Chapter 3: Off Script at the County Fair

“Carter~” I pushed open the door.

Carter was already awake, propped up in bed with a book.

The early morning light slanted through the window, catching on the gold lettering of his hardback. He didn’t even glance up at first, too absorbed in whatever he was reading.

Seeing that face, I beamed, reaching to loop my arm through his.

“Get lost.”

?

“The annoying girl is here again. God, why so early?”

His voice? Gentle. His thoughts? Ice-cold.

My smile froze, my hand hanging awkwardly.

“What’s wrong, Laney?” Carter touched my forehead, all gentle concern on the outside, but inside—

“Ugh, touching her forehead, gross. Gonna have to wash my hands twice.”

I stood there, questioning my life choices.

It was like getting a bad performance review from your boss after pulling an all-nighter for the quarterly report. All that effort, and he couldn’t care less.

Wasn’t Carter supposed to be madly in love with me?

I rewound the plot in my head. Carter’s love for Delaney was legendary, so later came the story of Carter seizing power, the governor’s son kidnapping Delaney to blackmail Carter into surrendering.

But the original barely lingered on this—just a quick mention of Delaney’s tragic end and Carter’s rise.

Listening to Carter’s cold thoughts. Watching his warm smile. That’s when I got it.

He never loved Delaney—just used her as a shield, a fake weakness.

So when the governor’s son kidnapped Delaney, Carter didn’t care, kept fighting, and Delaney died.

What a jerk.

So much for epic romance. Turns out, it was all just a power game.

“Come here, let me hold you. You must be tired,” Carter said, putting his book down, arms open, smile soft—but his mind was full of disgust.

Wow. The acting skills on this guy.

Fine, let’s see how long you can fake it.

Before he could react, I leaned in and kissed his lips.

Instantly, his mind went into a panic spiral.

I could practically hear him screaming internally, like a kid who’d just bitten into a lemon.

He was so grossed out, he scrubbed his mouth three times before breakfast.

But even though Carter hated me, he played the doting boyfriend in public—picture-perfect couple. If he tried to dodge me, I just clung tighter, chasing him all over the estate.

Sometimes I’d catch him glancing at the staff, pleading with his eyes for rescue. I’d just smile wider and squeeze his arm tighter.

I even gave our little drama a title: “The Reluctant Green Plum: The Heir Escapes 99 Times.” (Okay, maybe not a familiar American metaphor, but imagine it’s like ‘The Reluctant Sweetheart: The Heir Dodges 99 Times.’)

As for Nora, even if I risked my dignity, things were still on track, just like the book.

—

Two weeks later, the year’s end rolled around, just as the South was hit by floods and the Northern border was lost. Nora’s father, Colonel Fleming, was sent to war, Carter was ordered south to handle the disaster.

A send-off gala was held at the governor’s mansion.

The mansion was all marble floors and crystal chandeliers, the kind of place where even the air smelled expensive. The local press hovered by the entrance, snapping photos of every dress and tux.

I dressed to the nines, entering on Carter’s arm as his sworn sister.

My dress was emerald green, silk that shimmered under the lights, but even with Carter on my arm, I felt the weight of every stare. Just a small-town girl in borrowed glory.

I was born on the wrong side of the tracks, and even though Carter pretended to love me, everyone could see the class difference.

The other women whispered behind their fans, eyeing my dress, my posture, my accent. I held my head high, refusing to let them see me sweat.

In the original, Delaney was proud and didn’t care about the whispers. I should act the same.

Ignoring the stares, I stopped Nora in the grand foyer, eyeing her plain blue dress with a sneer. "Nora, this is a gala, not a barn dance. Are you trying to embarrass Carter? People might think the Ashfords don’t treat you right!"

My voice carried, bouncing off the marble. A few heads turned, eager for drama.

Nora paused, voice calm: “With disasters everywhere, it’s better to be modest.”

She wanted to say more, but the maids hustled her inside.