Chapter 1: The Ghosts of Savannah

My father hosted a big family dinner to introduce eligible bachelors—like some old-school matchmaking, Southern style—right after the bar exam results came out, and had the third-ranked candidate, Caleb Foster, marry me.

The announcement felt almost ceremonial, like some old-fashioned pageant, except this was the heart of Savannah, Georgia, where Spanish moss dripped from every live oak and the air hummed with cicadas. Dad's handshake was firm as ever when he introduced Caleb—third in the state, not bad for a small-town legend.

At the time, I didn’t know he already loved someone else. I thought I was the luckiest girl in town. Turns out, I was just the last to know.

Looking back, it was easy to miss—the way he kept his eyes elsewhere at the engagement dinner, the stiff smile he wore during our first family barbecue in the backyard. I was too caught up in my own fairytale to notice.

Later, my father was falsely accused, arrested, and sentenced to exile in southern Georgia.

The news hit our family like a summer thunderstorm—sudden and unrelenting. Neighbors whispered on their porches, and Savannah’s old courthouse felt colder than ever. Dad’s name was dragged through the mud, and within days, a judge shipped him down to the swampy, sunbaked reaches of southern Georgia.

Caleb Foster brought back his childhood sweetheart and announced he would make her his second wife.

There was no hiding it. Lauren arrived on a humid Sunday morning. My stomach twisted as I watched her step out, suitcase in hand, her perfume already mingling with the honeysuckle. The rumor mill in our neighborhood spun even faster.

My mother-in-law scolded me, “You’ve been married for three years and still haven’t given us a grandchild. You really gonna hold my boy back from the happiness he deserves?”

She cornered me in the kitchen, voice sharp and brittle as a snapped pecan shell. The words stung more than the lingering smell of burnt coffee on the stovetop.

Caleb sneered at me: “Now that you’ve lost your support, quit making trouble.”

The kitchen clock ticked loud in the silence, every second stretching out between us. His words felt like they came from across a courtroom—distant, cold, absolute. He stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, looking every inch the attorney who'd already decided my fate.

He didn’t know—

I still kept the divorce papers he’d written for me in anger.

Folded, hidden beneath velvet and pearls, the proof of our unraveling was always there, locked away in the bottom drawer of my dresser. My fingers traced his signature—so familiar, so final. I wondered if he even remembered writing it.

In seven days,

I’ll follow my father to Georgia.

I’d already bought the train ticket, tucked it behind the checkbook in my purse. One week—then I’d be gone, leaving behind the ghosts, the gossip, and the man who never chose me.