Chapter 2: Written Out of the Story

Luke Brennan, the boy my father brought home as a living good luck charm, was supposed to fix everything. Or so the family legend went—though we never signed anything official.

I was a sickly kid, always gasping for breath, in and out of Northwestern Memorial. Dad, desperate, listened to some traveling preacher and adopted Luke from foster care. Sounds crazy now, but when you’re out of options, you’ll try anything.

"Actually, there were better ones," Dad would grumble, his voice thick with old regret. "But you wouldn’t let go of that boy, not even after he’d been beaten half to death. You even threw yourself in front of him when he got hit. I’ve never seen you cry that hard, not even when your old man got hurt!" He’d say it half-laughing, half-exasperated.

"That’s because Luke’s better looking than you, Dad!" I’d shoot back, and it was true—even at eight, Luke had the kind of face that made people stare.

Dad would glare, cheeks red, not sure if he should be offended or proud.

Everyone knew I adored Luke. The staff whispered, the neighbors gossiped, even the UPS guy smirked when he dropped off packages.

Maybe the lucky charm thing worked. After Luke arrived, my health improved, and the ER visits slowed. Dad quit his quest to marry me off. The parade of eligible bachelors at dinner parties finally stopped.

I used to believe Luke and I would end up together. It felt inevitable, written in the stars.

Until the floating words appeared.

Until I overheard Luke’s plan to leave for D.C. and realized he was willing to take Sarah Winters with him—but not me.

I barely remember getting to my room. I walked on autopilot, still clutching the medallion so tightly it left angry red lines on my palm.

The words kept floating in the air, most of them gushing about how perfect Sarah and Luke were together—like they were the real story. Every jab about me stung like a papercut.

But the more I read, the colder I felt. They said Luke hated me, that he’d cut off the Morgans the second he could. When our family went bankrupt, he didn’t even look back.

That was the fate of the villain girl.

But it wasn’t like that—Luke never said he disliked me. Not once.

He clearly—

"Amy said you’re in a bad mood."

A familiar hand, knuckles sharp, came into view. The same hand that taught me piano, steadied my bike, wiped my tears.

Luke’s voice was flat: "Want me to take you for a walk?" Like he was offering to take out the trash.

I was curled up on the couch, lost in my own head, not even noticing he’d come in. He always moved so quietly, like a shadow.

I stared into his eyes—dark, unreadable. He frowned, just a twitch. "What’s wrong?"

He was so handsome, even now, it hurt to look at him. His eyes were as calm as Lake Michigan on a windless day.

The floating words flashed again:

[I can’t with this girl. Why does she need so much attention? The leads were about to discuss D.C., but now the guy has to babysit her.]

So Luke was annoyed I’d interrupted him and Sarah?

I looked away, the bitterness rising in my throat. "It’s nothing. If you’re busy, you don’t have to stay."

Only now did I realize: Luke was always a little cold with me. Even when we were close, there was a wall—glass and manners keeping me out.

But he’d smiled at Sarah. Gently. Like she was made of spun sugar.

I tried to swallow my jealousy. I didn’t notice the crease deepening between Luke’s brows.

He opened his mouth, then stopped. His eyes dropped to something on the couch.

I followed his gaze, heart skipping. My cheeks burned. I shoved the half-embroidered pouch deeper between the cushions, praying he hadn’t seen the crooked gold stitches.

It was supposed to be his birthday present next month, but the eagle looked more like a diseased pigeon. Sarah’s embroidery always came out perfect—stars, stripes, everything. I’d seen Luke’s eyes widen in awe at her work.

I wanted to prove I could make something for him too, but now it just felt sad.

"It’s nothing, just passing the time," I lied, voice a little too high.

Luke just grunted, like he was mentally jotting it down for later.

Then, casually: "I’m free the day after tomorrow."

I blinked. The day after tomorrow was the Fall Festival—the one I’d begged him to attend, planning to give him my gift, maybe confess, maybe talk about marriage. Back then, I’d thought he was my destined fiancé.

Now, it was all wrong.

I took a breath. "The day after tomorrow—"

Something metallic clattered onto the floor.

Luke glanced down, voice cool: "My medallion—why do you have it?"