Chapter 1: The Jilted Queen

Everyone in our circle knows I’ve been in love with Grant Peterson since we were kids.

In Savannah, folks remember everything—especially if it involves the old families. And my heart’s had Grant Peterson’s name scribbled on it since I could write. From playground crushes to Thanksgiving dinners, everybody knew I only had eyes for Grant. Old Mrs. Murphy would see us at the block party, wink, and mutter, “Match made in heaven, those two.” Down here, gossip moves quicker than pollen, and our story was always the favorite on folks’ lips.

He went to school, so did I. He learned eight languages, so did I. He studied finance, and I followed right behind.

Maybe it sounds obsessive, but I was always right there in his shadow—AP Spanish, check. Economics at UGA, check. All those language club meetings after class, where Grant picked up German slang and I struggled just to keep up. My friends used to laugh and say if Grant ever tried underwater basket weaving, I’d be there with goggles on, ready to dive in beside him.

After all, the Petersons and the Sullivan families were always meant to be joined by marriage. Our business empires are so tangled together, neither could survive a messy split.

That’s just how it is when your names are carved into Savannah’s old money. Our parents’ faces beam from faded photos at the country club, smiling over business deals and Christmas parties. The Sullivans run real estate and hotels, the Petersons own half the banks and most of the shipping yards. For as long as anyone remembers, a Sullivan wedding meant a Peterson handshake—our destinies knotted tighter than the Spanish moss on the old oak outside city hall.

But I never expected that on our wedding day, on his way to pick me up, Grant would detour overseas—to rescue his beloved first love, the woman he could never forget, in her hour of need.

Turns out, even the prettiest plans can get sideswiped. Who would’ve guessed Grant would hop a jet to London—just hours before the ceremony—to bail out Allison Foster, the girl who’d haunted his heart since sophomore year? It sounds like a TV drama, but that morning, it was all too real. Half of Savannah was glued to their phones, waiting to see if I’d call it off or walk the aisle solo.

Our childhood sweetheart romance became the biggest joke in Savannah.

Every hair salon, every barbecue joint, every Facebook group—suddenly everyone had an opinion about Natalie Sullivan, the jilted bride. My grandma’s bridge club even put me in their group prayer chain. You’d think I was a character on one of those soap operas my mom watches at 3 p.m.—except this time, I was the punchline.

Wearing a wedding dress worth a fortune, I completed the grand wedding ceremony alone.

That Vera Wang gown—ivory, hand-beaded, shipped from New York—felt like the world’s most expensive straightjacket. But I kept my chin up, heels steady, and walked down that aisle alone. The flowers were fresh, the music perfect, the pews packed. I smiled for the cameras, letting the flashes rain over me. Flashbulbs popped, the air thick with perfume and old cologne, and somewhere outside, a cicada buzzed like it was trying to drown out the gossip.

That day, for the first time, the headlines put my name before his.

For once, the Sullivans came before the Petersons. Every Savannah paper ran my picture above the fold, and for a moment, the city whispered my name with a strange kind of reverence. It was bittersweet, but dammit, it was mine.

Idiot.

Somewhere in my chest, a voice laughed at me—soft, sharp, and unkind. How had I let myself believe in fairy tales? My heart hammered like it wanted to claw its way out of my chest. Part of me wanted to scream, another part just wanted to disappear beneath the polished floorboards.

There are plenty of men out there with two legs.

My best friend Lila would say, “Nats, you could walk down Broughton Street and trip over ten men worth your time.” She wasn’t wrong. I was still standing, still Sullivan, and the world kept spinning.

A business empire, once established, can only have one queen.

My mother always told me, "You can't be queen if you beg for scraps." The Sullivan women never bowed, and neither would I. From the city council to the family boardroom, there was never room for two at the top.

I didn’t just want his body—I wanted his wealth, too.

Love was never the whole story. I wanted what was owed to me. The board seats. The shares. The future. If that meant playing the game harder, so be it. A true Sullivan never lets a good grudge go to waste.