Chapter 1: The Presidential Order

The clatter of Rachel’s suitcase echoed through the hallway, louder than any of our words that week. Every movement felt like a wound reopening, the air thick with grief for her dead fiancé. At dinner, no one spoke above a whisper, and even the hum of the refrigerator sounded intrusive. But Rachel, eyes rimmed red but jaw set, packed her bags and left behind not just Ohio, but the part of herself we’d always known.

She landed in D.C., right in the sticky heat of summer, stepping into a city that buzzed with power—tourists snapping photos by the Capitol, the air heavy with the scent of ambition. Our world felt impossibly far away, but somehow we always knew Rachel would end up somewhere with marble floors and monuments.

It wasn’t long before Rachel, now a star White House aide, used her new influence to persuade the President to pull some strings and set me up. The idea was old-fashioned, even for our family, but in the backrooms of D.C., favors and deals were traded like currency. My phone buzzed at all hours with her calls—her voice a blend of hope, command, and a promise I didn’t want: she wouldn’t stop until my future was locked down.

According to Rachel, the President leaned back in his chair, power radiating from his voice as he asked, “So, who’s the lucky guy?”

Rachel, always polished and precise, replied, “The second son of the Hayes family from Maple Heights is incredibly talented; my little sister’s mentioned him more than once.” I could picture her, every hair in place, cool confidence hiding the fact that my heart belonged to someone else entirely.

Then came the official order—my fate sealed with the presidential seal, ordering that I marry the Hayes family’s second son. The letter arrived just as sunlight struck the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and fresh-brewed coffee hanging in the air as I stared at the embossed crest, feeling my life traded like a stock option.

But Rachel knew the truth: it was the third Hayes son, Noah, who held my heart. She knew everything about me—my favorite records, how I took my coffee, every boy I’d ever liked. She had to know about Noah. The only question was if she cared at all.

On the day the marriage order arrived, Rachel came home—her gold brooch gleaming, her presence a reminder she no longer belonged to us. She clung to Mom, her voice trembling just so as she confessed, “Dad, Mom, I really didn’t mean to. The President asked if Natalie loved someone, and I said it was a Hayes boy from Maple Heights. I thought only the third son was single, so I figured it was safe. Who knew the President would get it mixed up…”

She twisted a napkin in her hands, eyes darting away. It was a performance—her apology a velvet-wrapped threat, warning us what would happen if we dared cross the President. The air thickened with the scent of burned toast and fear.

Rachel’s words fell like a gavel: “When I found out the President was ordering Natalie to marry Caleb Hayes, it was too late. I wanted to stop it, but you know what happens when you anger the President. It could destroy our whole family.”

I understood instantly—she wasn’t here to apologize, but to remind us that one wrong move could wipe the Simmons name off the map. The President’s moods were legendary, and his wrath was a price we couldn’t pay.

Rachel had done it on purpose. Since childhood, she competed with me for everything. After learning about my feelings for Noah, she was determined to outdo me, to claim a match even more dazzling.

Rachel never settled for second best. Her ambition cut deeper than jealousy ever could. If I found happiness, she’d chase it down and outshine it with something bigger, flashier, more public.

Her photo was everywhere—local newspapers, alumni magazines, Junior League newsletters. She was always surrounded by suitors, but she wanted a legend, not just a husband.

The Hayes family of Maple Heights was state royalty, and Noah was the golden boy—quick-witted, charming, unattached. Even Rachel struggled to top that.

But she found Derek Foster, a once-faded name from Savannah suddenly restored by his own brilliance. Derek was a Rhodes Scholar, the Foster house alive again with parties and invitations.

Dad investigated Derek and was satisfied; Derek was pleased with Rachel. But just as they were about to get engaged, tragedy struck—Derek was killed, the news arriving at dinner, Rachel’s fork frozen mid-air.

Derek died praying for Rachel’s recovery, robbed and beaten outside St. Jude’s Chapel. The story in the papers was sanitized, but at home, Rachel locked herself away, the chapel bell tolling each morning as our house grew colder.

For weeks after, Rachel’s gaze followed me, heavy with resentment. Every time I crossed the hall, I felt her anger—like I was guilty for surviving when her future had been stolen. Even the way she set her mug down sounded like blame.

She could no longer find a man better than Noah or Derek. Her carefully built world was ruined, and she needed someone to pay.

After days of tears outside our parents’ bedroom, Rachel got her way. Dad and Mom, exhausted, sent her to D.C., a White House acceptance letter arriving almost instantly.

But in the White House, power was just a mask. Rachel’s world was long hours and little real authority—a gilded cage.

Still, she refused to give up competing with me. Every phone call home was tight with frustration, her photos from state dinners a reminder that she still wanted more.

Worried, I told Mom I wanted to settle things with Noah before Rachel ruined everything. Mom tried to reassure me, her voice gentle but uncertain. “Rachel is your sister. She’d never ruin her own family.” But I knew better.

Rachel’s ambition didn’t just threaten me—it threatened the Hayes family, too. If I married Caleb, I’d be a wedge between him and his wife, a thorn between the two brothers.

After Rachel returned to D.C., Dad and Mom tried to comfort me. We sat on the porch swing, their voices soft but unyielding. “Things are what they are. The Hayes family is good people. You’ll be treated well.”

Mom’s advice was practical—help out around the house, keep things running smooth, don’t stir up drama, and you’ll be just fine. Dad tried to convince me Caleb was as good as Noah, but the words rang hollow.

Then Dad dropped the real weight: “The lives and honor of all 187 members of the Simmons family can’t just be thrown away.” I understood—they’d marry me off to Caleb, no matter how I felt.

They were afraid to defy the President or turn on Rachel, their golden child. I lowered my head, staring at the butterfly-shaped scar on my hand—a bitter reminder of Rachel’s old jealousy.

When I was ten, Rachel burned me with candle wax out of envy for my praised hands. Dad and Mom begged me to cover for her, turning my pain into a family secret. The scar became a butterfly, but it never stopped hurting.

Now, they didn’t care if I suffered again, so long as the family name stayed clean. My heart ached with old, sour resentment.

Just then, the housekeeper arrived: “Noah Hayes is here.”

A rush of adrenaline hit me. My feet slapped against the hardwood as I raced down the hall, the world spinning as I burst through the door—finally, a chance to fight for myself.