Chapter 1: The Proposal and the Curse

After my father died in a tragic fall from the cliffs near Maple Heights, the guy my family always said I'd end up with—a broke, earnest college hopeful—showed up at my front door. He had this look on his face like he was carrying the weight of the world, and yeah, he was holding a ring box, ready to propose. Honestly, it was almost old-fashioned, like something out of a story my grandma would tell. I had to bite back a laugh at how surreal it all felt.

The air was thick with late summer, that sticky mix of fresh-cut grass and honeysuckle drifting in from somewhere down the road. It was almost too sweet. Mason’s hands were shaking, knuckles white around that velvet box. My stomach twisted, a little thrill of nerves or guilt—I couldn’t tell which. For a split second, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. The porch boards groaned under his sneakers, and behind him, even the old oaks seemed to pause, their branches swaying like they were waiting for my answer too.

I was just about to shut him down when—bam—a line of text flashed right in front of my eyes. Wait, what?

The villainous side character doesn’t seriously have to wait until after marrying the hero to die, right?

Poor heroine—she just landed in this world and already has to be someone’s second wife. Sure, the male lead is famous for spoiling his wife, but he already lost one—kind of a curse, isn’t it?

Girl, say no! Without the villain’s bad luck sticking to him, the male lead would be golden—set for life. He’ll be a hotshot lawyer or state senator in five years.

It was like the universe itself was heckling me, like a Twitter feed gone wild, a barrage of judgment scrolling through my mind. I blinked hard, trying to clear the weirdness, but those words burned behind my eyes like neon. My skin prickled, suddenly hyper-aware, like someone had yanked the rug out from under me right in front of everyone I knew.

I stared at Mason Carter, with those painfully honest blue eyes, and felt my face go cold. My heart squeezed, just for a second, and then I steeled myself. I told him to get off my porch.

"Get out. I’m the daughter of a state senator. How could I possibly marry a guy with nothing to his name?" The words came out sharp, almost like a slap, and I hated how easy it was to sound cruel.

My voice was sharper than I meant, echoing off the porch columns. I saw the flicker of pain in Mason’s eyes, but I forced myself not to look away. The wind whipped at my dress, and somewhere down the street, a dog barked. Life just kept going, even when you felt like your heart was splitting in two. Figures.

"If you want to propose, come back after you’ve graduated at the top of your law school class." I let the words hang there, daring him to argue.

The housekeeper and a couple of staffers appeared, stone-faced, and quietly walked Mason off the porch. The ring box he’d brought tumbled to the ground, and the bakery box he’d carried split open—homemade apple pie sliding out, crust shattering.

For a second, everything slowed down. Cinnamon and apple filled the air. The staffers’ faces stayed blank, but the air felt thick with discomfort—a silent, collective wince, like everyone was wishing they were somewhere else.

Mason’s handsome face crumpled. He crouched down, picking up the broken slices of pie, brushing off crumbs like he could fix something. I caught his eyes—hurt, confused, raw—and it stung more than I wanted to admit. Was this really happening? Still, I looked away, clinging to the script I’d decided on, because I had to.

I held my head high, voice steady. No tremor, no weakness. "Your dad’s gone, your mom’s so sick she can barely stand, and your family lost everything. You’ve got what, two rooms left in that old farmhouse? It’s not even as big as our stables."

My words came out ice-cold, clinical. But my cheeks were burning, and I hated myself for saying it. Still, I kept my chin up, refusing to let my voice crack. Did I really just say that?

"I’ve had everything handed to me since I was born. I could never stand that kind of hardship." I tried to sound flippant, like it was no big deal, but inside I was cringing.

I snapped my fingers and had someone bring over a tray stacked with crisp hundred-dollar bills. The smell of fresh cash hit the air, almost metallic, and the bills looked so out of place in the afternoon light. "Because we grew up together, I won’t let you walk away empty-handed. Take this—use it for your mom’s doctor, and the rest should cover next year’s tuition and books."

The money sat there, fanned out like a deck of cards, gleaming in the afternoon light. The staffers hovered, eyes darting everywhere but at me. Guilt twisted in my gut, but I swallowed it down. This was mercy, I told myself. Mercy that cut both ways.

With that, I turned to leave, already halfway through the door. But then—smack—the sharp slap of cash hitting the porch snapped me back.

The sound was way too loud, echoing through the sticky afternoon. It startled the blue jays in the magnolia tree, sent them screeching. I froze, hand clamped on the doorframe, heart thudding so hard I thought everyone could hear it. Crap.

I turned, startled, and saw Mason’s face twisted with anger. The bills were scattered across the steps like green confetti at a funeral.

His jaw was tight, hands shaking with rage he could barely hold in. The money fluttered in the breeze, some bills drifting off the porch, settling in the grass like little green ghosts of what we’d been. It hurt to look at.

Again, text flashed across my vision:

This side character is the worst, actually using money to humiliate our future senator! The male lead must be furious—the apple pie was made by his sick mom, and the villain didn’t even look at it before tossing it out. She’s so cruel—no wonder she ends up ruined and dead. Just die already! Heroine, hurry up and save our broken-hearted male lead!

Was this real? It was like getting pelted with invisible stones, each comment landing like a punch. I could almost hear the crowd booing, feel their eyes burning into me. My hands balled into fists, nails digging into my palms. Seriously?

Just like the text predicted, Mason’s face was tight with humiliation, disappointment swimming in his eyes. He didn’t beg. Didn’t plead. He just pulled out that old engagement agreement our parents signed, hands shaking, and ripped it in half right there.

The paper tore with a sound that felt like it split the summer air in two. The staffers stiffened. I felt the world tilt beneath my feet. That was it—no do-overs.

"The engagement’s off. From now on, Miss Langley and I are done." His voice was clipped, almost robotic, like he was reading from a script he never wanted. I almost reached for him. Almost. But pride kept me frozen.

"If we meet again, I wish you well." His tone was calm, but his voice was tight, like every word hurt. He turned and walked away. I watched his back, numb, until he disappeared down the gravel drive. Only then did a staffer break the silence, voice small:

"Miss, should we return what Mason brought?"

The silence was thick, broken only by the distant hum of cicadas. I stared at the pie, crust cracked, filling oozing out onto the box. Above my head, the text kept cursing me, relentless. I shook my head, barely, and told them to bring the pie to my room.