallen into over years of side-by-side battles, now twisted with a sour aftertaste.

The convoy stopped far from the Sullivan estate. Lucas Grant dismounted at the end, walked forward, and reached out to help the woman in the SUV down the steps. The heroine, Rachel Sullivan, looked at the mansion before her—grander than ever—and, full of joy, leaned gently on the major general’s arm.

The moment was so picture-perfect it made my teeth hurt. The estate’s manicured lawn looked straight out of a magazine spread, the kind people in this town kept on their coffee tables just to impress the neighbors. A row of hydrangeas lined the driveway, blue as the Fourth of July. I caught Natalie’s gaze flickering over the white columns and glossy front door, and I felt something twist in my chest for her.

I looked at that mansion. It was right next to city hall, cleverly avoiding the noisy shopping district, and once sold for a record price at a real estate auction. Most importantly, it was very close to the Grant family home. If I remember right, this was the private residence Lucas Grant originally picked out for Natalie.

That house was supposed to be a promise—one Lucas made to Natalie when things were darkest. You could see city hall’s flag from the porch, hear the distant wail of ambulance sirens at night, but the place had this hush to it, this safety. Now, all that hope had been scrubbed clean and replaced with a gold-plated ‘Sullivan’ sign.

For years, Natalie, as a woman, served as his adviser, constantly coming and going at the Grant house, helping him day and night to build his network and navigate the political minefield. Sometimes, when things were hectic, she’d just crash at the Grant place overnight.

She worked like a ghost, always behind the scenes—tapping away at her laptop at two a.m., heating up leftovers in their kitchen, her coat draped over the back of a dining chair. It was never official, but everyone knew she was the brains in the room.

A woman’s reputation in this town is so fragile. Over time, Natalie became the subject of gossip. People whispered, “That’s the shameless girl hanging around the Grant family orphan.”

It’s the kind of place where folks say they mind their business, but everyone knows whose car is parked where. I remember overhearing some ladies at the salon, their voices syrupy-sweet but eyes sharp as knives: "Did you see her car parked out front again? That girl has no shame."

When Lucas Grant found out, his eyes reddened with anger. He promised Natalie that when he succeeded, he would, as major general, let her live in the best house in Maple Heights, so no one could look down on her again.

That night, Lucas was so furious he nearly broke a glass in his hand. He made that promise in front of me, his voice shaking but certain. Natalie had tried to laugh it off, but I saw the way her hands trembled as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

Now, the plaque above that gate read ‘Sullivan Estate.’

The letters gleamed in the afternoon light, taunting us both. The whole neighborhood would see that sign, see who’d won. I had to bite my tongue to keep from shouting.

Natalie stared at that spot without blinking. Until Lucas Grant disappeared inside. She rubbed her reddened eyes. “I don’t want to do the bonus mission anymore. Do you still want to do it?”

I took her hand. “If you’re not doing it, I’m not doing it either.”

I squeezed her hand until my knuckles ached, promising without words that I’d follow her anywhere, even if it meant giving up everything we’d worked for. Above us, the dogwood branches swayed, scattering petals onto our shoulders like confetti from a parade we never got to join.