Chapter 1: A Small-Town Secret

The late summer air hung heavy over Sycamore Lane, the tang of cut grass mingling with the distant hum of a neighbor’s lawnmower. Porch lights flickered to life as dusk settled, their glow casting long shadows across the white-picket fences. Even as I swept the kitchen floor in the old Hartley house, I could hear Mr. Evans’s hound barking two doors down and the faint clatter of dishes from Murphy’s bakery across the street.

Ever since I ended up in the body of a housemaid engaged by the leading lady to the main guy’s ill-fated bodyguard, I’d always planned to just watch the drama from the sidelines, content to live out my life alone. I’d keep my head down, mop the kitchen tiles until my arms ached, and hope nobody noticed me lingering by the window.

Back then, I figured I’d simply do my job—maybe sneak an extra donut from the kitchen if I was lucky—and keep my head down until this whole melodrama sorted itself out. Living in someone else’s life in a town where the neighbors watched you like hawks, I kept my ambitions small.

But I never expected that not only would this bodyguard survive, but I would also fall in love with him.

To be honest, love wasn’t on my radar. In this world, romance came with strings attached—a fact I was determined to dodge. But, somehow, Caleb chipped away at my walls until I found myself watching him with softer eyes, despite myself.

Three years after our marriage, tonight was finally the night we would truly become husband and wife.

I’d been counting days like someone marking tally marks on a calendar tacked up in the back hallway. Now, the anticipation was a knot in my stomach I couldn’t untangle.

A black scarf blurred my vision, leaving everything hazy.

The fabric was smooth against my skin, the scent of fresh laundry and a hint of pine—Caleb’s usual aftershave—mixing in the air. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. My hands fisted in the sheets, every nerve screaming with anticipation and dread—was this really happening, or was I about to wake up?

Yet when the man took off his mask, his striking features made me catch my breath despite myself.

For a moment, I thought I’d stepped onto a movie set—he looked so impossibly handsome, sharp jawline catching the candlelight, eyes almost too intense to meet.

The bodyguards around the main guy—including the main guy himself—all wore masks. Caleb was no exception.

Those masks always creeped me out a little, to be honest. It was like living in some weird, secret-society version of suburban America, where every important man hid his face like a Marvel vigilante.

Half a month ago, after we confessed our feelings, I’d tried to playfully remove his mask, but he stopped me.

I’d tugged at the elastic, teasing, but he’d grabbed my wrist gently. The tension between us then was almost electric—both nervous and wanting.

He’d whispered, “Let’s save that for our wedding night, okay?”

There was a tremor in his voice, something vulnerable. I nodded, letting him have this secret for now.

His gaze burned through the mask. I didn’t push it.

That look lingered, making my chest flutter in a way that made me feel like a teenager again.

Now, my cheeks were burning red.

I could feel the heat all the way to my ears, and I was glad for the dim candlelight hiding my blush.

The candlelight flickered, filling the room with a soft, intimate glow.

The old brass candlesticks cast long shadows over the faded floral wallpaper, making the whole scene feel almost cinematic—like something out of an old Southern romance.

Maybe because I was nervous, the man before me said nothing, just raised his hand and pushed me onto the bed.

My heart stuttered. The rustle of the sheets and the faint creak of the wooden headboard were the only sounds as the weight of his hand pressed me back.

Just as I was about to speak, a breath—strange and unfamiliar—brushed against my neck.

A chill ran down my spine. The breath was heavy, not at all like Caleb’s usual careful, measured touch.

On instinct, I tore off the scarf covering my eyes, and a jolt ran through my entire body.

My hands shook as I pulled the fabric away, and the room seemed to tilt around me.

My heart jackknifed. Derek’s face—wrong, all wrong—stared back at me, and it felt like the floor dropped out from under me.

Why was the main guy, Derek, lying in bed with me, his eyes glazed as if he’d been drugged?

I froze. Derek was sprawled there, his gaze unfocused, looking like he’d wandered in from a bad frat party.

“Derek, did you come to the wrong room?” My heart felt like it had been doused with cold water, yet I found myself strangely calm.

Maybe it was shock, or maybe I’d just grown numb to surprises. Either way, I kept my voice even, waiting for the explanation that wouldn’t come.

Looking around, the room was way too luxurious—definitely not the tiny little bedroom I shared with Caleb.

My room back home was all secondhand furniture and chipped paint. This place was all velvet drapes and too many throw pillows—a bed fit for someone with actual power.

But after my eyes were covered, it was Caleb who had carried me in.

I replayed the memory, catching the subtle shift of his grip as he set me down.

Which meant, my husband had sent me to the main guy’s bed.

The realization crashed down on me, heavy as a thundercloud. My hands curled into fists on the comforter, disbelief prickling at the back of my neck.

Was I just another pawn in their game? Or was I finally seeing the rules for what they were?