Chapter 1: Banished from Beacon Hill

For three years, I lived as a guest in the Whitmore family’s grand estate—and during that entire time, the heir made it clear he never liked me. Sometimes I wondered if he ever would.

The old mansion on Beacon Hill always carried a faint scent of wood polish and roses, lingering in the air like a secret. I can still picture the first day I arrived, clutching my battered suitcase in one hand and my mother’s old locket in the other—a nervous wreck, feeling like a total imposter among all that marble and those heavy oil paintings. I’d always felt out of place here, like I was waiting to be found out. But it didn’t matter how softly I tiptoed or how wide I smiled, Harrison Whitmore always managed to find something wrong. He never once looked at me with anything but that icy, distant stare—like I was some stray cat who’d slipped in through the back door, muddy paws and all.

No matter what I did—how quietly I moved, how politely I acted—Harrison Whitmore always found fault. It never mattered. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of myself in a hallway mirror and think, ‘Do I really belong here?’ But to him, I was just someone who didn’t fit, someone he’d rather not see at all.

He hated my playful, flirtatious ways, always saying I was unfit for polite company. And every time we crossed paths, he’d corner me with some stiff lecture or cold warning. I’d roll my eyes behind his back, but inside, I was exhausted from always being on edge.

He’d catch me humming in the garden or chatting with the maids, and next thing I knew, he’d pull me aside, his voice low and sharp. “Miss Evans, a young lady ought to know her place. This isn’t some boarding house.” His words always hit harder than I’d ever let on. I’d pretend it didn’t bother me, but every time, a little part of me shrank, wishing I could just disappear into the wallpaper.

I knew there was no chance I’d ever marry into the Whitmore family, not in a million years. So when Harrison got assigned to a legal post upstate, I didn’t waste any time. I had a proposal in hand and took it straight to Mrs. Whitmore, hoping for a clean break. Still, I hesitated at the door, wondering if I was really ready for this.

I remember the day I finally approached her—my hands were shaking so badly around the crisp envelope I almost dropped it. She sat in the sunroom, knitting something delicate and sky-blue, sunlight catching on her silver hair. I tried to sound steady as I explained, but my heart was about to leap right out of my chest. She looked up at me, her eyes full of a mix of sadness and relief, as if she’d been bracing herself for this moment all along.

Sometime later, Harrison returned to Boston to report for his new post. The day he came back, the whole house seemed to tense up.

Word spread like wildfire. The staff were everywhere, polishing silver, straightening rugs, whispering in corners about his return. I stayed holed up in my room, not wanting to risk bumping into him, but the tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

At dinner that night, he asked about me, so casually you’d think he barely remembered my name.

He made it sound like I was an afterthought, swirling his wine and gazing out the window. But everyone at the table knew there was more to his question than he let on. The silence that followed was so heavy it nearly rattled the glasses.

Mrs. Whitmore gave a gentle smile. “That girl went back to Maple Heights with her fiancé to get married.”

Her voice was soft, but her eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite name—maybe regret, maybe just relief that it was all over. She always had a knack for smoothing over awkward moments, her hands folded neatly in her lap as if nothing could touch her.

“She left about two weeks ago. If she took the train, she’s probably already there.”

Her words hung in the air, mingling with the clink of silverware and the steady tick of the grandfather clock. The train ride from Boston to Maple Heights took nearly a full day, but it might as well have been a journey to another world. I wondered if anyone at that table actually cared where I’d gone, or if I’d just faded away from their lives, like a shadow at dusk.

They say that when he heard this, the heir—always so cool and collected—finally snapped.

Rumor had it his wineglass slipped from his hand and shattered on the table, crimson wine spreading like a stain. The staff glanced at each other, startled, and for a split second, the calm mask he wore so well slipped. Before anyone could react, he’d already stood up and left, leaving behind a stunned hush.

Right after I’d left Mrs. Whitmore’s parlor—

A bucket of cold water came crashing down on me.

The shock hit me like a slap. Icy water soaked me through, plastering my hair to my cheeks and my dress to my skin. I gasped, shivering, feeling every pair of eyes on the porch drilling into me.

My cousin, Caroline Porter, stood under the porch, clapping her hands and laughing like she’d just won a prize. “Serves you right, you little tramp! How dare you try to seduce my cousin.”

She tossed her golden curls over her shoulder, her laughter ringing out, sharp as broken glass. The maids hovered nearby, pretending not to watch, but I could feel their eyes on me, their silent judgment pressing in. The porch boards were slick beneath my feet, and I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing I could just melt into the shadows.

Summer dresses are so thin, I thought bitterly.

The wet fabric clung to me, nearly see-through in the harsh afternoon sun. My cheeks burned hotter than the July heat, and someone snickered behind me. I tried to peel my dress away from my body, but it was useless.

I felt exposed, every curve and freckle on display for the world to see. My teeth chattered, not just from the cold but from the humiliation burning inside me. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t budge.

My eyes burned with humiliation.

Tears threatened to spill over, but I blinked them back, refusing to let Caroline see me break. I stared hard at the porch rail, counting the chips in the peeling paint, trying to steady my breath.

Harrison Whitmore was the talk of Boston—he’d just won the favor of a prominent judge and was about to be posted to Silver Hollow as an assistant district attorney.

His name was everywhere: at the club, at the courthouse, in the morning paper. I’d seen his photograph—tall, dark-haired, impossibly put together. People said he was bound for greatness, and I believed them.

Mrs. Whitmore fretted he’d be gone over half a year, worried some gold-digger would snatch him up.

She fussed over him like only a mother could, straightening his collar and reminding him to mind his manners. The idea of some fortune hunter swooping in while he was away kept her up at night. She’d confide her worries to anyone who’d listen, always wringing her hands.

So she slipped something into the food and, in Harrison’s name, invited me over.

It was supposed to be a harmless dinner—just the three of us. But after dessert, a dizzy, heavy feeling crept over me. My limbs went slack, and the room spun. I realized too late what she’d done. She smiled sweetly, pressing another slice of cake on me, her eyes never leaving my face.

But she forgot—

She underestimated both of us. Harrison’s will was iron, and I was too scared to do anything but sit quietly, hoping the feeling would pass. The plan fizzled, leaving behind nothing but a heavy, awkward silence and the taste of shame lingering in the air.

For three years, I’d lived as a guest in the Whitmore estate, and the heir never liked me.

He made sure I knew it. Even when we were alone, his words were clipped and formal, like he was talking to a stranger he’d rather not bother with. Sometimes I wondered if he even remembered my name at all.

Even under the drug’s effects, he’d sooner bite his own lip raw than give me a second glance.

That night, I saw him by the window, standing so rigid I thought he might shatter. His jaw was clenched, eyes locked on the city lights outside. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling more invisible than ever.

Yet I was left with the reputation of being a homewrecker.

The rumors spread like wildfire. The servants whispered, the neighbors stared, and no one believed I was innocent—not even Mrs. Whitmore, who’d started the whole mess.

I didn’t want to argue. I forced myself to swallow the humiliation and was just about to leave.

I gathered my things in silence, head bowed, hands trembling so badly I could barely fasten my buttons. All I wanted was to get out before anyone else saw me like this.

But Caroline wouldn’t let me go. She suddenly lunged and grabbed the arm I was using to cover my chest.

Her nails dug in, sharp and unyielding. I tried to pull away, but she held on, her eyes gleaming with triumph. The maids hovered, frozen, unsure if they should step in.

“Hiding, are you? Everyone in the Whitmore house knows you’re obsessed with Harrison. You drugged him, then ran out of his room a mess—shameless, and still afraid someone will see you?”

Her words echoed in the sticky summer air, each one sharper than the last. My resolve started to crumble, the truth tangled up with her lies. My heart hammered in my chest, and I wanted to scream it wasn’t true, but the words stuck in my throat.

My heart thudded with panic, and I tried to dodge her grip. In the struggle, I accidentally shoved her to the ground.

It happened so fast I barely realized what I’d done. Caroline’s shoes slipped on the wet porch, and she landed with a thud, her dress splayed out around her like a wilted flower. For one heartbeat, everything went still.

She scrambled up, cheeks flushed with fury, fists clenched at her sides. I braced myself, knowing the storm was coming.

She spat at me: “Lila Evans, you witch, you cheap little thing—how dare you lay hands on me! What, can you swear you never did any of it?”

Her voice cracked with rage, and I flinched, feeling her accusation settle heavy on my shoulders. The porch seemed to tilt beneath my feet, and I swallowed hard, wishing I could just disappear.

My face went pale, but I couldn’t deny it.

The truth was a knot in my stomach. Even if I tried to defend myself, who would believe me? I stared down at my trembling hands, ashamed and powerless.

Harrison Whitmore had been famous since he was young, one of Boston society’s most refined gentlemen.

He was the man mothers pointed out at parties, whispering to their daughters about good breeding and bright futures. He carried himself with an easy grace—always perfectly dressed, always knowing what to say.

And I was just a girl with nothing, clinging to my late mother’s friendship with Mrs. Whitmore, hoping to escape my stepmother’s cruelty by seeking refuge here.

I’d grown up in a cramped apartment over a bakery, the smell of yeast and flour always in my hair. My mother’s death left me adrift, and Mrs. Whitmore’s offer was a lifeline. But I never forgot I was just a guest—never quite family, never really safe.

We were worlds apart—he was the bright moon in the sky, and I was just dust in the street.

It was like we lived on different planets. I watched him from afar, knowing I’d never reach him. My dreams were foolish, best kept to myself.

Even daring to have feelings for Harrison was enough to keep me up at night, uneasy and restless.

I’d lie awake, replaying our briefest encounters, wondering if he ever thought of me at all. Every glance, every word, felt like a secret I had to guard.

Unrequited.

The ache was always there, a dull throb in my chest. I learned to live with it, tucking it away behind polite smiles and quiet nods.

Caroline lifted her chin, her voice sharp as ever:

Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction, like she’d finally won some invisible war. She towered over me, posture stiff with pride.

“Let me tell you, yesterday your stepmother sent a letter saying she’s found you a great match and is urging you to come home and get married.”

Her words dripped with fake concern. I could almost see the letter in her hand, the neat script sealing my fate. My stepmother’s matchmaking was always about convenience, never love.

“I heard the guy’s a widower—already lost three wives, no kids. If you marry him, you’ll be the lady of the house—how fitting.”

The cruelty in her voice was unmistakable. She savored my misery, every word twisting deeper. The image of that unknown man—unloved, unwanted—sent a chill through me.

I started to shake, a coldness settling deep in my bones.

The porch felt suddenly chillier, the sun slipping behind a cloud. I hugged myself tighter, trying to stop the shivers. My future stretched out before me, bleak and empty.

Seeing my despair, Caroline dragged out her words: “For this, Aunt called Harrison over to talk. Guess what he said?”

She leaned in, her voice syrupy sweet, relishing every second. The other girls on the porch inched closer, hungry for gossip.

“What did he say?”

My voice was barely a whisper, thick with dread. I didn’t want to know, but I had to ask.

My throat tightened, making it hard to breathe.

Every breath felt like a struggle, my chest tight and aching. I gripped the porch rail until my knuckles turned white.

She smiled, all sugar and venom: “He said, ‘Lila’s getting older, it’s time to talk marriage. If there’s a good family, I’ll help arrange it.’”

Her words hit like a slap. I stared at her, searching for any sign she was lying, but her smile never wavered. The pain in my chest sharpened, cutting deep.

As she spoke, a dull ache settled in my heart, as if I’d suddenly dropped to the bottom of a cold, dark well.

I felt hollow, like the air had been sucked out of the world. Everything blurred, and I had to blink to keep from drifting away.

Embarrassment flooded me, hot and sharp.

Heat crept up my neck, and I bit my lip, fighting back tears. The humiliation was almost unbearable.

I brushed my hair from my face, forced back the sting in my eyes, and said, “Then I must thank Mr. Whitmore.”

My voice was steady, but my hands shook. I forced a smile, praying no one would see how close I was to falling apart.

As soon as I finished, Caroline’s smile vanished. She dropped her hands and called out sweetly, “Harrison… Harrison.”

She straightened her skirt, her tone suddenly innocent and sweet. The change was so quick it made my head spin.

I stiffened on instinct.

My whole body tensed, every muscle locked. I stared at the porch floor, praying he hadn’t heard everything.

Right then, Harrison’s deep voice sounded behind me:

His voice was unmistakable—low, commanding, with a hint of irritation. I turned slowly, my heart thudding in my chest.

“Lila, what are you thanking me for?”

He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, eyes cool and unreadable. The sunlight slanted across his face, casting half of it in shadow.

I forced myself to turn around, determined not to flinch.

My dress was still damp, so I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing I could disappear. I met his gaze head-on, refusing to look away.

Since the drugging incident, we hadn’t seen each other for over a month.

The distance between us had only grown, filled with things left unsaid. I avoided him at every turn, ducking into side rooms or slipping out the back whenever I heard his footsteps.

Harrison was just the same—dignified, composed, untouchable.

He stood tall, posture rigid with formality. Not a hair out of place, not a single wrinkle in his suit. He was every inch the Whitmore heir.

His gaze landed on me, gentle but with a chill just beneath the surface.

There was kindness in his eyes, but it was guarded, distant. I wondered if he saw me at all, or just the trouble I represented.

He once had someone bring me etiquette books, ordering me to study and keep my mind on my manners.

The stack of books still sat on my nightstand, their spines uncracked. I’d tried to read them, but the words all blurred together, heavy with judgment.

The maid who delivered the message whispered, “Mr. Whitmore says you shouldn’t get any ideas.”

She’d looked at me with pity, like she already knew how my story would end. I thanked her quietly, then tucked the books away where no one could see.

After that, I avoided him everywhere, not daring to appear before him again.

I learned every back staircase, memorized which floorboards creaked, just to avoid running into him. I became a ghost in the house I once called home.

Seeing I said nothing, Caroline piped up sweetly, “Harrison, Lila has a gift for your promotion.”

She batted her lashes, her voice syrupy and fake. The other girls giggled, sensing drama was about to unfold.

She snatched a sachet from my sleeve and stuffed it into Harrison’s hand before I could react.

I gasped, reaching for it, but she was too quick. The sachet looked tiny and delicate in his big hand, the embroidery catching the light.

It was a man’s sachet, with an unfinished water lily stitched across it.

The pale green threads stood out against the ivory fabric. I’d started it weeks ago, never meaning for anyone to see it unfinished.

It was my usual style.

My mother had taught me to sew, her hands guiding mine over the hoop. The water lily was our secret symbol, a mark of hope and resilience.

In Boston society, when a woman gives a man a sachet, it’s basically a confession.

Everyone on the porch knew what it meant. The air grew heavy with expectation, and I felt a dozen eyes burning into me.

Harrison’s face turned cold. “That’s nonsense.”

His tone was sharp, his eyes flashing. He thrust the sachet back at me, like it burned his fingers.

I snatched the sachet back, desperate to avoid more embarrassment. “Mr. Whitmore, please excuse me while I change.”

I clutched the sachet to my chest, my voice barely above a whisper. Without waiting for a reply, I hurried toward the house, head down.

Only then did he seem to notice and waved me off, impatient.

He gestured dismissively, as if I were a servant, not a guest. The slight stung, but I bit my tongue and kept walking.

As I walked to the side door, their conversation drifted softly over the garden.

Their voices floated through the open window, just loud enough for me to hear. I paused, hidden behind the rose bushes, unable to help myself.

Caroline asked coyly, “Harrison, do you really not like Lila Evans?”

She sounded almost innocent, her tone laced with curiosity. I could picture her tilting her head, batting her lashes at him.

“Caroline,” Harrison sighed, “Lila’s a guest; sooner or later, she’ll go home and marry. We just need to be good hosts. The rest isn’t my concern.”

His words were final, leaving no room for argument. I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the ache settle even deeper.

…

Their voices faded away.

I stood alone in the garden, the scent of roses mingling with the salt of my tears. The world felt impossibly big, and I felt impossibly small.

A gust of wind swept by, coldness creeping into my bones.

The summer breeze carried a hint of autumn, a reminder that nothing lasts forever. I shivered, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders.

I curled my lips in self-mockery, a bitter laugh escaping before I could stop it.

They all forgot.

No one remembered the little things—the extra place I always set at dinner, the way I mended torn sleeves, or soothed crying children. I was invisible, even in my own story.

In Boston, when a woman gives a man a sachet, besides confessing her feelings, it also means she’s accepted his marriage proposal.

It was an old tradition, whispered about in parlors and written into family Bibles. I never thought it would come back to haunt me.

On the day Harrison left, the whole Whitmore estate turned out to see him off.

The driveway was lined with carriages and well-wishers, everyone eager to say goodbye. The air buzzed with excitement and pride.

But I didn’t go.

I stayed in my room, curtains drawn tight. I listened to the laughter and farewells drifting up from the lawn, feeling both relieved and left behind.

The maid looked puzzled. “Miss, aren’t you going to see Mr. Whitmore off?”

She knocked gently on my door, her voice full of concern. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

I was bent over, embroidering a bridal veil.

The fabric glowed in the light, each tiny stitch a piece of my heart. My hands moved automatically, every loop and knot a small act of defiance.

Mom once told me, “If you stitch your own wedding dress, you’ll have a happy marriage.”

Her words echoed in my mind, bittersweet. I wondered if she’d be proud of me, or wish I’d chosen differently.

Hearing this, I didn’t even look up. “No need.”

I kept my eyes on the fabric, pretending not to care. But my heart ached with every word.

Harrison probably doesn’t want to see me.

I told myself it was for the best. Better to let him go without one last awkward goodbye.

Suddenly, hurried footsteps pounded outside. The young clerk who always shadowed Harrison burst in, out of breath and sweating.

His hair was mussed, his jacket askew. He looked like he’d sprinted the whole way just to find me.

“Miss Evans, Mr. Whitmore left you a message.”

He panted, catching his breath. I set down my needle, bracing myself for whatever was coming.

The second half of his sentence trailed off when he saw the wedding dress in my hands.

His eyes widened, and he hesitated, unsure what to say. The silence between us felt heavy and awkward.

A strange look flashed across his face, and he said with a hint of disdain:

He glanced at the veil, then back at me, his lips curling in a faint sneer. I knew that look—it was the same one I’d seen on so many faces here.

“He said your marriage isn’t urgent. When he’s back in Boston in six months, it won’t be too late to talk about it.”

His tone was flat, like he was reading a grocery list. I nodded, refusing to let him see how much it stung.

I nodded. “I understand.”

My voice was steady, but my hands shook in my lap. I forced myself to meet his gaze, daring him to say more.

“He also said,” the servant continued, “to read more, mind your words and behavior, and not hurt your reputation.”

He recited the message like scripture, his eyes never leaving my face. Harrison’s disapproval stung all over again.

“Alright.”

I kept my tone even, determined not to let him see me crack. I picked up my needle, pretending to focus on my work.

Seeing how calm I was, the servant hesitated, then asked, “Don’t you have anything to say to Mr. Whitmore?”

He lingered in the doorway, waiting for a sign of regret or longing. I gave him nothing.

“No.”

I answered without a second thought.

I didn’t owe Harrison anything—not anymore. My future was my own, for better or worse.

Hearing this, the servant looked confused.

He frowned, like he couldn’t quite believe I meant it. He shifted from foot to foot, uncertain.

He paused, then asked, “Is there anything you want to send him?”

His eyes flicked to the sachet on my desk, hope flickering in his expression. I shook my head.

He waited, but I stayed silent, my resolve solid.

“No.”

My voice was steady, without a hint of hesitation.

He left, disappointed.

He closed the door softly behind him, his footsteps echoing down the hall. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

I set aside my needle and thread, then pulled out a letter from my grandmother in Maple Heights from the vanity drawer.

The paper was soft and worn, her handwriting looping and familiar. I traced the words with my finger, feeling the distance between us shrink just a little.

She’d found someone she wanted to set me up with.

Her letter was full of hope, urging me to consider the offer. She promised I’d be safe, that I’d finally have a home of my own.

It was Lucas Hart, the eldest son of the Hart family, known for turning out top students all over the state.

I remembered him from summers in Maple Heights—a boy with a quick grin and ink-stained fingers. He’d grown into a man everyone admired, his name spoken with respect.

He and I were basically childhood friends.

We’d played hide-and-seek in the orchard, shared secrets under the stars. He was the only one who ever made me feel truly seen.

There was even a letter in his own hand inside.

His words were neat and earnest, every line full of sincerity. I read it twice, just to be sure I hadn’t imagined it.

He wrote: “If you marry, I’ll welcome you as my wife; if you don’t want to marry, I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

His promise was simple, but it meant everything. For the first time in months, I felt a flicker of hope.

At this point, I didn’t know—

I pressed the letter to my chest, closing my eyes. The future was uncertain, but at least I wouldn’t face it alone.

For the rest of my life, he would keep that promise, no matter what.

I had no way of knowing how true those words would become, or how many times he’d stand between me and the darkness. But I would never forget his kindness.

But for now—

I folded the letters away, steeling myself for what came next. There was no turning back.

With my stepmother’s cruelty and my father only interested in using me to climb the social ladder, there was never any hope of marrying into the Whitmore family.

I’d spent years trying to please people who never really cared. Now it was time to choose my own path, even if it meant walking it alone.

I had no choice.

I whispered the words to myself, a mantra against the fear. I would survive—somehow.

This marriage was my only option.

I told myself it was a fresh start, a chance to build something new. I tried to believe it.

I had someone deliver the finished sachet to the Maple Leaf Inn in the city.

The innkeeper promised to deliver it by hand. I watched him go, the package small and fragile in his arms.

Then I changed into plain clothes and went to Mrs. Whitmore’s room.

My heart pounded as I knocked on her door. She greeted me with a sad smile, her hands cool and dry in mine. We talked for a long time, neither of us saying what we truly felt.

Two hours later, I returned to my room and started packing my things.

The familiar walls seemed to close in around me. I folded each dress carefully, tucking away memories with every layer.

The maid looked surprised. “Miss, are you planning to travel far?”

She hovered in the doorway, eyes wide with concern. I smiled, hoping to put her at ease.

“Something like that.”

I tried to sound cheerful, though my voice wobbled. I forced a laugh, brushing imaginary dust from my skirts.

I smiled. “To get married.”

The words felt strange on my tongue, as if they belonged to someone else. The maid’s eyes softened, and she wished me luck, her voice trembling.