Chapter 1

The dean's voice echoed across the quad as I stepped onto the stage, my graduation gown billowing slightly in the late spring breeze. "Olivia Harper, Bachelor of Arts in Art History, summa cum laude."

I forced a smile, gripping my diploma holder tightly as I scanned the front rows where Ryan and Jake had promised they'd be sitting. The two empty seats between my father and Mrs. Sullivan glared back at me like twin accusations. My chest tightened. They'd sworn they wouldn't miss this for anything—a promise apparently worth as little as all their others.

The familiar sting of disappointment washed over me as I walked across the stage, careful not to trip in the heels I'd spent too much money on for an audience that hadn't bothered to show. I'd been a fool to believe this day would be different.

"Congratulations, Ms. Harper," the dean said warmly, oblivious to the hollow victory this moment had become.

I nodded my thanks and moved on, my eyes still searching the crowd out of some pathetic reflex. They weren't there. Of course they weren't.

As I returned to my seat, my phone vibrated against my hip. I should have ignored it—should have at least waited until after the ceremony—but some masochistic instinct made me slip it from my pocket while pretending to adjust my cap.

The notification made my stomach drop: Madison Brooks had posted an Instagram story that was already going viral among our circle. My thumb hovered for a moment before I tapped it, knowing exactly what I would find.

There she was, Madison's perfectly made-up face streaked with carefully applied tears, a hospital bracelet prominently displayed on her delicate wrist. The campus health center's logo visible in the background. The caption read: "Sometimes it all becomes too much. So grateful for those who drop everything when I need them. #AnxietyAttack #RealFriends"

I scrolled down to see the comments, each one a fresh cut.

Ryan Mitchell: "We're right here with you. Nothing else matters."

Jake Sullivan: "Don't worry about anything else today. We've got you."

My fingers went numb. Nothing else matters. Anything else today. They weren't even trying to hide that they'd chosen her over my graduation. The ceremony continued around me, but I heard nothing, saw nothing except those words burning into my retinas.

This wasn't the first time Madison had orchestrated an emergency that mysteriously coincided with something important to me. But it was perhaps the most public, the most humiliating confirmation of what I'd been slowly accepting for months: I was second choice. Always had been.

---

That evening, I sat cross-legged on my childhood bed, surrounded by the ghostly remnants of who I used to be. Cheerleading trophies. Honor roll certificates. Photos of three children promising to marry each other when they grew up—promises that had seemed so sacred then.

My phone lay face-down beside me. I hadn't heard from either of them all day. Not even a text. My father had tried to comfort me with awkward pats on the shoulder and offers of my favorite takeout, but had eventually retreated to his study, leaving me alone with the crushing weight of my new reality.

I opened my laptop, needing something—anything—to distract me from the humiliation still burning in my chest. I scrolled mindlessly through job listings, apartment rentals, anything that might offer an escape from this town and its suffocating memories.

That's when I saw it. An advertisement so bizarre I initially thought it was satire:

"SEEKING: Bride for Sebastian Cross, heir to Cross Industries. Generous compensation package. Discretion required. Serious inquiries only."

I clicked it, expecting some elaborate scam. Instead, I found myself reading about the comatose heir to a Manhattan fortune whose family needed a legal spouse for complex inheritance reasons. The listing was surprisingly straightforward, clinical even, outlining expectations and benefits with the detached precision of a business proposal.

Any other day, I would have closed the tab immediately. But tonight, with the evidence of my disposability still fresh on my phone, something reckless and defiant flared inside me.

I stared at the contact number until it blurred before my eyes. My finger hovered over my phone.

"Nothing else matters," Ryan had written about Madison.

Fine. If I didn't matter to them, I would make myself matter somewhere else. To someone else.

With hands that barely trembled, I picked up my phone and dialed the number.