Chapter 1: The Girl He Left Behind

Ethan Price called off our engagement—he did it gracefully, sure, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Still, it was the way he handled it—so careful, so dignified, like I was something breakable. As if I were a delicate porcelain cup he had to set down gently. It stung. It never quite faded, even as folks in Maple Heights acted like they’d moved on. In a small town, everyone knows when a promise is broken, and the echo lingers long after the story’s supposed to be over.

Five years later.

Still not married. Not even close. Sometimes I’d catch myself, late in the afternoon, staring out the window as the hush of the town settled around me like a heavy quilt. Sometimes, I hated how quiet it got. Five years is a long time to sit with silence—especially when everyone in town knows exactly why you’re alone.

His new wife—just a regular girl—once half-joked to me, “Ethan’s the one who kept you waiting, hon. Why not let him take you on as his mistress?” She said it with a laugh, but her eyes never left mine. I couldn’t quite tell if she was teasing, or if there was something sharper underneath.

The words hung in the air, syrupy-sweet and sharp at the edges, like a glass of sweet tea left out too long in the sun. The room went still, the kind of silence that happens when someone tries to be funny but misses by a mile.

Ethan just smiled that soft, practiced smile and said,

“Don’t be silly. You’re all I need.”

He reached out, brushing a stray hair from her shoulder, his voice as gentle as a lullaby. I remembered that tone. Once, it made me believe in forever. The kind of tone that used to make me think nothing could ever go wrong.

“If you want it, I won’t.”

His gaze didn’t flicker. For a second, I wondered if he even remembered those old promises we’d whispered beneath the maple tree by the riverbank—or if, to him, those memories belonged to someone else now.

But later, on my own wedding night, he showed up drunk, blocking the bedroom door:

“You were always meant to marry me!”

His words slurred, whiskey heavy on his breath, tie askew. He leaned against the frame, regret pouring off him in waves. My heart twisted, caught between anger and something that felt a little too much like pity.

Since I was a kid, I always knew I’d marry Ethan Price.

It was the promise my mom made for me before she passed away—the last bit of shelter she could give me.

I remember her hands, frail but determined, pressing mine as she made my father swear on her memory. Back then, it felt like fate. Now, it feels like a story I read in a book and tried to live out, only to find the ending missing.

If my dad remarried and my stepmom favored her own kids, at least I’d have a way out.

That was the plan, anyway. A lifeline woven from hope and a mother’s love, meant to carry me through whatever storms came next. I clung to it. But life, as it turns out, doesn’t always honor the promises made in hushed hospital rooms.

Ethan liked bold, lively girls.

So I learned to ride and shoot. I wore my palms raw. Broke my leg once. Didn’t let myself cry, not even a little. I’d grit my teeth and think, This is what it takes. This is what he wants.

I remember the sting of gravel in my knee, the ache in my arms from holding the reins too tight. I made myself into the girl I thought he wanted, tough as nails, never letting anyone see me cry. I wanted to be the kind of woman who could keep up with him, no matter where he ran.

Ethan had always been sickly; he struggled with his health.

So I buried myself in medical books, hunted for remedies, and prayed for him at church every day.

The old church on Main Street still smells like candle wax and cedar. I’d kneel in the last pew, fingers laced tight, whispering prayers for Ethan’s health. I scoured the shelves at the drugstore, spent my allowance on vitamins and tinctures, anything that might help. It became a ritual. My secret. My own little mission: keep him safe, keep him close.

Since I was twelve, Ethan was by my side year after year.

Walking through spring wildflowers, picking water lilies by the lake, sipping cider in the fall, watching the snow drift past the porch.

The memories are painted in soft, golden light—sun-warmed fields, laughter echoing over the water, the crisp bite of autumn air. Evenings spent side by side on the porch swing, watching the world go quiet under a blanket of snow. Sometimes it felt like we were the only two people in the world. Not quite a perfect fit, but close enough that I thought we could be.

Always proper, never crossing a line, but never absent either.

He’d walk me home from school, careful not to let our hands brush. There was a gentleness in his distance, a promise in every look. We were always on the edge of something, but never brave enough to take the leap.

I guess you could call us childhood sweethearts. Everyone else did. The kind of couple people rooted for, the story parents told their kids at bedtime. It felt like the whole town had written our future for us. All we had to do was play our parts.

It wasn’t just me—everyone around us thought we were a perfect match.

It was obvious. To everyone. Mrs. McCarthy from the bakery would wink at me when I picked up Ethan’s favorite scones. The pastor teased us during Sunday service. Even the kids at school whispered that we’d end up together. It felt inevitable, like gravity.

Since marriage was only a matter of time, I let myself fall for Ethan, a little more each day.

I memorized the way he laughed, the curve of his smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he was truly happy. I let myself dream about white dresses and slow dances, about a life built together from the ground up.

Until—

The year I turned eighteen.

My stepsister, three years younger, was already engaged. My stepmom started grumbling about why Ethan hadn’t come by to propose yet.

She’d sigh loudly over breakfast, casting pointed looks my way. Every family dinner felt like an interrogation. The pressure built, heavy as summer humidity, and I could feel my future slipping through my fingers. Some days, it felt like I was suffocating.

The housekeeper got more careless with my meals.

My favorite dishes disappeared from the table. Sometimes my plate would arrive cold, or not at all. It was a silent message, a warning that my place in the family was slipping away.

Every day, my stepmom took a jab at me with a few sharp words.

She’d comment on my appearance, my prospects, the way I walked or spoke. Nothing I did was ever quite good enough. Her words left bruises deeper than any fall from a horse. Sometimes, I wondered if they’d ever fade.

My dad kept a stern face and stayed silent.

He’d retreat behind his newspaper, never meeting my eyes. I could feel his disappointment, sharp as a slap, but he never said a word. The silence between us grew wider with every passing day.

The good days I’d had, thanks to Ethan, were coming to an end.

I could feel it slipping away. It was like watching the sun set on the last warm day of the year, knowing winter was coming and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

After a lot of thought, I finally sent a blue iris to Ethan.

The flower was a message, a tradition in our town—blue irises for hope, for faith, for a promise waiting to be kept. That’s what folks always said, anyway. I pressed the petals flat between the pages of a book, my heart pounding as I handed it off.

That very day, the iris was returned to my windowsill.

Its petals wilted, the stem drooping.

Tucked beneath the stem was a handkerchief I’d embroidered for him—the one I’d already given him.

It felt like a punch to the gut. I stared at the sad little bundle, my hands trembling, trying to make sense of what it meant.

My heart dropped.

It was like the ground dropped out from under me. I pressed the handkerchief to my chest, the stitches blurring through my tears.

But I never understood why.

Until—

News spread all over Maple Heights: Ethan Price had fallen for the maid—Rosie.

The gossip ran wild through the beauty parlor and the barbershop, whispered over fences and at the corner store. It was the kind of scandal that could keep a small town talking for years.

When I heard this, my head spun.

Rosie—small and quiet, but she could still bloom in her own way. He’d even nicknamed her that himself.

She’d been just an ordinary cleaning girl. Plain-looking, honest, placed in Ethan’s house by his mother. Nothing special. Or so I thought.

Ethan was always busy with work, often coming home just before midnight.

Rosie would wait for him at the porch, holding a lantern.

She’d have a hot slice of apple pie wrapped in foil, sometimes a burger from the diner.

Ethan, proud as ever—no one knew when it happened, but that steady kindness got to him.

When it came time to marry me, he finally realized who he truly wanted.

Looking back—spring wildflowers, water lilies, cider, snow—when we met, it wasn’t just the two of us. Sometimes it felt like a crowd, even when it was only a few of us. I guess I never noticed what was happening right in front of me.

I brought my friends, and Ethan brought Rosie.

I knew they spent plenty of time together, but I couldn’t help wondering—

Did their feelings grow right under my nose?

When Ethan and I watched the snow, did his gaze linger on Rosie, shivering in her thin coat?

When I made him hot cocoa, did he ever wonder if Rosie was tired from standing so long?

I washed my face. Changed my clothes. Tried to redo my hair and makeup, even though my hands were shaking. I stared at my reflection, hoping I could find some version of myself that didn’t look so lost.

When I reached the Price family’s door, I snapped back to myself.

What was I supposed to ask Ethan?

Ask him when he fell for Rosie?

No, that’s pointless.

Ask him what we’d been, all those years?

No, too undignified.

After agonizing over it, I finally came to a helpless conclusion.

I should tell him I was fine with Rosie.

Once I married in, I’d keep her close as my companion and make sure no one made life hard for her.

I could be generous.

Please, don’t break off the engagement, all right?

I swallowed the bitterness in my heart and knocked on the Price family’s door.

Ethan was probably busy.

I waited three hours, only to have his housekeeper say:

“Miss Turner, Mr. Price had an urgent matter and just left…”

I said, “I’ll come another day.”

The housekeeper, whom I’d met a few times before, looked awkward—her eyes flicked away, and for a second, I thought she almost felt sorry for me. The silence was thick enough to choke on.

I understood, and let out a bitter laugh.

It echoed in the hallway, sharp and hollow. I turned away, shoulders stiff, feeling like the world had grown too big and too small all at once.

I don’t remember how I made it home.

I must have walked, though the road blurred past me, the world muffled by the storm in my head. I only remember the ache in my feet and the emptiness waiting for me at the door.

The outcome was set, like a sword hanging over me—waiting to fall.

As if Ethan had pronounced judgment on me.

Three days later.

Ethan came to break off the engagement.

He arrived just after sunrise, the sky still streaked with pink and gold. I watched from behind the curtain as he stepped onto the porch, his face unreadable.

Spring passed. Then autumn came. The seasons changed, but nothing else did. I carried water up the porch steps, thinking about how everything felt stuck.

A few days ago, there’d been heavy rain on the mountain, and moss had started to grow again.

My foot slipped, and I nearly fell.

Luckily, my hands were calloused enough to grip the railing tightly.

These five years hadn’t been for nothing. I’d learned.

If my mom knew things would turn out like this, would she regret setting up my engagement to Ethan?

I hope not. I didn’t want her rolling in her grave.

So for the past five years, I did everything I could not to drown in it.

But when I heard that familiar name from folks passing through town, I’d still lose focus for a moment.

Everyone loved the story about the hometown boy who defied his family to marry a small-town girl.

Many people sighed, saying the Price family had produced a real romantic.

No one remembered the original fiancée.

Not a soul. It was like I’d been erased.

No one cared that, in a town like ours, a woman with a broken engagement might as well be dead to people.

In a daze, I seemed to return to the day Ethan broke off our engagement.

Even now, the memory is vivid.

That feeling of confusion and despair is still as fresh as yesterday.

Ethan, dressed in a plain white shirt, walked into the Turner family home.

His back was straight, tall and unbending—like a pine tree standing alone at night. Something about it made my chest ache.

And as always, the plain-looking maid followed behind him.

I heard him say:

He said it was his call to end the engagement.

He didn’t want a wife like the ones the Price men always chose.

Just a few words, and I was cast into an icy prison. My mind went blank, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.

All my hours at piano, chess, embroidery—being the perfect daughter—for him I even learned to ride and shoot, and studied medicine—

In the end, in his eyes, I was no different from any other woman.

Ethan said the gifts he’d sent could be kept as compensation, no need to return them.

He made it clear these were all his own decisions, nothing to do with anyone else. No one else to blame, just him.

I didn’t hear the rest.

I could guess—they’d be words to protect the one he loved.

He’d come today to break the engagement, humiliating the Turner family.

The Turners couldn’t take on the Prices, but Rosie was just a maid.

So even today, while breaking my engagement, he had to bring her along, keep her in sight.

Not caring at all about my feelings.

For the first time, I lost my composure in front of everyone, stumbling away from the room.

My vision blurred, and I barely made it down the hallway, the walls closing in around me. I could hear whispers behind closed doors, but I didn’t care. I just needed to breathe.

Afterward, I was locked in the back bedroom.

Left to wait helplessly for my dad and stepmom’s decision.

When I was nearly starving, my stepmom’s maid dragged me out and tossed me onto the floor.

My stepmom, with the other Turner girls, watched me in my misery.

Watched me fall from future Price family matriarch and eldest daughter of the Turner family to a disgraced, rejected woman.

I saw satisfaction in their eyes.

My stepmom sneered, “Grandma’s health is poor. From now on, you’ll pray for her at St. Luke’s.” She looked almost smug, like she’d been waiting to say it.

They didn’t even cast me out? I was a little surprised.

“Mr. Price was merciful—he pressured your father, so you had to be kept around,” my stepmom said, unwillingly.

I gave a hollow laugh.

In the end, I had to thank Ethan for letting me scrape by.

I struggled for a moment, then gave up on the idea of bashing my head against the wall.

Why should I die?

If I died, what would all those years of helplessness behind closed doors even mean?

I wanted to live.

The day the Turner family came to fetch me, I was washing clothes.

It was my stepmom’s maid who came.

I was nothing like the perfect daughter I’d once been.

She looked me up and down several times before confirming I was the right person.

And so—