Chapter 1: The Return of the Senator’s Son

Turns out, my husband’s been hiding a whole other life—he’s the son of a political dynasty, and now that his name’s cleared, he’s heading back to Washington, D.C.

The person sent to collect him? His fiancée—the real deal, the daughter of a senator’s family.

In Maple Heights, only the woman with the family’s heirloom ring can be a senator’s wife. Our marriage is just a footnote.

Natalie’s been waiting for him for two years. She’s willing to let me have the status of a kept woman—already a big concession for her.

He told me to pack up and follow him to D.C. in a few days.

But I don’t want to go to D.C.

He grew impatient: “If you leave me, where else can you go?”

He doesn’t know.

Aside from D.C., I have other places to go.

Dad sent me a border pass. I can travel out west to trade. From then on, the sky will be wide and the road open. We’ll part ways and each find our own happiness.

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1

I was carrying a bag of pancakes home.

The late afternoon sun beat down on the cracked sidewalk, and the heavy plastic bag from Walmart dug into my palm. A couple of kids biked past, their laughter echoing off faded brick walls. Even in the muggy air, the faint scent of pancakes made my stomach tighten with nostalgia and worry.

Jason was just opening the door to leave.

The faded blue hoodie he used to wear was gone; now he was dressed in a tailored suit, his hair neat, exuding an air of pride and privilege.

His transformation was so complete it startled me—he looked every inch the political heir he’d always pretended not to be. I almost didn’t recognize him, but the set of his jaw was still familiar, just colder now.

I had just learned he was the senator’s son, his name cleared, and the governor had summoned him back to D.C.

The one who came to fetch him was his fiancée from the capital.

I had never known.

Natalie stood behind him, elegant and poised, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Her tailored linen dress clung softly to her frame, her pearls catching the sunlight like something out of a glossy magazine. She looked like she belonged in a Capitol gala, not on our warped wooden porch.

Jason took a step forward, his voice cold and distant:

“In Maple Heights, only those who wear the family’s heirloom ring can be a senator’s wife. Our marriage is meaningless.”

“Natalie has waited for me for two years. She’s willing to let you become the senator’s mistress—already a big sacrifice for her.”

“Pack your things. In a few days, follow me to D.C.”

My gaze fell on their interlocked fingers.

He was afraid to wrong Natalie, and couldn’t wait to show her off in front of others. It stung, watching him hold her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world—like I was invisible.

His deep affection for Natalie, their mutual devotion—all the tenderness and love he had never shown me.

He turned his head, the gentleness in his eyes vanishing. When he looked at me, his gaze was as cold as early March ice, just beginning to thaw.

I was silent for a long time before I asked, “Aren’t we husband and wife?”

My voice came out thin and shaky, almost childlike. The silence in the hall felt like it pressed against my chest, waiting for his answer.

His eyes flickered, lips moving slightly. After a moment, he uttered two words: “It’s over.”

I nodded numbly, then asked, “Do I have to go to D.C.?”

He was taken aback, his brows knitting in impatience.

“Don’t make trouble. You’re just a small-town girl. To become the senator’s mistress is already my greatest concession. If you leave me, where else can you go?”

I looked up and answered softly, “Alright.”

Then I turned away and busied myself.

It’s the middle of August. Few people go out, pancakes are hard to sell, and many are left over. I need to store them properly to sell tomorrow.

I lowered my head and began packing up my Walmart bag.

No one saw the face I was about to cry with.

I ducked my head, blinking fast, willing the burn behind my eyes to fade. It was just business as usual—so why did my hands tremble?

Jason said calmly, “Stop packing. These pancakes are nothing special; you don’t need to eat them anymore.”

The kitchen still smelled like fried batter and cinnamon, a scent that used to make him smile. I ignored him and continued to pack on my own.

At the bottom of the box was a letter I had picked up from the post office today.

It was from Dad. He had opened a trade route out west and invited me to join him in business.

With the letter came a border pass.

I am not without a place to go.

I can head out west to trade. From then on, the sky is high and the road is wide, and we’ll part ways, each finding our own happiness.

The thought made my chest ache and lighten at the same time, like I could almost breathe again for the first time in weeks.