Chapter 3: Betrayal on the River

After the gala, everyone went out to the Whitmore gardens to admire the chrysanthemums and autumn maples. I found it boring and left early, bumping into the young mayor at the gate.

The gardens were beautiful—gold and crimson leaves, chrysanthemums in every shade. But I wasn’t in the mood to mingle. I slipped away, hoping for a moment of quiet, and nearly ran into Jackson at the front gate. He looked like he’d been waiting for me.

“Mayor, not staying for the flowers?”

I raised an eyebrow, teasing. He hated these events even more than I did, always looking for an excuse to leave early.

He glanced at the Whitmore place with a smirk and shrugged. “Just making an appearance for the old guard.”

He said it with a drawl, like it was the biggest joke in the world. I knew better—Jackson played the fool, but he never missed a thing.

The former Mrs. Whitmore never had kids, so she adopted the child of her rival, had the rival blackballed, then propped up the eight-year-old as mayor, grabbing power for herself.

It was the kind of Southern drama you only read about in novels—schemes, betrayals, power plays that stretched back generations. Maple Heights thrived on gossip, and the Whitmores were always at the center of it.

But the young mayor, Jackson Lee, was a master at playing dumb, pretending to be a party boy and sneaking out, while quietly building his own power base.

I admired his hustle. He let the old guard underestimate him, all while stacking the deck in his favor. I’d seen him cut deals in the shadows, make alliances nobody else saw coming. He was a survivor, just like me.

He walked a few steps, then spun around, waving me over. “The Crescent Bar just got in a new bourbon. Want to try it?”

He wiggled his eyebrows, grinning. The Crescent Bar was the place to be on a Friday night—live music, good drinks, the occasional brawl. I couldn’t resist the invitation, even if I knew better.

He shook his bulging wallet. “My treat.”

He flashed the cash like a badge of honor, daring me to call his bluff. I remembered last time and wasn’t about to fall for it again.

He had the nerve to bring that up. Last time he lured me out for a fancy dinner, also swearing he’d pay, but after dessert he vanished, and I had to call Julian to bail me out.

It was a disaster—me, stuck with a mountain of bills and a room full of staring waiters. Julian showed up, paid without a word, and glared at Jackson for a week. I still hadn’t forgiven him, but the bourbon was tempting.

I grabbed his wallet, checked it was real cash, then tucked it into my purse and hopped in the rideshare.

“Let’s go—Crescent Bar.”

He groaned, but didn’t argue. We piled into the backseat, laughing as the city lights blurred past. For a moment, I forgot about the story, the roles, the heartbreak. It was just two friends chasing a little freedom.

When we got there, the hostess led us to a private booth. Appetizers and drinks were already waiting, and Jackson looked me up and down, clicking his tongue.

He plopped down across from me, propping his feet on the seat, looking every inch the troublemaker. The food was decent—fried pickles, sliders, the works. I poured myself a drink and waited for the inevitable questions.

“Autumn, why are you still so grumpy? Who got under your skin at the Whitmore place? Just set them straight.”

He watched me, eyebrows raised, waiting for the gossip. I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. He always knew when something was off.

Only then did I realize that ever since seeing Lena Morales, I’d had a storm cloud over my head.

It hit me all at once—the tension in my shoulders, the way my thoughts kept circling back to Lena. I sighed, feeling the weight settle in my chest. Jackson was right, as usual.

Too much on my mind.

It was like carrying a backpack full of rocks, never able to put it down. I wanted to talk about it, but the words stuck. Some things are just too complicated.

A bad sign.

Whenever I get too quiet, it means trouble. I tried to shake it off, but it clung to me like a shadow.

My eyelid kept twitching. As Jackson geared up for one of his lectures, I quickly pulled out a stack of my own notebooks to distract him.

I fished out my battered notebooks, slapping them on the table. Jackson’s eyes lit up—he loved a good scheme, especially if it involved outsmarting the queen bees of Maple Heights.

People who get lectured a lot love to turn around and lecture you.

It’s a universal truth. I figured if I kept him busy with my “research,” he’d forget to psychoanalyze me for a while.

My notebooks were full of things I’d written in my spare time, like “108 Ways to Annoy the Queen Bee,” “How to Survive When Your Hometown Turns into a Nightmare,” and “Why Do Southern Belles Compete for the Spotlight.”

I’d spent years jotting down every trick, every observation. It was half diary, half survival guide. I even had a section called “How to Dodge Unwanted Proposals”—a must-have in Maple Heights.

All distilled from my years of reading.

I was a bookworm at heart—mysteries, romance, even old etiquette manuals. I liked to think it made me prepared for anything, but the story always found new ways to surprise me.

He reached for them, but I pulled them back and held out my hand for payment. “Pay up and they’re yours. You won’t regret it.”

I grinned, waving the notebooks just out of reach. Jackson groaned, but he knew the drill. Nothing in this world is free, especially not my hard-earned secrets.

“You already took my wallet, what else do you want?” Jackson was half exasperated, half amused. “Come to City Hall another day, pick anything from the lost and found.”

He leaned back, arms crossed, pretending to be put out. But I saw the spark in his eyes. He loved the game as much as I did.

“Deal!”

We high-fived, I tossed him the bundle, then poured myself a drink. The bourbon wasn’t strong, but it left a sweet, smoky aftertaste—truly delicious.

The glass was cool in my hand, the bourbon warming my throat. For a moment, I let myself relax, let the buzz take the edge off. Jackson flipped through my notes, whistling in appreciation.

I’d already told the house staff I’d be late, so I figured I could get tipsy this once.

It wasn’t often I let myself go—too many responsibilities, too many eyes watching. But tonight, I decided, I’d let myself forget. Just for a little while.

I’m a total lightweight. After a couple sips, my head was spinning, my cheeks were on fire, and I was slumped over the table mumbling.

The room spun pleasantly, the music from the jukebox a low hum. Jackson snorted, snapping a photo for blackmail purposes. I swatted at him, but missed.

In a haze, I felt the car ride home, someone feeding me soup, and the sound of a piano drifting by.

I drifted in and out—voices murmuring, the gentle jostle of the car, the soft clink of a spoon against porcelain. The music was familiar, soothing. I felt safe, for the first time in a long while.

It was the piece I played at the mayor’s birthday.

I remembered the notes, the way my fingers danced over the keys. The melody was bittersweet, full of longing and hope. It was my favorite piece, the one I played when words failed me.

That old witch loved to torment us, always making me perform at city events. I couldn’t stand her, so I begged Julian to teach me piano.

The mayor—Mrs. Whitmore—had a knack for making me miserable. She’d insist I perform at every event, always with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. I’d begged Julian to teach me, desperate to hold my own.

With his daily coaching, I practiced hard, and this year, when she “invited” me again, I played “Lonely City”—all drama and fire, grabbing everyone’s attention, probably keeping her up all night.

I poured every ounce of frustration into that piece, letting the music speak for me. The room had gone silent, the mayor’s face tight with annoyance. I’d never felt prouder.

After all, the fall of the city seven years ago probably had her fingerprints all over it.

The more I learned about Maple Heights, the more I realized how deep the roots of power ran. Mrs. Whitmore was no innocent bystander—she’d shaped the city’s fate in ways most people never saw. I made a silent vow to remember, to never let myself be used like that again.

Suddenly, I remembered that night when the whole city was lit up.

It was the last good memory before everything changed. The city was alive—lanterns strung across the streets, music pouring from every doorway. For one night, it felt like anything was possible.

I wore a red dress, wandered the streets, jewelry tinkling, lifting my skirt as I stepped onto a bridge. Looking up, I saw fireworks and lanterns floating—a stunning sight.

I’d saved up for that dress, a deep crimson that made me feel grown-up and bold. The jewelry was borrowed, the shoes pinched, but I didn’t care. I spun under the lights, breathless, watching the sky explode in color.

I turned to call Julian, but we were already side by side, gazing at each other, reflections in our eyes, like a fire about to sweep over us.

He stood beside me, close enough to feel the warmth of his arm. Our eyes met, and for a moment, the world fell away. I saw something in him—something wild and tender, a promise of more.

I looked at him carefully.

I wanted to memorize every detail—his sharp jaw, the way his hair caught the light, the storm brewing in his eyes. I wanted to remember this moment, just in case it was the last.

He was in white, pure as snow, with sharp features and eyes like a cold river—like a fallen angel. He looked almost unreal. Like he’d stepped out of a dream.

Suddenly I realized—

The truth hit me all at once, like a punch to the gut. I was in love with him. Not the safe, quiet kind of love, but the kind that sets your bones on fire, that makes you reckless and brave and a little bit foolish.

I think I fell for him. Yeah. That was it.

I thought it was just mutual healing over time, but in the story, every word was about the love between the leads.

For a while, I convinced myself it was just friendship, just gratitude for all he’d done. But the story wouldn’t let me forget my place. Every chapter, every whispered rumor, reminded me that I was the extra, the afterthought.

I admit, I pushed myself into the abyss.

I couldn’t help it. I kept reaching for something I knew I couldn’t have, hoping for a miracle. But in this story, miracles were reserved for someone else.

The next morning, when I woke up, my head was clear. The housekeeper said Julian had brought me back last night and played the piano for a long time to help me sleep. He also told the cook to make only oatmeal and toast for breakfast to protect my stomach.

I blinked in the soft morning light, the house quiet except for the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. The housekeeper fussed over me, her voice gentle. I realized Julian had stayed up, watching over me, making sure I was safe. It was the kind of care that made my heart ache.

He always took care of everything for me, so I only had to do what I liked. For seven years, I’d lived loud and free. I always thought I’d never meet anyone so gentle again.

He made it easy to be brave, to take risks. I’d grown used to his steady presence, his quiet support. I told myself I didn’t need him, but the truth was, I didn’t know how to let go.

But in the end, the book said he didn’t even bother to look at Autumn Sinclair—just stood with the heroine in the hall, and with the coldest, most dismissive tone, ordered her out of his life.

The words haunted me, even when I tried to laugh them off. I saw the scene play out in my head, over and over. It was cruel, but it was the script. I wondered if I could change it, if I could write a new ending for myself.

But I’m not the Autumn Sinclair in the book.

I decided, right then and there, that I’d fight for my own story. I wouldn’t let anyone else write my ending—not the heroine, not the system, not even Julian.

And he shouldn’t be the Julian Carter in the book.

He was more than a plot device, more than a love interest. He was real—complicated, flawed, and worth fighting for. I wanted to believe he could break free, too.

Then the housekeeper told me something.

She knocked on my door, eyes wide, voice low. “Miss, did you hear what happened at the Whitmore gala?” My stomach dropped. Nothing good ever started with that question.

Yesterday at the Whitmore gala, the prized show chrysanthemum vanished. While everyone was talking, Lena Morales stood up and said she saw Miss Young acting suspiciously. Sure enough, they found the flower in her bag, half-ruined. Miss Young was thrown out in disgrace.

The whole story spilled out—how the prized flower had gone missing, how Lena had pointed the finger, how Miss Young had been caught red-handed. It was the kind of scandal that would keep the town talking for weeks.

Lena did most of the investigating and got a jade bracelet as a reward, winning lots of praise.

Everyone clapped, congratulated her, called her clever and brave. The mayor herself presented her with a jade bracelet, the ultimate symbol of approval. I could practically see Lena’s system leveling up in real time.

“You said it was Lena who accused Miss Young?”

I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. The housekeeper nodded, her eyes full of sympathy. I felt a chill run down my spine.

“Yes, miss.”

It was official—Lena was rewriting the story, one plot twist at a time. I wondered what role I’d play next.

Tell me, isn’t this the classic reversal trope?

It was supposed to go the other way—the villain frames the heroine, only to be exposed in the end. But here, Lena was always one step ahead, flipping the script before I could even catch up.

Shouldn’t the cannon-fodder supporting girl frame the heroine, only for the heroine to turn the tables with evidence?

I’d read enough stories to know the pattern, but nothing about this felt familiar anymore. The rules were changing, and I was running out of time.

How did it skip straight to a killing blow?

It was like the story was speeding up, cutting out the middle, going straight for the jugular. I felt a prickle of fear—what if I was next?

I remembered that shadow again.

It hovered at the edge of my mind, a whisper of something bigger than me. The butterfly effect—one small change, and everything spirals out of control.

The butterfly effect.

Maybe it was my fault, for trying to break free. Maybe the story was punishing me for daring to hope.

In the story, the heroine showed off her piano skills and got all the praise, and the mayor didn’t show up to stir the pot.

The script had been rewritten, and I wasn’t sure what would come next. I felt like I was standing on a trapdoor, waiting for it to open.

The heroine’s move was truly unexpected.

She was getting bolder, more ruthless. I wondered how far she’d go to keep her place at the center of the story.

Maybe the system in this story is tired, or maybe it’s burned through a hundred schemes and drama scripts, always finding ways to frame people, while making the heroine look sweet and innocent.

It was exhausting, trying to keep up. I wondered if the system ever got bored, if it ever wanted a new story.

Since I kept setting off her plans, I needed to protect myself.

I made a decision—no more waiting for the next disaster. If the story wanted me gone, it would have to catch me first.

“Pack up all the cash and jewelry. I suddenly miss my uncle. Let’s go to Savannah.”

I grabbed my suitcase, stuffed it with whatever I could find—cash, heirlooms, the pearl earrings Mom left me. I called the driver, told him to prep the car. If I was going to survive, I needed to move fast. No time to waste.

Today’s departure was too rushed, so I set it for tomorrow night.

I spent the day double-checking my escape plan, making sure I had everything I needed. I watched the sun set, heart pounding, waiting for the moment I could finally breathe easy.

I waited all day for Julian, ready to tell him, but he was probably too busy at City Hall to even come home for dinner.

I paced the halls, checking my phone every five minutes. The house felt too big, too empty. I missed the days when he’d come home with a tired smile, when we’d share leftovers at the kitchen table.

The next day, I sent a message, and for lunch, I made him sweet pudding, asking him to come home no matter what.

It was a recipe from my mother—simple, comforting, sweet enough to chase away a bad day. I left the bowl on the counter, hoping he’d see it, hoping it would remind him of better times.

Seven years ago, after Lady Carter died, Julian handled the funeral perfectly, then holed up at home, barely eating. The family had suffered a sudden blow, both parents gone, and he was only fourteen.

He locked himself in his study, refusing to see anyone. I watched him waste away, helpless to do anything. I promised myself I’d never let him fall that far again.

At the time, I just thought, I can’t lose him. He’s my only anchor here. He was all I had.

I’d visit his study, bringing rare treats to his desk. I’d eat heartily, but he always looked distant, saying he was thinking. I thought he was starving himself.

I tried everything—cookies, cakes, even his favorite fried chicken. Nothing worked. He’d just smile, thank me, and go back to staring out the window. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept showing up.

So I messed around in the kitchen, made a mess, and finally managed a decent bowl of sweet pudding.

I burned the first batch, spilled sugar everywhere, but eventually, I got it right. The smell filled the house, warm and comforting. I brought it to him, hands shaking.

That night, I put my pudding on his desk.

He looked up, surprised. I pushed the bowl toward him, refusing to take no for an answer.

“Here, I made this.”

He said it tasted familiar—and great—and finished it all.

For the first time in days, he smiled—a real, genuine smile. He finished the whole bowl, and I felt hope flicker back to life.

So over the years, I’d make it now and then, and he always liked it.

It became our ritual—a secret language only we understood. Whenever things got hard, I’d make pudding, and he’d eat it, and for a little while, everything felt okay.

But he didn’t come.

I waited. And waited. But he didn’t come.

The housekeeper told me, “Miss, Mr. Carter was about to return, but someone sent him a note. He said he had something to deal with and told you to eat first.”

She tried to sound reassuring, but I could see the worry in her eyes. I forced a smile, thanked her, and went back to my room.

“Where did he go?”

I needed answers. The not knowing was worse than anything else.

“It looked like he was heading to Crescent Bar.”

My mind raced—why there? Who was he meeting? I felt a prickle of unease crawl up my spine.

Which city council member was trying to win him over now?

The Crescent Bar was neutral ground, the kind of place where deals were made and secrets traded. I wondered who was pulling the strings this time.

But he used to always take me along, letting me eat my fill before turning them down.

It was our thing—a way to show the council that we were a team, that they couldn’t divide us. The fact that he’d gone alone stung more than I wanted to admit.

The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I felt, so I decided to check it out.

I grabbed my coat, keys jangling in my hand, and headed for the door. If he wouldn’t come to me, I’d go to him.

“Get the car. Let’s go to Crescent Bar.”

The driver didn’t ask questions. He knew better by now. We sped through the streets, the city lights blurring past. My heart pounded with every turn.

I knew the manager, so I quickly found his private booth. I looked at my plain clothes, straightened my hair, and put on a server’s cap.

I caught my reflection in a window—hair messy, eyes wild. I pulled the cap low, hoping nobody would notice me. The manager gave me a nod, and I slipped inside, my nerves shot.

Seeing a server about to bring in drinks, I carried a tray and followed in.

My hands shook, but I kept my head down, blending in with the staff. I rehearsed my lines in my head, ready for anything.

I never expected to see Lena Morales.

She sat across from Julian, laughter bubbling up, her eyes bright. The sight of them together hit me like a punch to the gut. I nearly dropped the tray.

Wearing a thin shawl, sitting across from Julian, smiling brightly, clearly enjoying herself.

She looked perfect, every detail in place. Julian leaned in, listening intently, his expression soft. I felt invisible, like I’d been erased from the scene.

My hand trembled, almost spilling the hot tea, but I caught myself.

I took a deep breath, willing myself not to cry. I was stronger than this. I had to be.

I wanted to turn and leave, to run far away and never look back.

The urge to flee was overwhelming. But something inside me snapped—a stubborn, reckless anger that refused to be ignored.

But suddenly, I was furious—couldn’t even explain why.

I’d spent too long playing by the rules, too long waiting for someone else to save me. Not anymore.

A line popped into my head.

[Lena Morales used the “Fuming with Rage” item on you]

I almost laughed—if this was a game, I was done playing nice. I set my jaw, ready to make a scene.

I ripped off my hat and slammed the cup down, glaring at Julian, putting my temper on full display.

The room went silent. All eyes turned to me. I didn’t care. I was done being invisible.

But Lena couldn’t wait to speak, eager to add fuel to the fire.

She leaned forward, her voice syrupy sweet. “Autumn...”

“I’m the county princess, personally appointed by the mayor. Don’t call me ‘sister.’”

My voice was sharp, cold. I watched Lena flinch, just for a second. It felt good to take back a little power.

I threw the hot tea at her, but she dodged easily, then looked at Julian with teary, wounded eyes, playing the innocent victim.

She was a master at it—turning every attack into an opportunity. Typical. I wanted to scream, but I just clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.

I reached for my riding crop to lash out, but Julian grabbed it; the leather left a mark on his palm. I raised an eyebrow.

He stepped between us, his hand bleeding. I stared him down, daring him to take her side. He never used to do that.

“Enough. Go home.”

His voice was cold, final. It hurt more than I wanted to admit. I glared at him, refusing to back down.

He frowned, took my crop, stood between me and the heroine, and coldly told me to go home again.

He’d never spoken to me like that before. I felt something break inside me.

But I stubbornly stared at him. When the anger faded, all that was left was hurt. It hurt more than I wanted to admit. I muttered, barely audible,

“But I made you pudding today. You used to say you’d never stand me up.”

My voice cracked. I hated how small I sounded, how vulnerable. But I couldn’t help it.

In the past, even if I suffered the smallest slight, he’d help me get even.

He’d always been my champion, my shield. Now, he was just another stranger, siding with the heroine.

But now, after a moment of softness, he hardened again, using a tone that brooked no argument: “Take her home.”

His eyes were hard, his jaw set. I knew there was no point arguing. The staff closed in, ready to escort me out.

With staff on both sides, I was escorted out. Suddenly, I sobered up and looked back.

I caught one last glimpse of Lena, her lips curled in a victorious smile. The anger came rushing back, but it was too late.

She’d won this round. But the game wasn’t over yet.

She used an item to make me lose my temper. What a move.

It was clever, I had to admit. But I was learning. Next time, I’d be ready.