Chapter 1: The Marriage Contract

Ethan Caldwell and I were joined in a marriage alliance between two old-money families. Even as I signed the papers, I felt every ancestor in a Brooks Brothers suit breathing down my neck, like the weight of a hundred boardroom deals I never made. The Caldwell name was a master key in every corner of New England’s oldest circles, just like my family’s. So there we were—two reluctant heirs, the ink drying between us, supposed to smile for the cameras and the whispered congratulations of a world built on handshakes and unspoken agreements.

On the night we signed our marriage license, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in our penthouse, smoking all night. The penthouse smelled faintly of expensive cologne and lemon polish, the kind of place where even the silence felt curated. Then he told me there was someone else he cared about.

The haze of his cigarette drifted across the city lights, blurring the skyline. It was almost midnight, and the only sound besides the city traffic was the clink of his lighter against the glass. He barely looked at me when he said it—like he was letting a secret slip into the darkness, not confessing to me. My chest tightened, but I kept my face still, remembering how my mother always said, "Never let them see you crack, honey. Not in this world."

That girl came from nothing, tough as nails, and kept her dignity even after growing up on the wrong side of the tracks.

He didn’t have to say her name. Everyone in our world knew the story: a Maple Heights waitress who never bowed her head, whose eyes told you she’d seen too much but never pitied herself. I pictured her as the kind of girl who fixed her own brakes and picked up extra shifts at the diner just to buy her mom’s prescription meds.

I was quiet for a moment. I didn’t tell him that, honestly, I’d secretly liked him for years too. Instead, I asked, “So what do we do now?”

My words felt small in the massive penthouse, swallowed by the sound of traffic on Fifth Avenue below. I wanted to say more, to let the ache in my chest spill out, but old habits die hard. I stared at my bare feet on the marble floor, waiting for his answer.

He gave a faint smile, his voice distant: “Let’s just get through the next two years. After that, we call it. I’m done letting anyone else script my life.”

His tone was businesslike, but there was a rawness underneath—like a man who’d spent too long letting other people steer the ship and was now determined to take the wheel, even if it meant wrecking both our hearts on the rocks.

“When the time comes, we’ll get divorced. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you and your family are taken care of.”

His words hung in the air—cold comfort. The kind of promise you’d expect from someone used to fixing things with a checkbook. Still, I nodded, feeling oddly relieved he didn’t try to dress it up as anything more. My skin prickled with the knowledge that nothing would be easy, but at least the terms were clear.

I agreed.

I forced myself to look him in the eyes, searching for a hint of regret. All I saw was resolve—and a loneliness that almost matched my own. The city outside was a blur of neon and brake lights, the world spinning on as if our bargain meant nothing at all.

But when that day finally came, he couldn’t let go.