Chapter 2: Secrets, Strays, and Star-Crossed Girls

At the same time, an uninvited guest arrived outside the East Wing gates.

As far as I knew, the Whitmore house was full of girls—some relying on their dads, brothers, or even old flames. It was a real patchwork of American dynasties, trust fund babies, and the occasional wild card. Honestly, it was like living in a real-life game of Clue.

Savannah Riley was the one relying on her fiancé.

She’s a judge’s daughter, made a childhood promise with a boy from her hometown. It was the kind of story you’d see in a Nicholas Sparks movie, if you squinted.

But fate’s a trickster. After more than a decade, her family fell on hard times, while her old flame topped the bar exam and shot up the legal ranks. Life—huh. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t.

Savannah landed in the Whitmore house, her fiancé became a federal prosecutor. She wore pearls like armor, but her eyes gave her away.

My take? Star-crossed lovers, American edition. The kind that makes you roll your eyes, but secretly root for them anyway. Honestly, if this were a CW show, I’d binge every episode.

—Ah yes, I love you but I marry someone else, and I want your support.—

—Ah yes, I love you but I want you to marry someone else, and I’ll support you.—

Savannah smiled bitterly: “Miss Bennett, you’re a general’s daughter, wild and free, with power and status. You wouldn’t get it.”

I took a sip of sweet tea. “And where are you now?” The ice clinked, a little Southern comfort in my hand.

“East Wing.”

I said lightly, “My East Wing, or yours?”

Savannah: “...Yours. But the general will rescue you.”

My smirk almost slipped out. If only she knew.

My father was a decorated war hero, but my whole family’s gone—brothers, uncles, aunts, even my birth mom, stepmom, and the nannies who raised me—all gone. Sometimes I think about it and just… pause. It’s just me, and this weird, beautiful house full of strangers.

The Whitmores took pity and brought me into the house, starting me off as one of the four top girls. I guess they figured I’d add some cachet to the place.

Then I ended up in the East Wing. That’s how it goes.

Savannah didn’t know my story. She kept trying to “help,” like: “Even though you’re down and out now...”

Me: “But I’ll be even worse off soon.” I let out a long sigh, not sure if I was joking or just tired.

I sighed: “Face reality, okay? My dad’s not coming back. He can’t. Why fight it? Sometimes it’s better to just lay low and let go.” I watched the light play across the floor, feeling oddly peaceful.

Mariah showed up with a plate of shelled pistachios, proud as a maître d’ at a five-star restaurant. She held the plate out with a flourish, like it was a three-course meal.

I opened my mouth wide for her to feed me, petting the fluffy cat in my lap. The cat, of course, tried to swipe a nut for himself.

Savannah: ...

She looked like she wanted to give up too. Her shoulders slumped, and she stared at the cat like maybe it had the answers.

The next day, she came again. The East Wing gained another sunbather and cat-petter. We sprawled out on the faded couch, sunlight streaming in, and for a while, the world felt a little less heavy.

Fate’s a prankster; half a year later, I couldn’t afford to keep the cat.

First, because the cat had gotten huge. Second, because it was an orange tabby. Orange cats have a way of eating you out of house and home. Seriously, it’s like living with a furry bottomless pit.

I exchanged glances with the now-scrawny Savannah. Mariah sniffled beside us: “Miss, think of something! There’s gotta be a way—it’s still a baby, it can’t just be tossed out!”

So I steeled myself and asked, “Either of you draw? Can you do portraits?”

Mariah and Savannah both nodded. Mariah’s eyes sparkled, Savannah looked nervous but determined.

So, by secretly selling detailed charcoal portraits and semi-scandalous sketches of Harrison, we made our first pile of cash from the other girls. Turns out, forbidden art is always in demand.

At first, Savannah was nervous: “Miss, what if Harrison finds out? Wouldn’t we be the first girls in the house to get the boot?”

“What are you thinking? He’s too busy running the family empire. He doesn’t have time for us.” I waved her off, but kept my voice low—just in case.

I told Mariah to give Harrison eight abs in the next sketch. “Make him look like a Marvel superhero, why not?” I grinned at the mental image—who wouldn’t want to see that?

There are dozens of girls in the house, most with family ties to the old-money set. Word got around in three days flat: I’d supposedly called Harrison less than manly. After that, even if Harrison never visited, the board never dared say a word. Reputation is everything in a house like this.

With no one interfering, the workaholic lord buried himself even deeper in his crusade to fix the family business. We’d catch glimpses of him through the windows, pacing and muttering into his phone—the weight of generations on his shoulders.

After all, the old patriarch left a mess, and Harrison was busy plugging holes everywhere, even before he took over. The estate was a leaky ship, and he was the only one with a bucket.

Now, three handwritten slogans hang in his study:

Life is short.

Work never ends.

I’ll spend my short life on a big cause!

My wandering thoughts stopped there. I wondered if he really believed it, or if it was just something to keep him going.

Because busy Mariah looked up, confused: “But Miss, weren’t there only six abs in the last ones?”

“Hmm.” I paused, then shrugged. “That’s what Photoshop’s for, right?” I winked, pretending to tap on an imaginary tablet.

Mariah was clever: “Miss, check this out—I could draw thirty-six abs.” She wiggled her eyebrows, like she’d discovered the secret to infinite abs.

Savannah: ?

I flicked her forehead: “You selling waffles now?”

Mariah pouted: “All the girls here are bored, so they buy sketches to pass the time. What bad could I be up to? Just want to make them smile.” She huffed, arms crossed, but her eyes were dancing.

Savannah was still stuck on what waffles were. “Wait, what?” she whispered, but I just grinned.

Mariah leaned in: “Miss, their lives are so dull. They can’t even see Harrison’s face—so sad.”

I picked up the cat, its fur shiny like a big fried drumstick. I paused, grinning at the absurdity. The cat gave me a look like, 'Yeah, I know I’m irresistible.'

“What worries does a cat have? Eat, sleep, nap in the sun. That’s the life.”

That’s all I want, too. No drama, just naps and snacks.

So even when Mariah puffed up her cheeks like a pufferfish, I pretended not to notice. She’s cute when she’s annoyed.

There are dozens of girls in the house, all with tangled family backgrounds. The web of power made them endlessly scheme. Sometimes I felt like I was living in a reality TV show, minus the cameras.

With Harrison absent, the prize was gone, the fights lost their spark, and the house wilted.

While I pet the cat, Mariah muttered by my ear: “They’re so miserable.”

While I fed the cat, Mariah whispered: “They’re so miserable.”

While I cleaned the litter box, Mariah sang behind me: “Oh, they are, really, so miserable!” She tried to make it sound like a Broadway number, but mostly just made me laugh.

I sighed, stood up, and pinched my nose: “Come here.”

Mariah backed away fast. She knew that tone.

I lunged, grabbed her sleeve, then her collar, and made her stare into the cat’s big eyes. “See? He’s happy. You could be too.”

The cat meowed and leapt away, tail high.

Mariah was near tears: “I’m so miserable!”

Mariah could handle any chore, but would never clean the litter box. She’d rather face down Harrison than deal with cat poop. Honestly, I respected her priorities.

After that, I stayed up late, moonlight streaming in, making plans and jotting down page after page. My handwriting got messier the later it got, but the ideas kept coming.

Every night, a white dove perched outside my window, glaring with beady black eyes. It cooed for snacks, like a feathery mob boss demanding tribute. I started leaving out breadcrumbs, just to keep the peace.