Chapter 1: The Family Table

At eighteen, my family sent me to Derek Hamilton.

The Georgia summer was thick with heat, sticking to my skin as my foster mom handed me the keys to her old Buick. That moment felt heavy and hollow at once—like the start of something I didn’t dare name.

After that first night—after he’d claimed me—he let me stay, no questions asked.

We didn’t need words at first—just necessity and the quiet exchange of two people with nowhere else to turn. Derek’s acceptance wasn’t warmth, but it was a lifeline that kept me from going under.

For three years, I followed him, always just out of sight—never official, never acknowledged.

I drifted through his penthouse and muted hotel suites, careful to keep my shoes by the door, my voice soft. The closest I came to belonging was the scent of his cologne on my pillow. But in the daylight, I was invisible—a ghost in my own skin.

Back then, pride kept me going. I told him that if he wouldn’t make us public, I’d walk away.

It was autumn’s edge, the Atlanta skyline glowing gold. My fingers trembled and my voice cracked as I tried to hold on to more than shadows. I wanted a name, a place—something that couldn’t be swept away.

Derek’s lips curled into a lazy, Southern half-smile.

"As you wish."

He didn’t argue. Didn’t beg. Just that easy, slow smile, as if I’d asked to borrow his umbrella. And somehow, that hurt worse than a fight ever could.

So, I disappeared.

I packed my battered duffel and left in the middle of a thunderstorm, promising myself I’d never look back. I deleted his number, blocked his socials, scrubbed every trace of him. Still, sometimes, I’d find his favorite tie twisted in my laundry and cry until the sun came up.

Three years later, I met Noah Hamilton.

He fell for me fast, and wanted me to meet his family.

He said it like it was no big deal, squeezing my hand as we waited for lattes in a quirky Ponce coffee shop. There was hope in his eyes—the kind I’d only seen in old movies.

"My uncle’s the real head of the family. You just have to meet him."

I nodded, following him quietly.

My nerves tangled up as we drove past perfect lawns and iron gates. I told myself to hold it together—just smile, shake hands, maybe finally belong somewhere.

But when the door opened, the clink of glasses echoed too loudly and the cold AC prickled my skin. I froze.

My breath caught as familiar blue eyes swept over me. For a heartbeat, I wanted to run, but my feet wouldn’t move.

I never imagined the uncle Noah spoke of would actually be Derek Hamilton.

The words ricocheted in my skull as the foyer lights glittered off cut crystal. I could still hear his clipped, calm voice from three years ago, as if it had never left me.

Before I could react, Noah took my hand and led me into the banquet hall.

His grip was steady and warm. The ballroom buzzed with laughter and the clatter of silverware, the air thick with the scent of fried chicken and bourbon from the open bar. I kept my chin up, tried to breathe—tried not to look back.

As we walked toward Derek, Noah introduced me.

"Uncle Derek, this is my girlfriend, Natalie."

Derek’s gaze drifted from the clinking glasses and wine to me.

It was a look that felt like an ice bath—sharp, clear, freezing me to the spot. His expression didn’t flicker. He was all business, every inch the corporate kingpin his family whispered about—the kind of man who made Fortune 500 lists and never missed a Masters tournament.

Nervously, I gripped my sleeves.

The silk bunched in my hands—a small act of defiance against the tide of memory crashing over me. My heart pounded. I forced myself to stand tall, wishing the floor would open and swallow me.

But he only gave a noncommittal "Mm."

He didn’t linger, didn’t scowl or smirk. It was as if I was just another plus-one to check off his list.

His expression was calm, his tone distant and cold.

He’d always been a master of composure, but now he seemed even more remote—wrapped in frost thick enough to dull any pain.

As if he were looking at a stranger.

The chill in his eyes hurt more than I expected. I felt like a prom dress forgotten in the attic—pretty once, but gathering dust.

"My uncle just has a cold personality, don’t mind him," Noah hurriedly explained.

He squeezed my hand, thumb brushing over my knuckles. "He’s always like that—especially around new people."

He pulled me to a seat just below Derek’s.

The head table stretched long, lined with crystal and candlelight. Derek’s presence loomed above me, silent and steady, like the hush before a thunderstorm.

The plates were already set, each with a large shrimp cocktail.

Tiny forks gleamed beside piles of pink shrimp, nestled on ice. The smell of Old Bay and lemon drifted up—so southern it almost made me smile, if I hadn’t been fighting nausea.

I’d heard these shrimp were Derek’s—caught on his last deep-sea trip and cooked by his own hand.

Word around town was, Derek didn’t just run companies—he ruled the coastline, too. Friends whispered about his boat, the Sea Venture, and the feasts no one dared to miss.

"Natalie, you should try some too."

Noah peeled the shrimp for me, removing the vein with practiced ease—a guy who’d clearly survived country club brunches and etiquette classes. He even cracked a joke about shrimp forks, saying, "You know, they say these tiny forks are only good for poking your pride."

I stared at the shrimp and frowned.

My skin prickled, anxiety pooling in my stomach. This wasn’t just food—it was a test, and I already knew I’d fail.

Noah knew I was severely allergic to seafood.

It wasn’t a secret. The scars on my wrists from EpiPens and a dozen hospital bracelets told the story. Even now, my throat tightened at the memory of ambulance sirens in the night.

If I touched seafood, my body would break out in red rashes.

Hives, swelling, panic—the terror of my airway closing. I’d carried EpiPens like lucky charms my whole life. My eyes flicked to my purse, making sure it was within reach, scanning for exits as my heart thudded faster.

When we first met, it was because I accidentally ate seafood at a party and he rushed me to the ER.

That was his favorite story—the white knight moment. He’d carried me to the car, soothed me in the ER, held my hand through it all. His first glimpse of me—gasping for air, helpless.

I pressed my lips together and gently shook my head at Noah.

I tried to smile, softening the refusal with a look. My mind scrambled for an excuse that wouldn’t embarrass us both.

"I can’t eat—"

Before I could finish, Noah leaned in, his hand squeezing my wrist under the table.

"Come on, Nat, just eat a little. If you get sick, I’ll drive you to the ER myself—no big deal."

His voice was low, the pressure in his eyes heavy. As he spoke, he poured me a glass of champagne, bubbles fizzing in the light. He set it in front of me like a peace offering.

"First, toast my uncle. Then eat the shrimp and tell him it’s great. Be good."

I pressed my lips together, silent.

The ballroom felt smaller, the noise shrinking to a nervous buzz. I stared at my plate, shrimp gleaming, the weight of every eye on me. There was no way out—not really.

Although Noah and I were dating, our feelings weren’t pure.

It was the truth I kept locked away. Noah was kind, but love had nothing to do with it. Ours was a mutual convenience—loneliness meeting opportunity.

When I met him, I was broke—so broke I worked three jobs a day.

Nights spent counting pennies for bus fare, the taste of instant ramen, the ache of skipping lunch at work. Sometimes I’d pass neon signs reading ‘Open 24 Hours’ and wish I could afford a cup of coffee inside.

So when he—with his easy money and generous smile—pursued me, I said yes.

It wasn’t romance; it was survival. Noah’s interest was a lifeline, the first I’d had in years.

There wasn’t much love—just a running tally of pros and cons.

I told myself it was smart, practical. Fairy tales were for girls with trust funds.

Noah was generous, always sending gifts, letting me pick restaurants, sliding Amazon gift cards into my inbox on holidays.

Birthdays meant Tiffany boxes; Valentine’s, steak dinners. The attention was flattering—a checklist of things he thought I’d want.

In some ways, he was more like a sponsor than a boyfriend.

It stung to admit it. I smiled for the cameras, played the doting girlfriend, all while counting down the days until I could stand on my own again.

Looking at the champagne swirling in my glass, I finally nodded.

My hands shook as I picked up the flute, the bubbles catching the chandelier’s light. I forced my best pageant smile, the one I’d practiced a thousand times in the mirror.

Then I turned to Derek, raised my glass, and said, steady and clear:

"Uncle Derek, I toast to you."

My voice was even, my gaze level. I met his eyes, daring him to acknowledge the past—or keep up the charade.

Derek’s eyes were dark and unreadable. His face gave nothing away, just watched me drink.

There was a flicker—regret or longing, maybe—but it vanished before I could catch it.

Noah’s fork, holding the shrimp, hovered near my lips.

The shrimp wobbled, his hand insistent. The whole table seemed to hold its breath.

Just as he was about to feed it to me, Derek—who’d been silent—suddenly reached out and knocked the fork away.

The silver clattered, loud as a gunshot. The shrimp tumbled to the floor. For a split second, everyone at the table froze; somewhere, a fork dropped with a sharp ping.

Derek leaned back and turned to Noah:

"Didn’t I tell you before? Seafood gets nasty when it’s cold."

His voice was cool, almost bored, but steel-sharp. A warning, hidden in velvet.

"Have them all taken away."

He didn’t raise his voice, but everyone heard. Waiters hustled in, whisking the plates away. The tension broke, and I let myself breathe again.