Chapter 1: My Marriage, Their Scandal

On my twenty-second birthday, I married the sleaziest old man in all of Chicago. Yeah. That happened.

Seriously, if you’d told me a year ago that this would be my reality, I would’ve laughed right in your face. No joke. But there I was, sitting across from a guy whose hairline was retreating faster than the Bulls in a blowout loss, and I’d just said “I do.” Wild.

There was no ceremony, no party—just a quiet dinner with my family at our favorite Italian joint, right where Maple Heights starts to turn into old brick and the smell of rain hangs in the air.

Carmella’s had that real-deal Chicago charm: red-checkered tablecloths, candles jammed into empty Chianti bottles, and the air thick with the scent of garlic knots and roasted tomato. I couldn’t help but remember being a kid, sneaking bites of my dad’s lasagna when he swore it could fix anything. But tonight, the food didn’t touch the tension that knotted our table.

After a simple introduction, my usually laid-back parents looked troubled for the first time I could remember.

My mom, always the one with a wisecrack, just kept twisting her napkin in her lap. My dad, who could nap through a tornado, was wide awake, jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack. It was like the world had flipped upside down. I could feel it in my bones.

Halfway through the meal, they pulled me out onto the chilly sidewalk. My dad darted his eyes up and down the block, making sure nobody was listening, and whispered, "Did you really get married?"

The night air bit at my arms, but it was my dad’s voice that made me shiver. He stared at me like he was praying this was some twisted joke. The streetlights flickered above us, throwing long, shaky shadows onto the cracked pavement. Everything felt off.

I nodded. "Yeah, really. You want to see the license again?"

Trying to play it cool, I rummaged through my canvas tote. My hands shook so much the paper crinkled. I pulled out the manila envelope, the county seal barely showing through the cheap, scratchy paper. My fingers fumbled the flap.

Right as I reached in for the license, a perfectly manicured hand with a diamond ring grabbed it before I even had it out.

That ring caught the neon glow, flashing like a signal. Only one person wore that much sparkle on a Tuesday—Savannah Linley, the reigning queen of drama and fake concern, was here. Of course.

Before I could even process, Savannah was gasping, hand over her mouth in mock shock. "Oh my god, isn’t this Autumn? You got married!"

She made sure to say it loud enough for half the block to hear, with that look she always got when she was about to stir things up. The way she stretched my name, you’d think I’d just confessed to a felony.

Then, with a flourish, she swung open the door to the next private dining room. I peeked inside and nearly choked. My chest squeezed tight.

Every face from every family reunion was jammed in there—uncles, aunts, second cousins, even Great-Aunt Rita with her oxygen tank. All crammed around two long tables, forks frozen mid-air, staring at me like I’d grown a second head.

"Mom, look! Autumn got married! And this guy… he’s fifty-two!"

Savannah’s eyes went wide—she clearly hadn’t expected me to show up with a sleazy-looking guy, solidly mid-fifties.

She might as well have blasted it through a megaphone. The room went dead silent for a split second, then erupted in a wave of whispers and sideways glances. Someone dropped a fork with a clatter.

It was like tossing bread to a flock of city pigeons—everyone lunged for a piece of the latest gossip. I heard my name, "old man," and way too many theories about my sanity thrown around. It stung.

Savannah only paused a heartbeat before hooking her arm through a guy with a gold chain beside her. Proud as ever, she winked at me.

She dragged out every word, laying it on thick, her eyes fixed on me, hoping for a reaction.

Her voice was sticky sweet, but her smile was all teeth. She was keeping score, like she always did—her eyes darted, tallying imaginary points.

But I didn’t give her the satisfaction. I kept my face blank, calm as ever. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t let her see you sweat.

I’d learned a long time ago that reacting only gave her more ammunition. I let her words slide off, fixing my gaze on the fake grapevine strung over the bar, its plastic leaves coated in dust.

Because what Savannah didn’t know was that I could see when people were going to die—and what would happen to them in the month before it happened.

It’s not a party trick I ever wanted, but it’s bailed me out more than once. Sometimes, I wish I could just turn it off for a day. Just one day of not knowing.

My current husband, in three days, was about to be named heir to Chicago’s richest guy and inherit billions. Then, two weeks later, he’d die in a car crash. As his wife, I’d get it all.

It sounded like something straight out of a soap opera, but it was the truth. Nobody here had a clue.

"What a coincidence, Allie, you’re here too."

A sharp voice sliced through the noise. I turned and saw Aunt Brenda—my mom’s older sister, and a force of nature.

She strutted in like she owned the joint, perfume trailing behind her in a cloud. Her red dress hugged her so tight it looked painted on, and her heels clicked like gunshots with every step.

As she spoke, she slid up to my mom and took her hand like they were close.

The whole gesture was pure theater. Aunt Brenda never touched my mom unless there was an audience.

"Allie, why didn’t you tell us Autumn was getting married?"

The smile slid off my mom’s face like butter in July.

My mom’s mouth went flat, her lips pressed together until her skin went white. She looked like she wanted to melt into the floor. I felt a pang in my chest.

Even though Aunt Brenda was my mom’s sister, she treated her like dirt. My mom was the youngest, and Dad once told me that when Grandma gave birth to her, she almost left her at the hospital. Only the local pastor found out and threatened to call child services, so Mom got to come home.

That story was a family legend, whispered over cheap wine after the kids went to bed. Mom never mentioned it, but sometimes I’d catch her staring into space, her eyes far away.

Even after that, she was bullied at home—mostly by Aunt Brenda. All the dirty, backbreaking chores that should’ve been Brenda’s landed on my mom, and if she protested, she got smacked. In middle school, Aunt Brenda even got other kids to gang up on her.

I’d heard stories of my mom scrubbing floors until her knuckles bled. Every time, Aunt Brenda would find a spot she missed, just to remind her who was in charge.

Thank God Mom met Dad and finally escaped that nightmare. Life was tough after they married, but at least they were free from my grandparents. Only Aunt Brenda clung on like a leech, trailing Mom wherever she moved—just to keep competing and putting her down.

No matter where we went—Evanston, Skokie, Naperville—Aunt Brenda was never far. She’d drop by unannounced, arms full of casseroles and criticism, ready to pick apart our lives.

Over the years, Aunt Brenda competed with my mom over everything—marriage, money, even a two-pound weight gain. When Savannah and I were born, she shifted to comparing kids. Savannah was always in ballet, piano, private tutoring, the works. I was left alone; Mom never pressured me. Sometimes I wondered what it would’ve been like if she had.

Savannah had a schedule that would make a CEO sweat, but I spent my afternoons riding my bike, flipping through library books, and eating popsicles on the porch. Mom said she wanted me to have a childhood, not a résumé. Sometimes I miss those days.

But even without all those lessons, I still managed to outshine Savannah at everything. In elementary school, every holiday pageant, I ended up center stage, while Savannah, despite years of dance, was always in the back row. In middle school, I taught myself piano and snagged the solo in the big concert, while Savannah, after three years of lessons, played backup for the choir. It was a pattern I couldn’t ignore.

I still remember Aunt Brenda’s face when the principal handed me the award for best soloist. Savannah sulked the whole ride home, blaming her shoes. I almost felt bad for her. Almost.

When it came time for the high school entrance exams, I got into the top magnet school. Savannah, after getting caught bullying someone, was forced to drop out the day before the test. It’s funny just thinking about it now—the way Aunt Brenda’s jaw clenched, Savannah’s face turning a blotchy red as I walked by.

Aunt Brenda’s face twisted so tight it looked painful. Savannah wouldn’t look at me for weeks.

After that, Aunt Brenda finally got some peace. It lasted five years, until Savannah started dating. Her new boyfriend, Trent, was a rich wannabe, and Aunt Brenda’s sense of superiority came roaring back.

Trent rolled up in a BMW, wearing a suit two sizes too big, but Aunt Brenda acted like he was Chicago royalty. Suddenly, every conversation was about Savannah’s future wedding and the size of Trent’s trust fund. Give me a break.

The next time I saw Savannah, she’d gone from overdone makeup and knockoff bags to a wannabe Instagram influencer. Aunt Brenda brought her and Trent to our house, and the first thing Savannah did was laugh at me: "Wow, Autumn is still so plain—wearing a school hoodie, really."

She wrinkled her nose like my Northwestern sweatshirt was radioactive. I just shrugged and kept scrolling through my phone, not giving her the satisfaction.

I glanced down at my Northwestern sweatshirt and kept my mouth shut. I didn’t care about labels or trends, but that didn’t mean her words didn’t sting.

I’d never cared about brands or keeping up, and nothing Savannah said could change that. Still, it hurt more than I’d ever admit.

From then on, Aunt Brenda slipped right back into her old habits—cutting my mom down at every turn.

She’d show up with Savannah, drop off a casserole, and spend the next hour tearing into everything from my mom’s curtains to her mashed potatoes. There was no escaping it.

Mom nudged me under the table, giving me the "say something" look. I took a breath, looked Aunt Brenda dead in the eye, and said, "My mom didn’t know either. I didn’t tell anyone. Also, it’s my marriage—why are you so nosy?"

My voice was steady, but my heart was thudding in my chest. I saw Aunt Brenda’s eyes narrow, her mouth twitching like she’d just tasted sour milk.

"Honey, so what if you didn’t tell us? Why are you so snippy? I was just worried about you, that’s all."

She said it loud enough for the whole room to hear, painting herself as the concerned aunt. Classic Brenda.

Right on cue, Savannah piped up, "Autumn, just because you married badly, don’t take it out on my mom."

She crossed her arms, glaring at me, her voice sharp as a slap. The room shifted, every eye drilling into me, waiting to see what I’d do.

She glared, and the relatives who already had it in for my mom jumped in, eager to stir the pot.

It was like sharks smelling blood in the water. I clenched my fists under the table, fighting the urge to snap back. My jaw ached from holding it in.