Chapter 1: The Favorite and the Forgotten

My dad’s little sister has always been the favorite in the family—the one everyone doted on.

Growing up, it felt like Savannah could do no wrong. At family reunions, she was the one who got all the extra hugs and the first slice of birthday cake, the one whose school photos hung in the hallway—not that anyone ever noticed mine, anyway. Even now, her laugh seemed to carry a little farther, her smile a little brighter, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting sometimes.

And here’s the worst part: because we looked so much alike, she made me wear a scarf over my face every day. Not just for a joke, but so no one would ever mistake me for her. It was like her way of making sure everyone knew who the real star was.

It sounds ridiculous now, but back then, it felt like the end of the world. Savannah said it was for fun, but everyone else just went along with it, as if seeing me half-hidden was perfectly normal. For a second, I’d catch someone’s eye and hope they’d say something—but they never did. I’d walk around the house with that scarf, feeling like some ghost haunting my own life, while Savannah soaked up all the attention I was supposed to share.

If I ever did anything to annoy her, I’d get accused of being rude.

It didn’t matter if it was as small as rolling my eyes or as big as accidentally bumping into her in the hallway. The grown-ups would always take her side, clucking their tongues and shaking their heads at me. "You need to learn your place, Autumn," Dad always said, as if Savannah’s whims were the law of the land.

Later, both my aunt and I got engaged to someone from the Whitmore family on the very same day.

It was the talk of Maple Heights. Two Brooks girls, both betrothed to the Whitmores—one of the oldest families in the county. People whispered about how it would all play out, but inside our house, it felt like a storm was brewing. I could feel the tension humming in the walls, sharp and electric. The whole story had flipped on its head—suddenly, I was the one everyone was whispering about.

Savannah sneered at me. “Don’t think just because you’re going to be the lady of the house, you’ll get to boss me around, okay? Please.”

She stood in the hallway, arms folded, chin jutted out in that way that said she’d already won. Her voice dripped with mean-spirited pride. Like she was daring me to challenge her. I just stared at the floor, feeling the familiar heat of embarrassment creep up my neck.

“Even if I’m just marrying the heir, a pearl’s a pearl. Grit is still grit—polish it all you want, people will still laugh.” Grandma Carol used to say that all the time, like it was some old Southern wisdom. I could practically hear her voice echoing in the background, agreeing with every word. I bit my lip, willing myself not to react.

I nodded meekly, keeping my head down. My cheeks burned. “Thanks for the advice, Aunt Savannah.”

My voice came out small, almost lost in the big, echoing entryway. But inside, I was burning. My hands curled into fists behind my back, nails digging into my palms. But I swallowed it down.

But as soon as I turned away, I couldn’t help but grin. Was it petty? Maybe. But I couldn’t help it. Looks like someone else is about to get chewed out for mouthing off to her elders now!

The thought made my heart skip. For once, maybe, just maybe, the tables were about to turn. I let myself savor that tiny, secret victory as I hurried up the stairs, the hem of my dress brushing the polished wood.

The envelope was heavy in my hands.

The envelope was thick, the seal pressed deep into the wax. When Dad broke it open at the dining table, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. The words were clear as day: Autumn Brooks, Mistress of the Whitmore Estate. My hands shook as I read it, barely daring to believe.

Savannah’s face went pale.

For the first time I could remember, Savannah didn’t have a comeback. Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her eyes darted from me to Dad to Grandma Carol, as if searching for a way to undo what had just happened. I almost felt sorry for her—almost.

It was only a short while ago—just fifteen minutes before—that the matriarch’s announcement had gone out—

The whole house had been buzzing. Grandma Carol’s word was law, and when she spoke, even Dad listened. The decree was clear: Savannah Brooks was to be engaged to the Whitmore heir. I could still hear the echo of her voice ringing down the hallway.

It was supposed to be Savannah’s big moment. She’d been bragging about it for weeks, telling anyone who’d listen how she’d be the next queen bee of the Whitmore estate. I remember thinking, Wow, she really thinks she’s got it in the bag. Now, with the official letter in my hand, the whole story had flipped on its head.

Savannah couldn’t believe it. She shrieked, “How is that possible? How could she be worthy of being the mistress of the house? Are you kidding me?”

Her voice rose to a pitch that made the chandelier tremble. I could see the shock and betrayal in her eyes—she looked like someone had just pulled the rug out from under her. The rest of the family exchanged nervous glances, unsure what to say.

I tried to play peacemaker, pretending to hold her back, but Savannah shoved me hard to the floor. For a split second, I wondered why I even bothered.

The impact sent a jolt of pain through my hip. I caught myself on the rug, trying not to cry out. Savannah’s nails scraped my arm, leaving angry red marks. For a second, the room froze—then the butler cleared his throat.

The butler’s face went stiff as he delivered the letter, his tone icy. “And which young lady might this be?”

His voice was crisp, every word clipped with disapproval. He looked down his nose at Savannah, then back at me, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just witnessed. The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch.

Dad hurried to smooth things over, slipping a crisp bill into the butler’s hand and giving him a quick smile. “My little sister’s out of line. Please forgive her, Mr. Miller.”

Dad’s voice was low, almost pleading. He pressed the bill into Mr. Miller’s palm with a practiced gesture, the kind that said he’d done this before. I watched the butler’s eyes flicker as he weighed the bribe, then gave a stiff nod.

Mr. Miller’s face softened a bit, though his smile was still tight. He said with a dry little shrug, “Mr. Brooks has always been a gentleman. I didn’t expect Miss Savannah to be so… spirited. Well, if that’s all, I’ll be on my way.”

He straightened his jacket, giving Dad a thin, professional smile. The message was clear: this was a warning, not just to Savannah, but to the whole family. As he left, the air seemed to grow a little colder.

After the butler left, Savannah was still throwing a fit in the sitting room. I watched her from the doorway, feeling a strange mix of annoyance and satisfaction.

She paced the carpet, her face blotchy with anger, muttering curses under her breath. The rest of the family kept their distance, stealing glances at her but not daring to get too close. Even the maids tiptoed around her, afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.

My aunt Savannah clung to Grandma Carol, her eyes full of spite. “She can’t marry into the Whitmore family.”

She wrapped her arms around Grandma’s waist, pressing her face into the soft fabric of her dress. Her voice wavered between a whine and a sob, but her eyes were sharp as knives when she glanced at me.

“Autumn, you actually seduced the Whitmore heir behind our backs? You little snake!”

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and ugly. I felt my cheeks burn, but I refused to let her see me flinch. Savannah’s words were meant to wound, and I could see Grandma’s face darken with every syllable.

Grandma’s face darkened, her voice sharp. She didn’t even try to hide her anger. “You brat, get on your knees!”

Her cane thumped against the floor, punctuating her command. The room went silent. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, waiting to see what I’d do.

I complied at once, sliding to my knees. My knees hit the hardwood with a dull ache. “I know I was wrong.” For a second, I wondered if I’d ever get used to this humiliation.

Once inside, Dad went straight to my aunt’s side, not even glancing at me. Typical.

He brushed past me like I was invisible, his attention fixed on Savannah. He knelt beside her, his voice low and soothing. For a moment, I let myself wish he’d look at me that way—just once.

My heart went cold. I felt the chill sink into my bones, like I’d swallowed a mouthful of ice. I hugged my arms around myself, trying to hold in the ache that threatened to spill out. The room felt emptier than ever, even with everyone crowded inside.

“You’ve gotta help me!” Savannah’s voice wobbled, but her eyes were hard. She clung to Dad’s sleeve, playing the helpless victim. I watched him sigh, his shoulders slumping as he turned to face me.

Dad smoothed my aunt’s hair, his expression cold. He turned to me. “Since you’ve disrespected your aunt, go kneel in the family room for two hours.”

His words were flat, final. He didn’t even look at me as he spoke, just kept petting Savannah’s hair like she was a little kid. I nodded, biting back tears.

I answered quietly. My throat was tight, and I could barely get the words out. I wanted to scream, to shout that it wasn’t fair, but I just nodded and shuffled away, my knees already throbbing.

People always talk about how much parents love their kids. How a father’s love is supposed to run deep.

I’d heard it all my life—from neighbors, from teachers, even from the preacher on Sunday mornings. They’d talk about how family was everything, how blood was thicker than water. I’d always wondered why those words never seemed to fit my life.

But in the Brooks family, that just isn’t true. It’s just not how things work here.

Here, love felt conditional—something you had to earn, and even then, it was never really yours. I’d learned to stop expecting it, to make do with scraps and shadows.

When I was born, Dad was sitting in Grandma’s den. They say the house smelled like rain and old wood.

It was raining that night, the kind of steady Southern drizzle that made the whole house feel damp and heavy. The grown-ups whispered in the hallway, but Dad just sat in his mother’s favorite chair, staring out the window like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Grandma went into early labor, and all the nurses rushed to her side, leaving my mom alone.

Mom was left alone in her room, clutching the sheets and praying for someone—anyone—to come help. The nurses bustled around Grandma, fussing over her every need, while Mom’s cries went unheard down the hall.

When my aunt was born, the sky was bright and everyone said she was blessed. It was like the whole world stopped for her.

The sun broke through the clouds that morning, and the whole family gathered to celebrate. Savannah’s arrival was treated like a miracle, a sign that the Brooks family was truly blessed. I was just the afterthought, the one nobody noticed.

While the Brooks family celebrated my aunt’s birth, my mom was suffering through a tough labor and heavy bleeding. The laughter and clinking of glasses drifted down the hallway, oblivious to the pain in Mom’s room.

She gritted her teeth, fighting for every breath, while the rest of the family toasted to their good fortune.

The housekeeper told me that back then, only my loud cries echoed in the room. She said, “You were the only one making any noise, Autumn. It was just you and your mom, and nobody came.”

Pitiful, really. Sometimes I wonder—if anyone had cared, would things have been different? Or was I always meant to be the extra?

The housekeeper rushed to the main house, begging Dad to at least come take a look. She said her legs ached for days after, but nobody listened.

He ignored her, replying coldly, “It’s just a woman giving birth—don’t bother the family.”

His words were like ice, sharp and unyielding. The housekeeper said she’d never forget the way he looked at her, like she was nothing but a nuisance.

All he did was have the housekeeper punished. She was made to scrub floors until her hands bled. I always wondered if she regretted speaking up.

My mom never saw her husband one last time before she died. I think about that sometimes—especially late at night, when the house is quiet and I can’t sleep.

When I was eight, my aunt fell into the pond in the backyard. I still remember the chill of the spring air and the sharp smell of wet grass.

It was early spring, the water still icy from winter. I remember the panic in Savannah’s eyes as she slipped, her arms flailing. I didn’t think—I just jumped in after her.

I did everything I could to drag her to shore. The mud sucked at my shoes, the cold bit through my clothes, but I held on tight, pulling her toward the bank.

My lungs burned, but I didn’t let go until we were both coughing on the grass.

When Savannah woke up, she leaned on Grandma’s shoulder and blurted that I’d pushed her in. Her voice was weak, barely more than a whisper.

She barely paused to catch her breath before spinning her story. Her voice was weak, trembling with just the right amount of fear. Grandma hugged her close, shooting me a look of pure venom.

Dad was furious when he heard this. He dragged me straight to the backyard. I could see the anger in his eyes, and my heart dropped.

Without listening to a word, Dad shoved me into the pond, calling me heartless and cruel. I heard the words echo as I hit the water, my whole body going numb.

The ice on the water was thin, but my body felt frozen solid. I gasped, trying to move, but everything felt heavy and slow.

I couldn’t move. My arms and legs felt like lead. I thought for a second—maybe this is it.

The following year, at the family’s spring garden party, a lady joked that my aunt and I looked so alike, we could be twins. Everyone chuckled—except Savannah.

During the party, Savannah smiled sweetly in response, but under the table, she pinched my hand hard. Her nails dug in deep, and I had to bite my lip to keep from yelping.

Afterwards, my aunt pouted and whined to Dad, insisting I shouldn’t be seen in public. Dad listened, nodding along, not even glancing at me.

Dad went along with it. He told me I had to wear a scarf over my face whenever I left the house. I didn’t even bother arguing.

From then on, rumors spread around Maple Heights that I was both ugly and disrespectful. The whispers followed me everywhere—at the grocery store, at church, even at the library.