Chapter 1: Married to My Enemy

I married the son of my dad’s sworn enemy.

The air in the church was thick with tension—the kind that makes your skin crawl, like you might laugh or cry, or maybe both. I could practically feel Colton’s glare drilling into me as we stood at the altar, the old stained glass scattering sunlight over the worn carpet. When the pastor declared us husband and wife, Colton leaned in, just close enough to grit out, “I swear, Savannah, I’m gonna make your life a living hell.”

That night, as the wedding guests trickled out and the house finally quieted down, I pulled out the eighteen illustrated romance guides my stepmom had, with a wink and a nudge, slipped into my suitcase. I spread them out on the comforter—each cover more ridiculous than the last, all glossy hearts and suggestive titles. The lamplight made them shine like forbidden treasure. Honestly, it was ridiculous.

I put on my best southern drawl and called out, dragging the word out for effect, “Honey, come look— which one do you wanna try?” My voice was pure mischief, and I could practically see the steam coming out of Colton’s ears.

His face turned beet red. He pointed at me, stammering—

He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, voice cracking— which, honestly, just made me want to tease him more. “You, you, you have no shame!”

Later, Colton started hanging off me like a second shadow.

It was like a switch flipped. Suddenly, my big, bad, pain-in-the-butt husband was following me around like a lost puppy. He’d sidle up to me, wrapping those lanky arms around my waist, whispering, “Babe, let me hold you.”

I’d roll my eyes, shoving at his chest. I couldn’t believe him. “Colton, have you no shame? I’m pregnant!”

He’d just grin, all dimples and stubbornness. “I just wanna hold my wife while I sleep!”

But things weren’t always like this.

Ever since I was little, my dad always told me,

“There’s nothing good about the Blake family next door. Even their dog likes to pee on our mailbox.” Even their dog likes to pee on our mailbox, he’d say, as if that was the ultimate insult.

He’d say it with a huff, shaking his fist at the fence like the Blakes’ mutt was straight from hell. I took it to heart—maybe a little too much.

I took it to heart—maybe a little too much.

So I became a tiny vigilante, determined to protect our family’s reputation. I’d perch by the window, peering through the curtains with all the seriousness of a detective, waiting for that infamous dog to make its move.

Three days. My patience was running thin. I staked out the front yard for three days before I finally caught the dog that came to pee.

On the third day, just as the cicadas started up their evening racket, I spotted the culprit—Rusty, the Blakes’ scruffy beagle, nose twitching as he ambled over to our mailbox. My heart was pounding. I burst out the door, broom in hand, ready for justice.

I chased it with a broom—all the way down Maple Street!

Neighbors peeked out their windows as I tore down the block, waving that broom and hollering— Get back here, you little menace! Rusty yelped and bolted, his ears flapping, while I chased him past Mrs. Dalton’s rosebushes and right up to the corner store.

Later, Colton couldn’t find his dog and cried, blaming me for killing it.

Colton—skinny, messy-haired, and already a little too serious for his age—came stomping over, tears streaking his cheeks. Seriously? “You killed my Rusty! Pay me back!”

I didn’t even hesitate. I shoved him to the ground.

I didn’t hesitate. I shoved him, hard, and he landed on the grass with a squawk. Chin high, feeling like a superhero defending the block.

He was my age, sure, but not as tall. Not as strong, either.

He squirmed under me, legs kicking, but I had him pinned. Victory was sweet. The other neighborhood kids started to circle, drawn by the commotion.

He looked ridiculous, pinned down by me, flailing his legs wildly.

He grabbed my braid, yanking hard. I yelped.

He yanked my braid, and I yelped, but I wasn’t about to let go. We rolled around in the grass, a mess of elbows and attitude.

Before long, it was a full-blown backyard melee—kids shrieking, dogs barking, and the grown-ups storming out to break it up. Chaos.

My dad tried to play peacemaker, but really, he was just making sure I stayed on top. “Don’t fight,” he said, but he was grinning.

Typical. Colton screamed for his parents.

They came running—Mr. Blake and Mrs. Blake both rushed out.

Mrs. Blake ran to her son, clutching him to her chest, while Mr. Blake marched over, his face red as a fire truck.

I knew when to stop, so I got up right away and hid behind my dad.

She fussed over him. Mrs. Blake hugged Colton, crying with worry.

Mr. Blake pointed at my dad and snapped, “Your kid’s just a little street thug!”

My dad shot back, “Maybe if your son wasn’t such a crybaby!”

Mr. Blake was furious. “You! My son’ll grow up to be a real man! You’ll only ever have a daughter in this life!” The words hit like a slap.