Chapter 1: Roses, Rejection, and a Hustler’s Heart

The young heir to Chicago’s elite, Carter Voss, put his heart on the line—and got shot down hard. Ouch. Talk about a rough night.

His words still lingered, echoing through the marble lobby of the Drake Hotel while Chicago’s high society just stood there, not saying a word. The glittering lights overhead seemed too bright, too sharp. Everything felt exposed. Like Carter’s heartbreak was on display for everyone to see.

I squeezed into the crowd, heart pounding, hoping to grab whatever he might’ve dropped.

People milled around, murmuring. Some glanced my way—curious, maybe even a little annoyed. My palms were sweaty. Classic. I ducked under an arch of balloons, scanning for any sign of loot—maybe a silk handkerchief, maybe a gift bag. I could almost smell the opportunity in the air, mixed with the faint scent of roses and expensive cologne.

Honestly, I was just waiting to scoop up the 999 roses he’d brought so I could sell them off. Easy money, right?

I’d done it before—grabbed discarded bouquets after school dances, resold them to frat boys desperate for a last-minute apology. Hey, a girl’s gotta eat. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid my phone bill.

Suddenly, it was like a comment section popped up in my head:

[Why are you picking up flowers? Go for the guy!]

[So obsessed with cash 🙄, can’t even see how hot Carter is.]

[Savannah, you’re missing the point. You and Sierra are twins. Don’t you know how to use your face to your advantage?]

[If you land Carter, you could be dumpster-diving in the fanciest neighborhoods in a fifty-mile radius. Way better than slinging bubble tea.]

My hand froze, hovering over the roses. I just... stopped.

My fingers brushed the velvety petals, but I hesitated. The voices in my head—my own, and the imaginary peanut gallery—were getting louder. Was I really doing this? I could almost hear my best friend Tasha’s voice: "Girl, you hustle harder than anyone I know, but sometimes you gotta look up."

Screw it. I blurted out, looking up at Carter, “My sister and I look the same. Why don’t you date me?”

It came out before I could stop myself. My voice was a little too loud. It echoed over the clink of champagne glasses. A few people nearby turned to stare, eyebrows raised. I could feel my cheeks heat up, but I didn’t back down.

He blinked. Stunned. Then rubbed his eyes like he thought he was seeing double. “Sierra?”

The confusion on his face was almost comical—like someone had swapped out his favorite playlist for static. Poor guy. He looked at me, then past me, as if expecting my sister to step out from behind a curtain.

I stood up straighter. “Savannah. I’m her younger sister.”

I squared my shoulders, trying to project confidence I didn’t feel. Fake it till you make it, right? My voice was steady, but my heart thudded so hard I was sure Carter could hear it. Someone in the crowd snickered.

Carter just stared, totally lost.

His brow furrowed, mouth opening and closing. He glanced at the roses. Then back at me. Like he was trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Honestly, can’t blame him. Ever since college started, unless I was in class, I was running to one part-time job or another.

My life was a blur of late-night shifts, coffee runs, and hustling for tips. No time for drama. I barely had time to breathe, let alone keep up with campus gossip. Carter probably thought I was some background character in his movie.

Plus, Sierra and I didn’t exactly get along. Not even close.

If we crossed paths, it was usually with a cold nod or a glare. She kept her circle tight—dance majors, trust fund babies, girls with perfect nails. I was strictly off the invite list.

We never followed each other on Instagram, didn’t Venmo each other, didn’t even have each other’s numbers.

It was like we lived in parallel universes. If it wasn’t for the family name, no one would ever guess we were related. And honestly? That was fine by me.

She majored in dance; I was in finance.

She floated through the world in silk and tulle, pirouetting on marble floors. I crunched numbers, filled spreadsheets, and counted every penny. We were mirror images with nothing in common.

We hadn’t even met face-to-face. Not since high school, anyway. And honestly? That was fine by me.

No one knew we were twins. We could’ve been strangers.

We might look the same, but we’re nothing alike. There’s no way Carter would say yes, right? Yeah, right.

I mean, come on. Carter Voss, heir to a lakeshore mansion, dating the girl who sold his castoff flowers? It was laughable. Still, Chicago’s weird like that.

He has to say yes! Are we falling in love? No—we’re making money! Ha.

That little voice in my head sounded suspiciously like the narrator of every rom-com I’d ever hate-watched at 2 a.m. But this wasn’t a movie.

Sis, I’ve read a thousand romance novels. If you do what I say, you’ll reel in the main guy like a prize bass. If only life had footnotes.

I rolled my eyes at the imaginary advice. Whatever works.

Huh? I snapped to attention, listening hard.

It was almost like I could hear a crowd of invisible sisters, all rooting for me from the sidelines. Ready for my close-up.

Step one: confess. Boldly.

The words echoed, half-daring, half-desperate. No turning back now. I took a shaky breath, channeling every heroine from every cheesy paperback I’d ever flipped through in the bargain bin.

Will that work? Probably not, but here goes.

I glanced at Carter, half-expecting him to burst out laughing. But he didn’t.

Still doubting myself, I glanced at Carter. “Actually, I’ve liked you for a long time.”

My voice was softer this time, almost shy. Don’t blow it. I twisted my fingers behind my back, trying to look as harmless as possible. The crowd seemed to hold its breath.

People get weird when they’re flustered.

It was true. Carter’s eyes flicked to the floor. Beat. Then to the chandelier, then to the roses. He fiddled with his cufflinks, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

After hearing me, Carter pressed his lips together and rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking anywhere but at me.

His posture screamed discomfort. If there was a fire alarm nearby, he would’ve pulled it just to escape. I wouldn’t blame him.

His face turned red, even his ears went pink. Cute, if it wasn’t so awkward.

He looked like a cartoon character about to explode—adorable, if I wasn’t the one being rejected. I almost laughed.

Then he got all serious. “Sorry, Savannah. I just met you today. I can’t accept your confession.”

His voice was gentle, but there was a finality to it. The words stung, but I’d expected it. Still, I let my shoulders droop a little, playing up the heartbreak. Might as well get something out of this.

Just as I thought. Called it.

I could almost hear the audience in my head groaning. "Called it," someone would say, tossing popcorn at the screen. Not that I blame them.

Another wave of comments rolled in:

[I figured Carter would say yes just to get back at Sierra.]

[Didn’t expect him to have such strong morals.]

[It’s okay, sis. Even if he turned you down, he’ll definitely remember you!]

[Now act pitiful, say you want the flowers as a keepsake, and get something out of it.]

Genius! Why not, right?

Why not milk the moment? I let my eyes fill with unshed tears, lowering my gaze like I’d just lost my puppy. Oscar-worthy. If I was going to be rejected, I might as well get something out of it.

So I lowered my eyes. “Carter, I’ve liked you for two years. I didn’t expect you to like my sister.” Worth a shot.

I let my voice tremble, just a little. The words hung between us, heavy with fake longing. I almost believed it myself. A few people nearby exchanged glances, probably wondering if they’d wandered onto the set of a teen drama.

“Today, we’re both heartbroken.” I tried to sound wise.

“Speaking of heartbreak, do you still want those roses? Since you already brought them, I’d like to keep them as a memento.” Worth a shot.

I gestured to the massive bouquet, my eyes pleading. I could almost see dollar signs floating around each petal.

Carter really was a well-mannered rich kid. Polite to a fault.

He hesitated, glancing at me with something like pity. His upbringing kicked in—never let a girl cry alone, always be polite. I could see the gears turning in his head. Classic Carter.

Seeing I was about to cry, he sighed. “Wow, do you really like me that much?”

He sounded half flattered, half confused. His friends in the background snickered, but Carter kept his eyes on me, uncertain.

I nodded. “Yeah.” Might as well go all in.

I tried to look as earnest as possible. If I could win an Oscar for heartbreak, this would be my audition tape. I was on a roll.

“But... um...” He got flustered. “Forget it. If you want them, take them.” Easy win.

He waved a hand in surrender, like he was giving up a piece of himself. I bit back a grin, keeping my face solemn. Score one for the underdog.

[Carter: Oh my god, she even wants the roses I didn’t want. She must really love me. 😳]

[Carter: He’s sighing, but inside he’s already melting.]

I could almost see the cartoon hearts swirling around his head. Yeah, right.

After I walked a few steps, Carter called after me. “That bouquet’s pretty big. Want me to get someone to help you carry it?” Unexpected.

His voice was gentle, almost shy. I glanced back, pretending to hesitate, then nodded. The crowd parted as he waved over a hotel staffer, who helped me gather up the roses.

Is this for real?

I bit my lip to keep from grinning. This was almost too easy.

I tried to hide my excitement but kept my face calm. “Thank you so much.” Fake it till you make it.

I gave Carter a soft smile, the kind you see in toothpaste commercials. He looked away, flustered again.

“Can we exchange contact info?” Fingers crossed.

I held out my phone, fingers trembling just a little for effect. If this was a movie, the music would swell right about now. Cue the dramatic soundtrack.

“I’ll take care of the roses the way I care about you.” Sell it, Savannah.

I added a little dramatic flair, hoping to seal the deal. The onlookers sighed, some rolling their eyes, others clearly rooting for me.

[Carter: She’s definitely not adding me just to message me—she just wants to keep an eye on me. So devoted.]

[Carter: She’s about to cry, loves me so much she can’t help herself.]

[Carter never adds girls on social media. I really don’t think he’ll add Savannah.]

The peanut gallery was in full swing. I could almost hear Tasha whispering, "Girl, you better get that follow." No pressure.

I was a little nervous. Not that I’d let it show.

My thumb hovered over the screen. My heart thudded, but I kept my cool. Play it cool.

But not much. I was sweating bullets.

Honestly, if he didn’t add me, I’d walk away with the roses and call it a win. But the possibility of seeing his stories—his real life, not just the curated version—was too tempting. Who could resist?

If he didn’t add me, whatever. I was just asking.

I’d learned a long time ago not to expect much from people. If you keep your expectations low, you’re never disappointed. Works every time.

But Carter hesitated, then pulled out his phone.

He scrolled through his contacts, thumb pausing over the add button. For a second, I thought he’d bail. But then, with a sigh, he handed me his phone.

“I don’t really like people messaging me every day.” Boundaries, got it.

He looked at me pointedly, as if warning me not to cross some invisible line. I nodded, understanding the unspoken rules of rich kid etiquette. Message received.

“It’s annoying.” Fair enough.

I nodded right away. No arguments here.

I gave him a reassuring smile, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I get it. I won’t blow up your phone." Promise.

[Sisters, this is important. I know it’s tempting to keep messaging when you’re chasing someone, but guys might not like it. So before you’re official, don’t contact them too much.]

[Right, right! Give each other space!]

[I used to ignore these love tips, but now I’m taking notes on every word. Boss, keep going!]

[I bet twenty bucks Savannah isn’t adding Carter just to chat.]

I stifled a laugh. The imaginary comment section was relentless. Can’t win.

Heh, nailed it. Pat on the back.

I just wanted to peek at his Instagram stories. Who wouldn’t?

Who wouldn’t? The Voss family was basically Chicago royalty. If I could catch a glimpse behind the curtain, maybe I’d learn a thing or two about surviving in their world. Worth a shot.

I’d heard these rich kids, when they’re in a mood, give away all their romantic gifts to their dogs.

Or they’d post cryptic stories—lyrics, rain on windowpanes, moody black-and-white selfies. It was like a soap opera, and I was dying for a front-row seat. Drama for days.

Sometimes, when they’re heartbroken, they’ll smash their phones and run out into the rain. Only in Chicago.

I’d seen it happen at parties—someone throwing a phone into Lake Michigan, sobbing about lost love. It was dramatic, but hey, that’s what money buys you: the freedom to be a mess in style.

Money makes all of it possible. No kidding.

Every heartbreak, every tantrum, every discarded bouquet—it was all just another opportunity for someone like me. Finders keepers.

With Carter as a contact, there’s no way I’ll let outsiders cash in! Game on.