Chapter 1: The Secret Engagement

Every morning I wake up knowing I’m someone’s secret, and every night I go to sleep pretending it doesn’t sting.

I am Derek Hamilton’s executive assistant—and his fiancée.

Sometimes I imagine our lives as two separate movies playing at the same time: at work, we’re all business—never a look too long, never a touch that could mean more; at home, he threads his fingers through mine in front of his parents like it’s always been this way. The tension of hiding, of pretending, was always part of our dance. But all of that shattered the night I saw him—not just emotional, but completely undone—his eyes red, voice raw, pressing his sister-in-law, Lillian, against the hallway wall, begging:

"Lillian, aren’t you jealous?"

His voice cracked, low and desperate, almost unrecognizable: "If you won’t come back, I’ll really marry her."

That’s when it hit me, sharp as a slap I should have seen coming: half a year ago, when I was lying in that hospital bed after falling from a ten-story balcony, Derek never cried. Not once. I’d told myself he just wasn’t the emotional type. But the truth was right there—he could cry, just not for me. Not for people who didn’t matter to him.

I slid off the engagement ring, pressed it into his palm, my voice steady, even as my heart broke:

"I won’t be marrying you."

---

At the company, no one knows about my relationship with Derek except Marcus, his assistant—a sharp guy, MBA from NYU, probably could run the place himself. Every day I walk through the glass doors with my coffee, blending in with the other exec assistants hustling through Hamilton Enterprises. On those marble-floored halls, I’m just Shannon Wells, another face in the crowd.

Near the end of the workday, Marcus messaged me:

[Shannon, Mr. Hamilton wants you to come to the Hamiltons’ house for dinner tonight.]

I replied:

[OK.]

I waited outside the office building for an hour, but Derek never showed up.

It was one of those Chicago February evenings where the wind turns every corner into an ice tunnel. I huddled by the glass doors, blowing on my fingers, watching headlights blur by. After forty minutes, I called Derek:

"Hey, what happened? You were supposed to get me."

A woman answered. She gave a small, easy smile. Her voice was warm, almost familiar:

"Hi, Derek’s driving right now. He’ll call you back later."

I froze. She sounded so familiar—like someone I should remember. The call disconnected, leaving me stranded in the blur of city lights and biting wind. I tried to keep my mind from racing as I pocketed my phone, teeth chattering.

I took a Lyft to the Hamiltons’ house. Derek’s parents greeted me at the door, warmth in their voices and smiles.

Their Evanston home was classic red-brick colonial, a flag fluttering on the porch. The air inside was thick with the smell of cinnamon rolls and brewed coffee. A college football game played softly on the living room TV. Derek’s dad, Greg Hamilton, ran a chain of hardware stores—Hamilton Home Supplies, the county’s go-to. His mom, Dr. Leslie Hamilton, taught literature at Northwestern. Their home overflowed with books, family photos, and that unique mix of comfort and ambition you only find in old American families.

This wasn’t my first time meeting them. The Hamiltons are well-established, tight-knit, and educated. When Derek first suggested I meet his parents, I’d been nervous for days, half-expecting one of those movie moments where the parents offer you a check to leave their son.

I’d pictured that scene a hundred times—me in my thrift-store dress, them sliding a check across the table. But instead, Mrs. Hamilton hugged me, offered sweet tea, and showed me baby pictures of Derek. She never once made me feel like an outsider, even when I tripped over my words talking about my folks back in Joliet.

But it wasn’t like that at all. His mom was gentle and kind, never looking down on my blue-collar parents or my ordinary background.

Mrs. Hamilton took my hand and asked:

"Where’s Derek? Why didn’t he come with you?"

Before I could answer, Derek walked in.

Beside him was a woman. She gave a small, easy smile. Her voice was warm, almost familiar:

"Mom, Dad."

She had the kind of elegance you can’t fake—like she belonged on a magazine cover, not just in a hardware store family’s living room. There was a gravity between her and Derek I could feel, even from across the foyer, my boots shuffling on the mat.

I saw Mrs. Hamilton’s gaze flick between them. Her brows furrowed, but she quickly covered it with a bright smile:

"You’re here."

The woman shrugged off her wool coat, and Derek took it from her, hanging it on the rack with that easy confidence—like he’d done it a thousand times before. It was such an intimate gesture; Derek never fussed over anyone’s coat but his own. Suddenly, I felt like a guest in my own relationship.

Even after three years with Derek, we’d never developed that kind of unspoken understanding.

When Derek took the coat, the woman paused.

Derek shrugged and looked down at her:

"What’s wrong?"

She smiled and shook her head:

"Nothing."

It was the kind of smile that hides everything and gives nothing away. I noticed her wedding ring—a delicate gold band with a diamond that flashed under the foyer light.

Mrs. Hamilton pulled me closer, hesitated, and introduced:

"Shannon, this is Derek’s older brother’s... wife. Her name is Lillian."

After she spoke, Derek’s expression darkened, like the answer didn’t sit right with him.

"You know, Derek’s older brother passed away."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with things unsaid. I tried to smile politely, but my stomach twisted. Lillian nodded, eyes shining a little too brightly. Derek’s jaw clenched—almost imperceptibly.

Later, when I was washing my hands, only Derek and I were in the bathroom. I asked:

"Hey, what happened? You were supposed to get me."

Derek lowered his head, washing his hands slowly.

His voice was quiet:

"There were too many people at the office."

"You don’t want everyone to see us together, do you?"

He glanced at me, face blank.

I caught my reflection in the mirror behind him: all business, put together—but my eyes gave me away. Sometimes I wonder if we’re both just playing roles we barely believe in.

Sometimes I think Derek and I could win an Oscar for acting. How many couples can date for three years without anyone at work noticing?

Is he the better actor, or am I?

At dinner, Mrs. Hamilton set a platter of shrimp in front of Lillian.

"Eat up, Lillian."

Lillian looked uneasy, her fork pausing in mid-air.

Derek quietly slid the plate away from her.

"You’re allergic to shellfish. Eat something else."

He said it gently, but there was a force behind it—a protectiveness that stung. I’d never seen him so attentive, not with me.

Mrs. Hamilton smiled apologetically:

"Oh, Lillian’s allergic? I didn’t know."

After that, the meal was quiet and subdued.

Nobody really spoke; forks clinked, glasses sweated on the table. I tried to focus on the food, but everything tasted bland. I wondered if everyone else felt as out of place as I did, or if this was just my own private discomfort echoing in the quiet.