Chapter 1: Roses, Betrayal, and the River’s Edge

My name’s Autumn Lane, and I’m an English major at Maple Heights University. But honestly? After graduation, I have zero plans to get a regular office job. I started writing during college, and I’m already making a decent living from it. Plus, my family’s comfortable enough that I can afford to go all-in on writing full-time.

It’s the kind of freedom most people dream about, right? Not that there’s anything wrong with chasing that steady paycheck, but for me, nothing beats the rush of weaving stories all day—coffee mug in hand, laptop open by the window, watching the world roll by. My parents weren’t exactly thrilled when I broke the news, but with the safety net they’ve built, I don’t have to stress about rent or living off ramen noodles.

I guess I’m one of the lucky ones.

But if I’m honest, I owe it all to one of my best friends.

Funny how the right person at just the right moment can change everything. Not a professor, not some famous author—just a friend who believed in me before I even knew I had it in me.

Mariah and Zoey—we grew up together, thick as thieves, more like sisters than friends. But three years ago, Mariah went abroad for school. We still talk, but there are some things I could only tell Zoey.

There’s a bond you build with people you’ve known since you were five—running barefoot through each other’s backyards, whispering secrets under blanket forts at sleepovers. Even after Mariah left for Canada, it felt like nothing could break that connection. But time zones and distance make some conversations harder. Zoey became my anchor in those years—my sounding board for every heartbreak and hope.

Zoey always loved writing. Becoming a professional author was her dream. Hanging out with her, I started to fall for it too.

She’d scribble poems on diner napkins, send me chapters over email at midnight, drag me to open mic nights even when I complained. I always admired her wild imagination and how she could make the tiniest moment feel like a story worth telling. Bit by bit, her passion rubbed off on me.

Until I found myself filling notebook after notebook, just to keep up.

But life is unpredictable—disaster can hit out of nowhere.

You think you’ve got time. You think there’s always another day. Then the rug gets pulled out from under you, and you’re left gasping for air.

Wondering how the world can keep spinning when yours has stopped.

During my junior year, Zoey died. She was gone.

Even now, just writing that sentence makes my chest ache. That kind of loss—it doesn’t fade. Not after months, not after years. There are days I still reach for my phone, ready to text her, before I remember she’s gone.

That period was unbearably hard. I couldn’t accept it. I’d wake up, forget for a second, then remember all over again. So I asked my parents to help me transfer to Maple Heights University, where Zoey had studied. That way, I felt closer to her.

Packing up my life and moving to a new school in the middle of college was a leap, but I needed to be somewhere I could still feel her presence. I’d walk past the library and imagine her tucked away in a corner, lost in a book. I’d order coffee at the campus café and wonder if she’d sat at that very table. It was like chasing ghosts, but somehow, it helped.

I even fantasized about living for her, like I could take her place.

It sounds strange, but I started doing things I knew she’d wanted to do—joining clubs, submitting stories to literary journals, even wearing her favorite shade of lipstick. It was my way of keeping her alive, of making sure her dreams didn’t die with her.

From then on, I made myself a promise: I’d become a professional writer.

It was more than a goal—it was a vow.

Every time I sat down at my desk, I imagined her looking over my shoulder, cheering me on. I wanted to make her proud, wherever she was.

Because I was so absorbed in writing, and naturally introverted, I didn’t date anyone my first three years of college. Honestly, I thought maybe I’d never fall in love.

I was the girl who ducked out of parties early, who’d rather spend a Saturday night curled up with a good book than at a frat house. Romance? That was for other people. Messy, complicated—just not for me. Or so I thought.

But fate has a funny way of surprising you.

You think you know where your story’s going...

In my senior year’s first semester, I met a guy named Eric Miller. He was a real estate agent auditing our university’s open-enrollment psych class on Saturday nights.

He wasn’t like the other students—older, more put together, the kind of guy who walked in just as class started, always with a polite nod to the professor and a quick smile for whoever happened to be nearby.

He was six feet tall, sharp features, always in a crisp white shirt and slacks—handsome and self-assured. And honestly? Even I couldn’t help but stare. Every time he walked into the classroom, girls would whisper, daring each other to ask for his Instagram.

He had that effortless charm, the kind that made people gravitate toward him. You know the type. Everyone wanted to be near him.

Even someone like me, who’d never really been into guys, couldn’t help but sneak a look or two. I mean, even if you can’t have him, it’s nice to look, right?

After all, he sat right in front of me.

I’d find myself counting the freckles on the back of his neck or watching the way he tapped his pen when he was thinking. It was harmless, really—just a little window-shopping from the back row.

But what I never expected was that after class one day, Eric actually came up to me and asked for my Instagram, saying he wanted to borrow my notes.

I nearly choked on my water. For a second, I thought he’d mixed me up with someone else. But he smiled, that easy, practiced smile, and I found myself scribbling my handle on a scrap of paper before I could overthink it.

I agreed.

My hands were shaking as I handed him my info, but I tried to play it cool. Inside, though, my heart was hammering like I’d just run a mile.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I figured he just wanted the notes—after all, a guy that handsome wouldn’t be interested in me.

I mean, come on. I was the bookish girl in the oversized sweater, not the kind of girl who gets noticed by campus heartthrobs. I figured he’d message once, maybe twice, and then forget all about me.

But over the next month, Eric kept messaging me on Instagram and often invited me to dinner on campus.

At first, I thought it was just about the class. But then the conversations got longer, drifting from psychology to music, to favorite movies, to childhood memories. The dinners became a regular thing, and suddenly, I was looking forward to Saturday nights in a way I never had before.

Suddenly, I was the girl everyone was whispering about.

I could feel the stares when we walked into the dining hall together. Whispers followed us down the hallways. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying—like stepping into someone else’s life for a while.

Honestly, I was over the moon.

I’d never been the center of attention before. It felt like living in one of those cheesy rom-coms I secretly loved. Every text from Eric made me smile, every dinner felt like a scene from a movie. I knew it couldn’t last forever, but for once, I let myself believe it was real.

But what really made me famous on campus was what happened on the night of the Fall Harvest Festival.

Our school throws a big event every October—pumpkin carving, cider, a bonfire on the quad. It’s the kind of night that makes even the most cynical students feel a little bit magical. I never expected it would become the turning point of my college life.

That night, Eric did something insane: he showed up outside my dorm with 999 roses—yeah, literally—and confessed his feelings for me.

I didn’t even know you could buy that many roses at once in this town. It was surreal—an actual sea of red roses, the scent filling the air, petals scattered on the sidewalk. He stood there, beaming, as half the dorm leaned out their windows to watch. Someone even started livestreaming the whole thing.

He’d hinted a few times before that he liked me, but since he’d never said it outright, I didn’t dare believe it. But tonight, he was all in.

He looked me right in the eye, voice steady, and told me he’d never met anyone like me. My knees nearly gave out. I kept waiting for the punchline, for someone to jump out and yell, “Just kidding!” But it was real. All of it.

I never dreamed that such a handsome man would confess to me in a way straight out of a TV show. Ever since Zoey left, my world had felt gray and empty, but that night, Eric made me see the light again.

For the first time in ages, I felt like I could breathe again—like maybe, just maybe, happiness wasn’t out of reach. The crowd was cheering, and I felt tears stinging my eyes, but I didn’t care. I let myself believe it was okay to be happy.

That night, I said yes, and we hugged in front of everyone as they applauded.

It was the kind of hug that makes you feel safe, even with a hundred people watching. I could hear people clapping, whistling, someone yelling, “You go, girl!” from a window. For a second, the world faded away, and it was just the two of us.

The whole school was stunned, and plenty of people livestreamed the moment. Overnight, I became a campus celebrity.

My phone blew up with friend requests and messages. Even professors mentioned it in class. I wasn’t used to all this attention. It was... a lot. For a shy girl who’d always flown under the radar, it was overwhelming—but in a good way. I felt seen, for the first time in a long time.

In the days that followed, Eric and I were inseparable. Even though he worked during the day, he came to campus almost every night after work to have dinner and walk with me. He knew I loved writing and hanging out in the library, so every Sunday afternoon he’d spend hours with me at the new campus library.

He’d bring me coffee, help me brainstorm plot twists, even listen to me rant about writer’s block. Sometimes we’d wander the shelves, picking out books for each other, laughing over the silliest titles. It was easy, comfortable, like we’d been together forever.

He’d talk about our future like it was a given—where we’d live, what kind of house we’d buy, even what we’d name our kids. Part of me wanted to believe it, to let myself fall all the way.

I knew a lot of people doubted us. I heard rumors about Eric—people said he was a player, that he had lots of women. I even got texts from an unknown number saying he was a womanizer. But I never believed it. How could he possibly have time for anyone else? I told myself it was just jealousy.

I told myself the gossip was just jealousy, that people didn’t know him like I did. I clung to the idea that trust was the most important thing, that I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I was naïve, but I wanted to believe in us.

It felt like a second chance—like life was finally throwing me a bone after everything I’d been through. I let myself hope again, let myself dream.

My last year of college flew by. I became a full-time writer as planned, and Eric started planning our wedding.

We’d spend late nights scrolling through Pinterest boards, debating color schemes and honeymoon destinations. He seemed just as excited as I was, and I let myself get swept up in it all.

We agreed to get our marriage license at the county clerk’s office at 9 a.m. on the 15th—just three days away. I even posted about it on Facebook.

I snapped a picture of us holding hands, captioned it “Three days to forever.” The likes and comments poured in. Everyone seemed so happy for us.

For once, I let myself believe it was real.

I’d never felt luckier. It was as if every piece of my life was falling into place, just the way I’d always hoped.

But the day before we were supposed to register, I suddenly received a picture message from that same anonymous number. I wasn’t going to look, but curiosity got the better of me.

I almost deleted it, but something made me pause. The message preview showed a blurry photo, and my heart started pounding. Against my better judgment, I opened it.

It was a photo of a man with his arm around a woman, eating at a sushi place. The man’s back looked a lot like Eric’s, but the photo was taken from too far away to be sure.

I zoomed in, squinting, telling myself it was probably just a coincidence. But the longer I stared, the more uneasy I felt.

The message read: "They just went into Room 503 at the Oakview Hotel. Go or not—up to you."

My stomach dropped. I stared at the screen, debating whether to ignore it or do something. The words echoed in my head, taunting me.

After hesitating for a long time, I decided to go.

I threw on a jacket, barely remembering to grab my keys. My hands were shaking the whole drive. I kept telling myself I was being paranoid, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Twenty minutes later, I arrived on the fifth floor of the Oakview Hotel.

The hallway was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl. I could hear the faint hum of a TV from somewhere, but otherwise, it was just me and my racing heart.

As I approached Room 503, I heard a woman’s excited voice, mixed with a man’s voice.

The laughter was muffled, but unmistakable. Every step felt heavier than the last. I pressed my ear to the door, hoping—praying—that I was wrong.

My hand felt numb, like I’d been shocked, and I couldn’t lift it. I looked around the hallway—just me, standing there in a daze.

I leaned against the wall, willing myself to breathe. For a second, I thought about turning back, pretending I’d never seen the message. But I couldn’t. I had to know.

I took a deep breath and finally pressed the doorbell.

The sound seemed to echo down the hallway. My heart hammered in my chest as I waited, every second stretching out like an eternity.

What happened next, I’ll never forget.

The door swung open, and there he was—Eric, the man I thought I’d spend my life with. He stood there, dripping water from his hair, a towel slung low around his waist. Behind him, a blonde woman lounged on the bed, smirking.

Eric looked surprised to see me, but then said something that chilled me to the bone:

"Didn’t expect you’d catch me at the last minute." He shook his head, totally unfazed.

His voice was calm, almost bored, like he’d been caught sneaking a cookie instead of cheating on his fiancée. I felt the world tilt beneath me.

"What do you mean by that? And who is this woman?" I demanded.

My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I couldn’t help it. I was shaking, half from rage, half from disbelief.

Eric didn’t answer right away. He got dressed, lit a cigarette, and motioned for the blonde woman to get up. Then he smiled and said, "So, how do you think you stack up against her?"

He blew smoke toward the ceiling, eyes cold and calculating. The blonde slid off the bed, stretching like a cat, her gaze fixed on me.

I looked at the blonde—her features were stunning. I wasn’t bad looking, but honestly, compared to her, I was outmatched.

She was the kind of beautiful that made people stop and stare—movie-star gorgeous, with a body to match. I felt suddenly small, like a child playing dress-up.

The blonde walked over, glanced at my chest, and laughed, "Eric, is this the rich girl you told me about? You really settled, huh? Hahaha."

Her laugh was sharp, echoing off the walls. She looked me up and down, smirked, and rolled her eyes. I felt my cheeks burn with humiliation.

"So you’re the one who sent me those messages! You lured me here on purpose! You witch!" I was furious and raised my hand to slap her.

My anger boiled over. I didn’t care about dignity or consequences—I just wanted to wipe that smug grin off her face.

But she was faster—she grabbed my hand and slapped me hard.

The sound cracked through the room. My head snapped to the side, and I tasted blood. For a moment, I couldn’t move.

Smack!

I fell to the floor, stunned. I’d never been slapped before—not even by my dad.

The pain was sharp, but it was the shock that hurt more. I stared up at her, blinking back tears, my pride in tatters.

"You think you can hit me? You’re not even in my league! Look at yourself—no looks, no body. If your family wasn’t rich, would Eric even look at you? Give it up! Flat-chested loser! Pfft!" The blonde spat at me.

Her words stung more than the slap. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the floor and never be seen again.

I looked at Eric, hoping he’d help me up, but he didn’t move.

He just stood there, arms crossed, watching like it was some reality show drama. The betrayal cut deeper than anything.

"Eric, if you never liked me, why did you chase me in public? Why say you’d marry me? Why?" I shouted.

My voice cracked, raw with hurt. I needed answers, even if they destroyed me.

Eric took a deep breath and laughed. "Autumn, I won’t hide it anymore. I only chased you because I made a bet that I could win over an innocent student in two weeks. So I picked you. As for marriage..."

He paused, seeming embarrassed.

He looked away, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. My stomach twisted.

She snorted, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "It’s because he found out your family has money. If he married you, he’d get a share of your family’s assets when you divorced. Seriously, use your brain—how could a guy this hot actually love you? You’re way out of your league!"

She snorted, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Her words echoed in my ears, cruel and mocking.

“Out of your league”—that’s a line I used all the time in my novels, usually about men. I never thought it would be used on me.

The irony hit me like a punch. I’d written those words so many times, never imagining I’d be on the receiving end.

"Eric! Is all of this true? I want to hear you say it!" I stood up, glaring at him.

My fists clenched at my sides. I refused to let him see me cry.

He shrugged. "Fine, I’ll be honest. I never liked you. You were just one of many women to me, just a plaything. If your family wasn’t rich, I would never agree to marry someone like you. Autumn, just go. Don’t get in our way, and don’t come looking for me again."

His words were cold, final. He didn’t even look at me as he turned away.

With that, he turned and walked back into the room, not even looking back as he closed the door.

The door clicked shut, and I was left standing in the hallway, numb and alone. The world seemed to blur around me.

My mind went blank. I don’t know how long I stood outside that door. In the end, it was the hotel security who carried me out.

I barely remember their voices, gentle but firm, asking if I needed help. I just stared at the carpet, lost in a fog of disbelief.

After leaving the hotel, I had no idea where to go. I wandered the streets aimlessly. My childhood best friend Zoey was gone, and now the man I was supposed to marry was gone too. My life felt completely meaningless. Maybe I really was the nobody they said I was.

The city lights blurred past me as I walked, my phone buzzing in my pocket with messages I didn’t answer. I felt invisible, like a ghost drifting through someone else’s life.

As I walked, I found myself by the river.

The water was dark, reflecting the city’s neon glow. The air was cold, biting at my skin, but I barely noticed. I stood at the edge, staring at the ripples, wondering how it had all come to this.

I looked around—no one in sight. Maybe it was fate.

The world was silent, save for the distant hum of traffic. It felt like the universe had emptied itself out, leaving just me and the river.

I paused, breath catching, before I let go. With a splash, I jumped into the river.

I didn’t think. I just moved, letting gravity take over. The cold hit me like a slap, stealing the breath from my lungs.

Yes, I wanted to end my life, to go be with Zoey. Let everything end here.

I let myself sink, surrendering to the darkness. For a moment, I felt weightless, free from pain, from memory.

I closed my eyes, feeling the water closing in from all sides, like ghosts pulling me down to the underworld.

My limbs felt heavy, my thoughts slowing to a crawl. I wondered if Zoey would be waiting for me on the other side.

But strangely, when I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t in the afterlife—I was on the riverbank.

Coughing, sputtering, shivering from head to toe, I blinked against the bright streetlights. My clothes clung to me, heavy with water, and my head spun as I tried to sit up.

A man stood before me, pale-skinned, with sharp features—not as handsome as Eric, but still good-looking, and somehow familiar, like I’d seen him before.

He wore a worn gray hoodie and jeans, his hair damp and messy. His eyes were sharp, but there was a softness in them, too—a kind of quiet concern that made me want to cry all over again.

He said his name was Nolan Pierce. He was the one who saved me.

He knelt beside me, offering his hand. "You okay? You’re lucky I was jogging by. That river’s no joke."

"Why did you save me?" I asked.

My voice was barely a whisper, but he heard me. He didn’t flinch, didn’t judge—just waited for me to catch my breath.

He said, "Look, life sucks sometimes. But if you’re brave enough to do this, you’re brave enough to keep going. Trust me. As long as you’re alive, good things can still happen. Besides, since I saved your life, you owe me. You have to pay me back."

His words were gentle but firm, like he’d rehearsed them a hundred times. There was something oddly comforting about his matter-of-fact tone.

That’s right—I owed him, big time. He’d saved my life.

It was the first thing that made sense in days. I nodded, more to myself than to him. I owed him, and I owed Zoey. Maybe living was the only way to pay them both back.

His words snapped me out of it.

It was like a bucket of cold water—harsh but necessary. I realized, even if I disappeared, nothing would change. Eric wouldn’t care. But Zoey deserved better. I owed her my best effort at living.

Even if I died, Eric wouldn’t shed a single tear for me. I still had things to accomplish for Zoey. So I decided to live—really live.

I promised myself, right there on the muddy riverbank, that I wouldn’t let anyone else decide my worth—not Eric, not the blonde, not anyone. I would write my own story, for Zoey and for me.