Chapter 1: Heiress or Rebel Princess?

I was the pampered, infamously idle heiress—born into the kind of Boston family that had old money running through its veins—when suddenly, out of nowhere, I found myself with an older sister. Evelyn, the matriarch of our family, wasn’t just cut from a different cloth—she seemed to have stepped right out of another universe, her past shrouded in secrets. With her indulging me, I didn’t have to marry into some stuffy New England dynasty; instead, I ran off to my upstate estate to raise horses. She, meanwhile, shouldered the burden and stayed in Boston, running the family trust. From that moment on, she worked herself to the bone while I floated through my days. It felt like we both had the world ahead of us.

Looking back, I can still see those endless rolling hills, the sweet scent of hay, and the lazy afternoons sprawled in the stables with the horses. God, those afternoons. Evelyn, meanwhile, was all sharp suits and boardroom battles, swallowed by the city’s relentless hum. She never complained—not once.

She just kept pushing forward, as if carrying the whole Whitlock legacy on her back was second nature. I, meanwhile, was content to play the princess, drifting through my days with barely a care.

Until one day, she disappeared.

For a moment, I just sat there, numb, not believing what I’d heard. The city felt suddenly colder, emptier.

Her absence hit the city like a thunderclap. The society pages buzzed, the trust’s lawyers grew nervous, and the family’s old rivals started circling like sharks. Everyone thought her era had ended.

Until I—the so-called useless princess—rushed back to the city overnight. I showed a strength I’d hidden for years. I wasn’t about to let the Whitlock name go down without a fight.

How am I supposed to just go on like nothing happened?

"Miss, you know this is basically a coup, right?"

As we neared the city, the young officer beside me, Carter Maddox, said, worry edging his voice.

He sat ramrod-straight in the passenger seat of my old Ford Bronco, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the horizon like he expected trouble to jump out at any second. The wind whipped at his uniform, and he looked every bit the soldier I’d convinced to join me years ago.

I shot back, "I’m a Whitlock, not a Whitman. Pretty sure I don’t need an invitation to set foot in Boston."

My tone was breezy, but my hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. My knuckles were white, but I wasn’t about to let him see me sweat. I could feel Carter’s skepticism like static in the air.

He pointed at the convoy. "We’ve got armed men with us. They’re your private security, Lila."

He glanced at the convoy trailing behind us—black SUVs, motorcycles, a handful of pickup trucks with serious-looking men in tactical gear. My so-called boyfriends. I shot him a look, feigning innocence, though inside I was rolling my eyes at the joke.

"Don’t worry. I’ve already figured out a way around that," I told him, letting a hint of mischief creep into my voice.

I flipped my hair and flashed him my best devil-may-care grin. Carter raised an eyebrow, still not buying it.

Carter gave me a look. "So what’s the plan, Lila?"

I just smirked. "You’ll see soon enough."

He let out a long sigh, shaking his head. I could tell he was running through worst-case scenarios, but he didn’t press. I kept everyone guessing right up until we hit the city gates.

The city’s commanding officer stared at me, drenched in sweat. "Miss Whitlock, this is…?"

We’d barely rolled to a stop before he hurried out to meet us, his uniform immaculate but his hands trembling. The city gates loomed behind him, flanked by stone lions and that old-money grandeur that always felt like it was putting on a show. I couldn’t help but think, Who are you trying to impress?

I said, "Oh, these are all my boyfriends."

I let the words hang in the air, watching his face cycle through confusion, disbelief, and finally resignation. I almost laughed out loud at the way his jaw dropped, but Carter just sighed beside me.

He looked at the five thousand riders behind me and just... stopped.

For a second, I thought he might faint. He stared, mouth slightly open, as if trying to process how one woman could possibly have five thousand boyfriends. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

I told him, "Go report."

"Tell them I want an audience—and I’m bringing all five thousand of my boyfriends in with me."

I could almost hear Carter groan beside me. The officer blinked, as if trying to decide whether I was joking or just completely unhinged. Carter muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "She’s lost it."

He stammered, "That’s... that’s not possible."

I gave him a half-smile. "In this city, only the Grand Matriarch can tell me what to do. If I’m not allowed in, she can come out and say it herself."

My heart was pounding, but I kept my voice cool. I stared him down, refusing to blink first. I wasn’t about to show weakness now.

The officer replied, "The Grand Matriarch is ill. You’d best dismount and enter the city with me, unarmed."

He tried to sound authoritative, but his voice cracked on "unarmed." Carter’s hand hovered near his holster, just in case.

I said, "Then bring her here yourself. Unless I see her, I’m not getting off this horse."

The officer hurried off, sweat pouring down his face like he’d just run a marathon, and ordered the city gates closed behind him.

Nobody’s buying that—not even a fool.

He shot me a sidelong glance, like he was rethinking every life choice that had led him here.

I glanced up at the city walls. "Get ready for trouble."

The city’s skyline shimmered in the early morning light, but my stomach twisted with nerves. The air crackled with tension, sharp and electric, like the moment before a summer storm.

Carter warned me again, "You’d better think this through. Once the fighting starts, there’s no going back."

If it comes to that, you can pin it on me.

I grinned at him, but he just rolled his eyes. "You’re incorrigible, you know that?"

…I must’ve pulled the short straw in life to end up following you.

I’m Lila Whitlock, the illustrious Grand Heiress of the Whitlock estate, second in line to the family fortune.

But I haven’t always been so noble.

Ten years ago, I was just fourteen when a wave of bandits and rebels stormed the city. That’s when Evelyn—my oldest sister—became someone else entirely. It was like she’d been swapped out for a stranger, one with secrets I couldn’t quite name. I saw right through her act from the start.

It was chaos—sirens wailing, people running in every direction. The city that always seemed invincible suddenly felt fragile. Evelyn’s eyes, usually steady, suddenly burned with resolve. I knew then she wasn’t like the rest of us.

The rebels looted the streets, terrorized women, and killed anyone they saw, young or old. Evelyn immediately realized it was a massacre. She grabbed my hand and pulled me along, her grip like iron.

We hid in alleyways, ducked behind dumpsters, and only moved when the streets emptied out. The air pressed in on us, thick with smoke and fear. Evelyn kept her arm around my shoulders, whispering instructions, her voice steady even as the world burned.

As we fled, we skirted a mountain. Every cave was packed with people—crammed in like sardines, not an inch to spare.

People huddled together, clutching whatever they’d managed to save. I remember the smell—sweat, fear, desperation. Evelyn scanned the faces, her jaw set. She never once looked away from the horror.

Evelyn said she used to be a "police detective." I had no idea what that meant, but I could tell she was nothing like the women of our era. Responsibility was etched into her very bones. I couldn’t help but wonder if she missed her old world, or if she was just that strong.

She talked about justice, about doing the right thing even when it hurt. I didn’t get it back then, but I never forgot the way she moved through chaos—steady, sure, unbreakable. It made me want to be braver, too.

After we escaped the city, she insisted on fighting back. With our lives hanging by a thread, we finally managed to put down the rebellion.

We scraped together an army from the survivors, striking back with whatever we had. I watched her rally people, inspire them, make impossible choices. By the time it was over, the city was changed—and so was I.

Afterward, she stayed in Boston to support our younger brother’s rise as head of the family and helped rebuild the city from the ground up.

While I retreated to the countryside, Evelyn became the city’s backbone. She rebuilt the Whitlock name from ashes, never asking for thanks. Our brother, Lucas, rose to his position because of her. The city owed her everything. It just pretended otherwise.

Compared to her great achievements, I—the lazy second daughter—felt like a royal screw-up.

The whispers followed me everywhere. I let them. I played the part, let them underestimate me. It was easier that way.

When I turned sixteen, the family rushed to arrange a marriage for me. Only Evelyn said, "What’s the hurry? Lila’s only sixteen, still young. Let her have fun."

She alone stood up for me, sending me directly to my own estate.

With her spoiling me, I spent these years riding horses and having fun. She opened up a whole new world for me—every day felt easy, almost unreal, like I’d stumbled into someone else’s dream.

I learned to ride bareback, to shoot, to laugh at the world’s expectations. I threw parties in the old barn, raced Carter across the fields, watched the seasons change from my porch. Evelyn’s letters came every month—always encouraging, always wise. I never realized how much I depended on them until they stopped.