Chapter 1: Waking Up as the Sidekick

When I woke up as the story’s supporting character, everything was chaos—I was smack in the middle of a shouting match with the heroine.

It took a second for me to figure out what was happening—the room was buzzing, voices ricocheting off the walls, and my own throat was raw from yelling. I caught the sharp scent of hairspray and the greasy aroma from a half-eaten pizza slice on the coffee table. The place had that lived-in messiness, the kind of clutter that says this house has seen one too many family squabbles. My heart pounded, equal parts leftover adrenaline and the shock of realizing I wasn’t myself anymore.

The petite girl across from me was flushed and angry. “So what if you’re about to be the senator’s wife? You think he married you for love? Please. It’s only because your dad’s the mayor.”

She had that stubborn, small-town edge—her accent was straight-up Midwestern, like she’d say "pop" instead of "soda," and her glare was so sharp it could slice through steel. I could picture her gripping a Solo cup, knuckles white, nerves barely held together. The air between us was thick with old grudges and the kind of rivalry that only comes from sharing a roof with someone you never chose.

My mind went totally blank. “Wait, who did you just say is marrying the senator?”

The words came out strange, like I’d just bitten into something spicy by mistake. For a split second, I wondered if I’d misheard, but the look on her face told me I hadn’t.

She stared at me like I’d lost it. “Harper Lawson, are you serious right now? Your wedding’s tomorrow.”

Her voice was full of disbelief, but there was a glimmer of worry in her eyes, like she was trying to figure out if I’d finally cracked. I could almost hear her inner monologue: "Is this just pre-wedding jitters, or did she actually forget her own life?" The whole scene felt unreal, like I’d wandered onto a TV set and skipped the table read.

I was stunned. Just a minute ago, I’d been at home, eating pizza and crying over a romance novel—now I’d been tossed into the book itself, and not even as the lead. I was the infamous supporting character. Figures. Just my luck.

Honestly, I was still in my old college sweatshirt. There was pizza grease on my fingers. Now, out of nowhere, I was in a fancy living room with too many throw pillows and not enough comfort, staring at my new reality like it was some bad twist on a reality show.

So here’s the deal: the supporting character is Harper Lawson, only daughter of the mayor of Maple Heights. The heroine is Marissa Lawson, the mayor’s daughter from his second marriage. The male lead is the dashing third son of a political dynasty, and the second male lead—the senator I’m about to marry.

It’s like someone packed all the small-town drama, political ambition, and family secrets into a single zip code. Maple Heights isn’t exactly Mayberry—the perfect small town from old TV reruns. More like a cross between Gilmore Girls and Scandal, with a little Friday Night Lights thrown in for flavor.

The third son, Carter Whitman, falls for the heroine first, and the senator, Owen Whitman, falls for her later.

It’s classic American melodrama: two brothers, one girl, and enough family tension to fuel a Thanksgiving dinner meltdown. Carter’s the golden boy, everyone’s favorite, while Owen’s the ambitious, slightly standoffish senator who’s always got one eye on the next campaign.

The heroine lands a job at the Capitol as a legislative aide, impresses the senator with her brains, but her heart’s always with Carter. When scandal strikes, Carter volunteers to take the blame and protect Marissa, losing everything in the process.

You can practically hear the dramatic music swelling. The Capitol scenes are all marble floors, whispered secrets, and midnight strategy meetings. Carter’s sacrifice is pure Hallmark-movie heartbreak, and Marissa’s pain is so real you’d need a Costco-sized box of tissues to get through it.

After Carter’s fall, Marissa is shattered. She leaves D.C. for the West Coast, vanishing for years. Owen becomes a senior senator, working solo until he retires.

It’s that bittersweet ending that leaves you lying awake, wondering if happy endings are just for storybooks. The West Coast is painted as this far-off, healing place—sunsets over the Pacific, new beginnings, but always a little haunted by what’s lost.

Sure, the plot’s over the top and a little soapy, but that’s why I read these books—to escape.

I mean, who doesn’t want to dive into a world where everything’s high stakes, the drama’s juicy, and even heartbreak looks glamorous? It’s comfort food for the soul. The kind of story you binge-read on a rainy Sunday, cocoa in hand.

That’s what I thought as a reader. But now, as the supporting character? Whole different story. The more dramatic the plot, the worse it gets for the sidekick!

Now that I was Harper, every twist felt personal. It’s one thing to cheer for the heroine from your couch; it’s another to realize you’re the cautionary tale—the one everyone’s supposed to learn from. No fast-forward, no skipping to the happy ending. The stakes just got real.

Back to reality: tomorrow, I’m supposed to marry Senator Owen Whitman. No backing out now.

My heart did this weird little flip. I could almost hear the wedding march, the scent of lilies and expensive cologne swirling in the air. There was a heaviness to it, like the pressure before a storm.

Why is Owen marrying Harper? She fell hard for him at a charity gala and begged her dad, the mayor, to set up the marriage.

It’s the kind of thing you’d see splashed across a tabloid: “Mayor’s Daughter Schemes for Senator’s Hand!” But in real life? It just sounds desperate. Still, I could picture it—Harper in a designer dress, eyes shining with hope, her dad sighing as he made a few calls.

It just so happened the senator was at the age where everyone expected him to settle down, and marrying the mayor’s daughter would shore up his political base. So he agreed.

Small-town politics at its finest—alliances built over golf games and charity auctions. That’s just how it works around here. For Owen, it was less about love and more about checking boxes: good optics, strong alliances, a future that looked perfect on a campaign flyer.

Owen Whitman’s got that cold, distant vibe. He can’t stand Harper’s clinginess, and after he falls for Marissa, he grows to resent Harper even more for scheming—eventually, he has her arrested for fraud.

Talk about harsh. Seriously. It’s the kind of plot twist that makes you want to chuck your book across the room. In any other story, Harper would be the villain, the warning label on what not to do for love.

This supporting character is basically a warning sign: don’t throw yourself at someone who doesn’t want you!

It’s the oldest lesson in the book, but somehow Harper never got the message. Girl, come on. Watching her mistakes is like watching a slow-motion train wreck—you want to look away, but you just can’t.

Should I knock Marissa out and drag her into the bridal limo?

The image flashes through my mind—me, full-on bridezilla, shoving Marissa into a white stretch limo while the neighbors watch from their porches. Then reality hits: that’s not just nuts, it’s a one-way ticket to jail.

Yeah, no. Not worth it. The heroine would never let me get away with that, and Owen hasn’t even noticed her yet. If I get caught tricking the senator or the press, I’ll end up in jail. Nope. Not worth it.

Besides, Maple Heights isn’t the kind of place where you can pull off that kind of stunt. People notice everything, and news here spreads faster than a prairie fire. The last thing I need is to be the talk of the town for all the wrong reasons.

There’s another option: go through with the wedding, but don’t chase after him—maybe try to win him over?

I mulled it over, picturing myself as the perfect political spouse—smiling at fundraisers, nodding through boring speeches, maybe even learning to like caviar. But the thought of playing that game made my skin crawl.

But honestly, as a Midwest girl with a stubborn streak, I have zero interest in being a Stepford wife for a senator. Just surviving this life is hard enough, let alone trying to win over a guy like Owen. That’s like trying to climb Everest in flip-flops.

I mean, I was raised where people say what they mean and mean what they say. Scheming for affection feels as foreign as ordering sweet tea in Chicago.

So maybe if I just don’t stir up trouble, don’t plot, and definitely don’t break the law, I can at least have a decent life, right?

My Midwest instincts say, "Keep your head down, do your job, don’t stir the pot." If I can just survive without winding up in handcuffs or on the front page, I’ll call that a win.

With that in mind, I finally started to relax. It could be worse.

I took a deep breath, letting the tension go. The world felt a little less tilted, and for the first time since dropping into this story, I actually thought I might make it out okay.

So I made it simple: live my life, don’t rock the boat, and stick to my new motto—survival is enough.

I repeated it like a mantra, the words grounding me. I could almost hear my grandma’s voice: "Honey, sometimes just getting through the day is a victory."