Chapter 1: The River That Changed Everything

When I was sixteen, I fell into the river behind our house and somehow wound up married off to the heir of the Whitmore family. Just my luck, right? From that day on, I became the laughingstock of all Maple Heights.

Back then, Maple Heights was the kind of town where news spread faster than wildfire. The river behind our house snaked along the edge of town, shaded by old willows and the occasional tire swing. One wrong step changed my whole world, and suddenly, everyone was watching. The whispers at the diner, the side-eyes at Sunday service—I felt like a sideshow freak.

Nobody believed me when I said my half-sister pushed me in. Not even my own husband.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d replay that day in my head, wishing I’d shouted louder, or at least thrown a punch. Or wishing someone—anyone—would’ve believed me. But in Maple Heights, the truth got twisted, especially if it came from the daughter who never quite fit the mold.

Careful. Reserved. Always feeling guilty, even when I knew I shouldn’t. That was me throughout my marriage to Harrison Whitmore. Even after he started treating me kindly and I got the title that came with his name, I always sensed he resented me underneath it all.

Like a ghost. Never too loud, never in the way—that’s how I learned to move through the Whitmore mansion. Even when Harrison offered me his arm at a charity ball or let me sit at the head of the table, I felt the tension humming beneath the surface. Every little kindness? It felt like a debt I could never repay.

When I opened my eyes, I was back at the edge of that same riverbank. Déjà vu, all over again. I was reliving the day my half-sister pulled her old trick. Only this time, she jumped in herself.

The air reeked of river mud and spring grass. My hands trembled. I realized where—and when—I was. The old wooden dock creaked behind me. The water lapped at the shore, just like all those years ago.

A gentle breeze drifted by. The green water shimmered in the afternoon sun. Harrison’s small rowboat glided into view. Of course. Right on cue. Hearing someone call for help, he rolled up his sleeves, ready to leap into the river. But just before he jumped, his gaze met mine on the shore.

His jaw set, eyes full of that stubborn determination. He looked every bit the hero the town believed him to be. But there was something uncertain in his stance—like he was waiting for a sign. The moment our eyes met, the world seemed to hold its breath. My heart thudded so hard I thought he’d hear it.

Harrison froze, then drew his foot back.

It was subtle, but I saw it—the way his hand hovered, the flicker of doubt. For a second, it looked like he was weighing fate itself.

People say ghosts with unfinished business get a second shot. I didn’t know why I, who’d lived so quietly and wanted so little, was given another chance.

I’d always thought second chances were for the bold, the dreamers with wild hearts. But me? I just wanted a little peace. Maybe a sliver of happiness. Still, here I was—caught between yesterday and tomorrow.

Then I saw her—my half-sister—and it all clicked. She was the reason I’d been dragged back.

It was like a puzzle piece snapping into place. All the bitterness, all the hurt—it circled back to her. This wasn’t just about me. It was about finally setting things right.

"Big sis, you’ve always been the family’s precious jewel. Mom spoils you rotten. Of course you wouldn’t understand my suffering," Mariah said, her eyes brimming with tears, but she was grinning. "But after today, everything will be different."

Mariah had always been dramatic, the type to put on a show at the drop of a hat. Her voice wobbled, but the glint in her eyes gave her away. She’d always played the victim, but today, she looked almost triumphant.

One second she was talking, the next—she was in the water.

She dove in like she was trying to win an Olympic medal. The splash echoed across the riverbank. For a split second, I froze—caught between the urge to help and the memory of what came after. Did I really want to save her, or just let history play out?

"Wait—" I shouted, slipping in the mud as I lunged forward.

I lurched forward, my heart pounding like crazy. The world shrank to the sound of Mariah’s thrashing and my own ragged breath.

I rushed to the edge, reached out, and recoiled from the shock of the cold. I’d never forget it.

The shock of the cold bit into my skin, dragging me back to that awful day. I could almost feel the weight of my soaked dress, the panic clawing at my lungs. Even the sunlight felt harsh, almost mocking.

Mariah had pushed me. Then…

Every detail hit me all over again. The look on Mariah’s face, the rush of the current, the distant shouts from the party. I remembered the helplessness, the injustice, the way the world spun out of my control.

I looked up and, sure enough, saw a small boat gliding from behind the maple trees. At the bow stood Harrison—tall, handsome, the Whitmore golden boy.

His silhouette cut against the afternoon sun, sharp and clean. Even from here, he was every bit the town’s golden boy—shoulders squared, eyes narrowed.

God, he looked young. I just stared.

He looked nothing like the man I’d known in later years. No worry lines. No shadows under his eyes. Just a boy on the edge of manhood, clueless about the burdens waiting for him.

He rolled up his sleeves and, frowning, fixed his gaze on the struggling figure in the water. He hesitated, clearly torn—should he jump in, or not?

His hands hovered over the oars, knuckles turning white. I could see the gears turning—duty versus caution. He was always so careful, even when everyone expected him to be a hero.

Today’s party was really just a cover for Mrs. Whitmore to parade eligible girls in front of him. Harrison, tired of the commotion, had snuck out onto the water, only to stumble upon a girl falling in.

It was Maple Heights’ social season. Mrs. Whitmore’s parties were legendary—crystal punch bowls, string quartets, a parade of girls in pastel dresses. Harrison hated all that—always found a way to disappear.

The Whitmores had a strict rule: no mistresses. If he saved a girl, he was expected to marry her. No exceptions.

It was the kind of old-money code that shaped every decision. No scandals. No shady business. If Harrison pulled a girl from the water, he’d be expected to make her his wife, no questions asked.

That’s how I ended up married to Harrison.

I could barely breathe. The future was suddenly a whole new mess.

The thought hit me like a snapped rubber band, leaving my mind blank.

It was as if the world had gone silent. Just me, my heartbeat, and a future I didn’t recognize.

I couldn’t look away. Neither could he.

The moment stretched on, thick with questions neither of us could ask. I saw confusion flicker across his face. Or maybe I just wanted to see that.

History repeating itself.

He took a slow breath, shoulders stiffening. I could see it—he’d made up his mind.

My lips parted, but nothing came out.

I didn’t know why, but I was honestly relieved he didn’t save Mariah. It wasn’t about liking him; I just didn’t want him tangled up in her mess.

We both deserved a clean slate.

In my previous life, I had been wearing white when I fell in. Harrison pulled me out, both of us soaked through, and my clothes were practically see-through. Even on the Whitmore estate, rumors spread like wildfire. The next day, gossip swept through Maple Heights.

That white dress—my favorite—clung to me like a second skin. By the time I stumbled back to the house, whispers had already started. In Maple Heights, nothing stayed secret for long. And not for anything good.

They all mocked me, saying the daughter of a mere city councilman was delusional to think she could marry into such an old-money family. That I’d used a dirty trick to force Harrison to marry me.

The gossip was relentless. At the grocery store, at the beauty parlor, even at church—people stared, snickered, and judged. The Whitmores were old money—untouchable. I was just the councilman’s daughter, and suddenly, I was the villain in everyone’s favorite story.

When my father heard the rumors, he didn’t eat for days. Locked me up in the study. Mariah came by just to sneer:

I remember the heavy silence in our house, the way my father’s hands shook when he spoke. Mariah, of course, took every chance to twist the knife, her voice all sugar, her words all poison.

"Sis, you really are lucky. The man in that boat was supposed to be Old Man Jefferson, but somehow it ended up being Harrison."

She leaned in close, her breath hot against my ear. Just hearing his name made my skin crawl.

Jefferson was over fifty, notorious for his sleaziness. Every girl in town steered clear of him. Mariah had wanted me to be saved by him, ruining my reputation and forcing me to become his mistress.

She smirked, satisfied. "Guess you dodged a bullet. Or maybe you just traded one problem for another."

"Well, even if you are the legitimate daughter, the Whitmores would never take someone like us."

Her words stung, each syllable a reminder of the wall between us and the Whitmores. No matter how hard I tried, I’d never truly belong.

"Dad cares so much about our family’s honor. Who knows what he’ll do to you?"

She pretended it was a warning, but I could hear the satisfaction. Mariah loved nothing more than watching me squirm.

I was pale as a ghost. Too tired to argue, I was bracing for the worst.

I sat on the edge of the old study’s window seat, knees drawn up, staring at the dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun. Every word, every look, weighed me down.

We weren’t fancy, but we’d always been honest. The Miller family wasn’t as prestigious as the Whitmores, but we had our pride. No matter how much my parents loved me, they couldn’t let me disgrace the family.

Our family crest hung above the mantel, a reminder of all the generations before me. I knew the pressure of our name, all those expectations. Love was one thing, but reputation? That was everything.

After a week shut in the study, my father finally came to see me. He brought a length of white ribbon, his voice shaking.

I’ll never forget the way his hands trembled, the way he couldn’t quite meet my eyes. The ribbon was soft, almost pretty. But I knew what it meant.

"Emily, no matter what really happened, this is the only way to save you—and us."

His voice cracked on my name. In our house, duty always won over love.

In our town, a woman’s reputation is everything. I understood my father’s pain. I took the ribbon without a word.

I nodded, unable to speak, and tried to keep it together.

But then, on the day I was supposed to end it all, my mother burst in.

She flung open the door, her face streaked with tears, arms pulling me into the light. Her relief washed over me. For a second, I let myself hope. Harrison’s proposal was a lifeline I hadn’t dared hope for.

I’ll never forget that day.

I was grateful to Harrison. He could’ve looked the other way and chalked the incident up as a passing scandal. But he stuck to the family rule—no mistresses, just me.

He could have turned away, let me bear the shame alone. Instead, he stepped up, offering me his name, his protection—the whole deal.

At first, Harrison was distant and cold. Less than three months after our wedding, he volunteered to leave Maple Heights to handle a family business crisis in the South. I tiptoed around, always on edge.

The house was too big, too quiet. I learned the creaks in the floorboards, the pattern of the morning light on the kitchen tiles. Every day, I waited for a word from Harrison, but his letters were short. Polite. Never more than a line or two.

It wasn’t until he returned to inherit the title and I became Mrs. Whitmore that things got less awkward between us. At best, it was... polite.

People in town started calling me "Mrs. Whitmore" with a kind of grudging respect. The servants listened to me, the neighbors nodded in greeting. Still, it felt more like a business deal.

They say marriage breeds kindness over time. Maybe. I muddled through a whole lifetime with Harrison.

We shared meals, shared burdens, but rarely our hearts. That distance never went away.

Harrison was truly a decent man—gentle, just like I’d always wished he’d been. I remember, at the end of my previous life, as I lay dying, he held my hand and said:

"Emily, you’ve worked hard. We’re lucky to have you."

He squeezed my hand, his eyes shining with something like regret. That was as close as we ever got to real tenderness.

He was the one who got caught up in my half-sister’s scheme. He saved my life, protected my reputation, and sacrificed his own future. So why was he thanking me?

The irony stung. I’d spent years feeling like a burden, only to be told, at the very end, that I was a blessing. It just didn’t add up.

Even after death, I couldn’t let go.

Sometimes I wondered if my spirit lingered out of guilt, or maybe I was just waiting for someone—anyone—to understand.

Thank God for that.

I felt a weight lift from my chest. Maybe this time, we could both find our own happiness, free from all that old baggage.