Chapter 1: The Spring Gala Scandal

At the spring gala, the young senator’s son thought I was Rachel Thompson and chatted me up a little too long, which sparked a massive fight between him and the real Miss Thompson.

Losing face, he hit the bourbon hard and, on a dare from his equally reckless friends, asked the Governor to arrange a marriage with me.

The Governor—never one to waste a good scandal—made it official. My family had no choice but to quietly call off the engagement we’d just arranged, leaving me to marry out with barely a word of protest.

But on my wedding night, the senator’s son faced me and said, “I’m sorry, I acted on impulse. With the Governor’s name on our marriage certificate, splitting up isn’t exactly an option. After a year, I’ll set up a way for you to fake your death.”

What a joke. I, Emily Harrison, have never let go of anything I’ve already sunk my teeth into!

Rachel Thompson was all fire and flash—her energy filled every room, the kind of girl who’d start a party just by walking in. Me? I preferred corners and classics, more likely to be found reading Jane Austen than commanding a crowd.

But at the spring gala, fate played a trick. We both wore cream dresses and identical French twists—apparently the style of the season. Nathan Pierce slipped up behind me, covering my eyes with a hint of expensive, woody cologne, and challenged me to guess his name.

When I turned, realization hit him like a slap. He’d mistaken me for Rachel. For a split second, he blanched, then recovered with that practiced, politician’s smile. He apologized, asked my name, and, on impulse, plucked a wild rose from the Governor’s mansion fence and handed it to me—thorns and all.

As Nathan pressed the rose into my palm, I felt the thorns prick my skin—sharp, unexpected pain. I wondered if it was a sign of how tangled my life was about to get, how beauty and trouble always seemed to come hand in hand for me.

Nathan’s charm was legendary—he could probably talk a statehouse janitor into voting for him twice. His reputation for warmth and passion wasn’t just rumor.

Rachel saw the whole thing. She erupted, calling Nathan out for being a flirt in front of half the capital, then hurled her promise ring—a Tiffany diamond—onto the marble. It bounced twice before skittering under a pair of Jimmy Choos, and the crowd gasped.

Nathan, humiliated, drowned his pride in bourbon after bourbon until his tie was crooked and his friends dared him to ask the Governor for a marriage. In our state, the Governor still wielded that ceremonial authority—a leftover from a time when families sealed alliances with a signature and a handshake.

When the announcement arrived at the Harrison house, a state trooper’s boots squeaked on our foyer’s linoleum, his hat tucked respectfully under one arm as he handed over the envelope. My parents stared, stunned into silence.

My father—a county health official more used to septic permits than statehouse intrigue—kept polishing his glasses, as if cleaner lenses would reveal this was all a misunderstanding.

My mother’s hands trembled so hard her coffee splashed onto the saucer, leaving brown rings on the white porcelain. “What about the marriage arrangement with the Miller family?”

What could we do? We had to quietly break it off. The Millers didn’t dare protest, not when the Governor’s name was involved. Only Tyler, the second son, turned red-eyed and clenched his jaw until I thought he’d break a tooth.

Tyler Miller was the man I’d chosen—steady, practical, destined to inherit his father’s hardware stores. Mrs. Miller had always looked down on my humble background, and I’d smiled through a hundred Sunday sermons and bit my tongue through twice as many bridge games, all for a seat at their table.

It was a waste—all those Sundays, all that effort, gone in a heartbeat.

On the eve of the wedding, friends brought gifts—monogrammed towels, crystal vases, the usual trappings of upper-middle-class approval. Rachel Thompson swept in, diamond-studded Cartier hairpin in hand. She pinned it into my hair, her laughter light but her eyes cold. “Do you really think you can be Mrs. Pierce?” she whispered.

That night, in the Mayflower Hotel’s honeymoon suite, Nathan Pierce didn’t even lift my veil before speaking. “I’m sorry. I got drunk after fighting with Miss Thompson and dragged you into this. With the Governor’s name on our marriage certificate, splitting up isn’t exactly an option—but don’t worry. After a year, I’ll arrange for you to fake your death.”

Under the veil, I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain. What a farce! He made the mistake, and I was supposed to lose everything—family, friends, even my identity—while he waltzed off with his beloved and a string of mistresses? Dream on.

The veil felt heavy in my hands as I gripped the edge, knuckles white. My heart pounded as I steadied my breath, deciding I would face Nathan head-on. I lifted the veil myself, looking him straight in the eye with a smile full of double meaning. “Since you say so, I’m relieved. You and Miss Thompson clearly have something special. I was worried our marriage would hurt her, but I guess I was overthinking it.”

“If you’ve got it all figured out, I’ll cooperate. Just one thing—while we’re in public, treat me like a real wife. I won’t embarrass you at fundraisers or forget which fork to use at state dinners.”

I didn’t cry or throw a fit. I was calm, even gracious—so much so that Nathan looked genuinely thrown. He was probably bracing for tears or flying lamps. Instead, he just stared, then nodded. “That’s natural.” He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair and added, “Rachel said you wouldn’t agree. She thinks you wore the same dress as her on purpose, to get my attention…”

I let my mouth drop open, feigning surprise. “How could Miss Thompson think that? Honestly, I was already engaged. Tyler Miller and I had plans—a June wedding, Napa Valley honeymoon, the whole nine yards.”

Nathan’s politician’s smile faltered, guilt flickering across his face. He apologized again, quieter this time.

Nathan Pierce was old money—the kind with campus buildings named after them. Orphaned young, he was the only master of the Pierce estate, a Georgian mansion with eight bedrooms and a staff of six. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with in-laws.

Compared to Tyler Miller’s overbearing mother and her Tuesday bridge club, Nathan seemed almost ideal.

We didn’t consummate the marriage. The bed stayed perfectly made on one side. To pass the long night, I suggested darts—the loser slept on the outside. There was a dartboard in the suite’s game room, a leftover from the building’s robber baron days.

Nathan hadn’t planned on sharing a bed with me. His overnight bag still sat by the door, ready for a quick escape to the guest room.

I kept my tone gentle. “I have a habit of drinking water at night—dry throat, probably allergies. If the maids saw us in separate beds, it’d be all over town by brunch.”

He just nodded, looking oddly relieved.

Darts were his thing. He was a trust fund kid with a ceremonial job, more interested in parties and powder than policy. His Instagram was a highlight reel of yacht parties and Aspen ski trips.

Rachel Thompson was a colonel’s daughter—tough, athletic, blunt. She’d grown up on Fort Bragg, could ride and shoot, and didn’t care for the socialite games. She and Nathan had met at a skeet shooting competition.

But Nathan didn’t know I was good at darts, too. I landed three bulls-eyes before letting myself lose. He slept inside; I took the outside, wrapped in hotel-logo sheets.

When we lay down, the mattress dipping beneath us, I heard his breath hitch, like he’d just realized he was sharing a bed with a woman who wasn’t Rachel Thompson.

I smiled at Nathan Pierce, already plotting how I’d turn this farce of a marriage into my own kind of victory.