Chapter 2: A Ghost in the Parade Crowd

Love was a word that didn’t belong in our world. Honestly, I’d almost forgotten what it meant. He came to me at night, silent and desperate, looking for something he could never quite find.

Sebastian spent every night in my room, tangled up with me.

It was never gentle. Some nights, I’d lie awake after, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. I’d wonder if I’d ever feel whole again. Sometimes I doubted it.

Back then, he stood tall in a tailored suit, and when he smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, I’d space out, thinking I was the heroine of a romance novel.

I wanted to believe in the fantasy, just for a moment. Just once. But real life always crashed in, cold and unyielding.

But he refused to keep my child.

The first time I told him, he didn’t even look up from his paperwork. “Take care of it,” he said, as if it were nothing. As if I were nothing. That hurt more than I’d ever admit.

In three years, I miscarried twice.

Each time, it felt like a piece of me was being carved away. Every loss left a new scar. The pain never really left—it just settled deeper, became part of who I was. Sometimes I wondered if I’d ever be whole again.

Meanwhile, the main wife lost favor, and all her resentment landed on me, the mistress.

She made sure I felt it, every single day. Her words were knives, her glances poison. I learned to flinch at the sound of her heels on the marble floors. It was endless.

Even just admiring the garden or feeding the birds on the porch, she’d find fault with me.

Nothing I did was ever right. If I watered the roses, she’d say I was wasting water. If I fed the birds, she’d accuse me of attracting pests. It was a game I could never win. Some days, I stopped trying.

Grounded every few days, yelled at every month.

I kept a calendar in my head—red marks for every time I was locked in my room, blue for every screaming match. The colors bled together until it all felt the same. Just another day in the Whitmore house.

Sebastian saw it all but never stopped it—because the Langley family was powerful. Even her tears were worth more than my life.

He’d watch from the doorway, hands in his pockets, eyes cold and distant. Sometimes I thought I saw regret, but it would vanish before I could be sure. He never intervened.

A mistress is of lowly birth, someone who can be bought and sold.

That’s what they all believed. I was just a shadow, a placeholder, a secret to be hidden away when company came. Out of sight, out of mind.

To Sebastian, I was nothing but a shadow.

His hands were always gentle, but his heart was never mine. I was just convenient—a stand-in for the woman he’d lost, a body to warm his bed. That was all.

Over time, my body was tormented beyond recognition.

The bruises faded, but the scars stayed. Sometimes I’d trace them with my fingers, counting the places where I’d been broken and put back together again. The tally kept growing.

At my worst, even breathing felt like burning pain.

Every inhale was a struggle, my chest tight and aching. Some nights, I’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, praying for morning. Just make it to sunrise, I’d tell myself.

At first, I wanted to live—live with dignity.

I tried to hold onto hope, to believe that things could get better. I read books, wrote essays, dreamed of a future where I could be more than this. Anything to keep going.

I tried things like making gunpowder with saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal, or joking about making a Tsar Bomba with sugar.

It was half science project, half desperate joke. Maria would watch me mix powders in the kitchen, her eyes wide with worry, but I’d just laugh and say, “Maybe I’ll blow the whole place sky-high.” Who knows, maybe I meant it.

When inspiration struck, I’d use a ballpoint pen to write ten-thousand-word essays:

“How to Solve the Low Status of Entrepreneurs in Early America That Hinders the Flow of Productive Capital.”

“How to Promote the Industrial Revolution in the Context of Puritan Culture.”

The titles were ridiculous, but the writing kept me sane. I poured everything I had into those pages, hoping someone, somewhere, might understand. Maybe it was pointless, but it was mine.

After writing and revising, I got excited and sent Maria—dressed as a regular temp—to deliver them to various government offices.

She’d sneak out with the essays tucked under her coat, slipping them into mail slots at city hall, the library, even the post office. Sometimes we’d laugh, picturing some poor clerk’s face when they found them. It felt like a secret mission.

That was what I’d always dreamed of doing, lying in an air-conditioned dorm back home, daydreaming about ending up in another world.

It was silly, but it made me feel alive—like I still had something to offer, even if no one else saw it. For a moment, I could pretend I mattered.

Whether they understood it or not didn’t matter.

The act of writing, of sending those words out into the world, was enough. Just the act. Sometimes, that’s all you have.

But later, Mrs. Whitmore caught Maria.

She stormed into my room, waving the essays like a weapon. Her voice was ice, her words even colder. Maria stood behind me, trembling, but refused to back down. I’ll never forget that look on her face.

She made up a dozen false charges and pinned them on me.

Forgery, theft, conspiracy—she threw every accusation she could think of at me. The staff watched from the shadows, too afraid to speak up. Not one person stepped in.

Maria, to save me, was beaten to death in the backyard.

Her screams echoed through the halls. I tried to run to her, but they held me back. When it was over, I found her lying in the grass, eyes wide and unseeing. My world ended that day.

Her blood soaked me from head to toe.

I knelt beside her, my dress ruined, hands shaking. The world went silent, except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. Nothing else mattered.

Only then did I realize that when someone is beaten to death, blood really does pour out everywhere.

It was nothing like the movies. It was messier, uglier, more final. I stared at my hands, stained red, and wondered how I’d ever get clean again. I don’t think I ever did.

This wasn’t some open-world game. There was no respawn.

No second chances, no do-overs. Just loss, sharp and permanent. That’s all that was left.

This was a complete, unfamiliar, real-world hell.

I’d never felt so alone. The house seemed to close in around me, every corner a reminder of what I’d lost. Sometimes I wondered how I was still breathing.

After that, I just wanted to survive.

I stopped dreaming, stopped hoping. All I wanted was to make it through each day in one piece. That was it.

Not hoping for smooth sailing—just safety.

I kept my head down, avoided trouble, did whatever I was told. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had left. Just keep going, I told myself.

Later, I didn’t even want to live anymore, but didn’t have the motivation to die either.

I drifted through the days like a ghost, barely present. The world moved on without me, and I let it. Why fight it?

Trapped in a tiny world, listening to Maria tell bad jokes, the days passed like that.

Her memory was all I had. I’d replay her stories in my mind, clinging to the sound of her laughter. Sometimes, I thought I heard her in the hall.

Sebastian would occasionally come, too.

His visits grew less frequent, his touch colder. I stopped caring. I was just a body to him, nothing more. That was the truth.

But I grew more and more haggard, no longer beautiful at all.

The mirror became my enemy. My hair lost its shine, my skin grew sallow. I hardly recognized myself anymore. It hurt to look.

No different from a walking corpse.

I moved through the halls like a shadow, silent and unseen. Just another ghost in the Whitmore house.

Whatever he wanted, I let him do as he pleased.

I stopped fighting. It was easier that way. No use making waves.

The Thanksgiving parade was extremely lively.

The whole city turned out—kids waving flags, brass bands blaring, floats rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue. You could almost forget how broken everything was. Almost.

I trailed behind Sebastian and Mrs. Whitmore, listless.

I kept my head down, letting the crowd swallow me up. The noise was overwhelming, but I barely felt it. Just another face in the crowd.

After a while, I noticed several groups of Secret Service agents suddenly appear on the crowded street.

Their earpieces gleamed in the sunlight, faces set in stone. The crowd parted for them, a ripple of fear and excitement running through the masses. I kept my distance.

That was the President’s motorcade.

The black limos glided past, windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see inside. For a second, I wondered who was watching us from behind that glass.

Agents, imposing and stone-faced, moved through the crowds, shouting:

“The President is coming! Make way!”

Their voices cut through the chaos, commanding instant obedience. Even the rowdiest kids fell silent, eyes wide with awe. You could feel the tension in the air.

I was jostled forward by the crowd, stumbling, with Maria doing her best to protect me.

She grabbed my arm, pulling me close. “Stay with me, Miss Lillian,” she whispered, voice tight with worry. I nodded, clinging to her hand.

In the chaos, Sebastian was holding onto Mrs. Whitmore and couldn’t take care of me.

He barely glanced back, his focus on his wife. I was an afterthought, as always. Typical.

By the time I came to my senses, I’d already been separated from them.

Panic rose in my chest, but I forced myself to breathe. Maria squeezed my hand, grounding me. We’d get through this. We always did.

Maria muttered:

“If I’d known it’d be like this, it would’ve been better not to come out.”

She sounded more annoyed than scared, but I could see the fear in her eyes. She hated crowds.

I smiled:

“Everyone wants a glimpse of the President. It’s inevitable.”

I tried to sound reassuring, but my voice shook. The truth was, I was just as lost as she was. We were both in over our heads.

In the crowd, I caught a glimpse of a limousine rolling by.

It was just for a second—a flash of black paint, a glint of chrome. But inside, behind the glass, I saw a face I’d never thought I’d see again. My heart skipped a beat.

Behind the tinted glass was a familiar face.

My heart stopped. The world went silent, the crowd fading into nothing. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. I stood frozen, breath caught in my throat.

The moment our eyes met, I froze in place.

He looked right at me—eyes sharp and knowing, just like Jamie’s. For a split second, I forgot how to move. It was him. It had to be.

When I snapped out of it, the limo was already long gone.

The noise rushed back in, drowning me. I stumbled, clutching Maria’s arm for support. I couldn’t catch my breath.

But I was still standing there, dazed.

I couldn’t shake the image from my mind. It haunted me, lingering at the edges of my vision. Was it really him?

In the three years since I’d landed here, I’d never seen the President.

He was a myth, a rumor—untouchable, unreachable. I’d heard stories, but never expected to meet him, let alone recognize him. Not in this world.

I’d only heard he was weak and incompetent, with the mind of a child, his power sapped by powerful families—a mere figurehead.

The papers painted him as a puppet, a joke. No one took him seriously—not until he started tearing down the old guard. Then everyone paid attention.

But no matter how clueless he was, as a mistress, what right did I have to meet the President?

I was invisible, a shadow at the edge of someone else’s story. People like me didn’t get invitations to the White House. That was just reality.

Yet today, with just a glance, I was shocked to find that this President looked so much like my childhood friend, Jamie Chen, from back home.

It was impossible, but there it was. Same dark eyes, same stubborn jaw. My Jamie—here, in this world, going by someone else’s name. My heart twisted.

Tank, another transmigrant, Jamie Chen…

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. If he was here, what else had changed? What else was possible? Anything?

A ridiculous, bizarre thought sprang up in my mind.

I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity. Two lost souls, thrown across time and space, finding each other in the unlikeliest place. What were the odds?

There are no words to describe my feelings at this moment.

It was a mix of hope and terror, longing and disbelief. My heart ached with the weight of it, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe both.

It was like running alone for a long time in the endless night—running until you’re completely spent, the streetlights endless—when suddenly a beam of light appears, reminding you: you once longed to dance with the light, until you turned to ashes.

I remembered every lonely night, every desperate hope. For the first time in years, I felt something stir inside me—a spark, faint but real. Maybe I could hope again.

Maria looked worried:

“Miss Lillian, what’s wrong?”

She squeezed my arm, her brow furrowed. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”