Twisted Vows

[CHAPTER 1]

Leah

The Lockhart mansion hummed with music and laughter, the end-of-summer party unfolding exactly as my parents had planned. Crystal glasses clinked. Voices carried. Admiration lingered in every corner.

For everyone else, it was just another glamorous evening at our estate.

For me, it was a reminder of my place.

My sister Lizzie stood near the center of the room, radiant and effortless, the way she always was. At five foot eleven, she had the kind of long, elegant frame that made people pause when she walked by. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, her skin warm and golden beneath the chandelier lights. She had graduated from law school only months earlier and already secured an offer in Washington. Another achievement to add to the list. Another reason people gathered around her, smiling, impressed.

My brother Daniel wasn’t far from her side. He shared Lizzie’s height, his build athletic and lean, his easy confidence drawing people in without effort. At twenty six, he was already successful, already respected. He laughed easily, moved through the room like he belonged everywhere at once.

And then there was Jacob.

Lizzie’s boyfriend of five years. Daniel’s closest friend. Practically family.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Calm in a way that made people trust him without knowing why. He fit beside my siblings like he had been designed for them, like the three of them together formed something whole.

They were everything my parents wanted their children to be.

Standing a few steps away, I felt like a shadow cast by their light.

I was nineteen. Five foot five on a good day. My red copper hair refused to behave, wild no matter how much effort I put into taming it. My mother never missed an opportunity to comment on it. Or my weight. Or the way I dressed.

I had pale skin, freckles scattered across my cheeks and nose, and eyes so blue they always stood out more than I wanted them to. My curves felt too obvious beside Lizzie’s long, lean perfection. Most days, I hid beneath oversized sweaters and loose jeans, hoping invisibility might come with comfort.

Tonight, I had tried not to hide.

My best friend Olivia had convinced me into a deep emerald green dress, fitted at the waist and flaring softly at the hips. She told me it made my eyes brighter. That the color suited me. For once, I had wanted to believe her.

My mother found me before the party even began.

She paused in front of me, her gaze sharp and assessing, lingering on my dress, my hair, the way I held myself.

“Couldn’t you wear something more polished?” she murmured. “And that hair is so… vivid. You’d look much better if you softened the color.”

Her eyes flicked down, then back up again. “Something less tight would be more appropriate. You don’t want to draw the wrong kind of attention.”

My chest tightened. I knew better than to argue.

“It’s not tight,” I said quietly. “It’s fitted.”

She sighed as if I’d exhausted her. “You’ll understand one day.”

She’d taught me early that affection in this house came with rules. That love was something you earned by being quiet, useful, and grateful.

My father had learned those rules too — and eventually, he followed them.

I gave a curt nod and tried to ignore the familiar ache of never being quite enough in her eyes.

As the evening wore on, admiration for Lizzie filled the house. Guests congratulated her. Toasts were made. Pride radiated from my parents as though her success belonged to them more than to her.

I slipped away unnoticed.

The library was dim and quiet, the shelves heavy with books that had always felt safer than people. Laughter drifted faintly through the walls, distant and detached, like it belonged to another world.

A photo album lay open on the table.

Lockharts and Fairfaxes. Holidays. Summers. Milestones.

I traced the edges of the pages, my throat tightening as I flipped through them. There I was in nearly every picture. On the edge. Slightly out of focus. Always a step behind, never quite part of the moment.

Even in photographs, I didn’t belong.

I never remembered being told to move — only realizing, too late, that everyone else already had

In a moment of quiet desperation I would later regret, I opened one of the cabinets and found a bottle of wine. I poured a glass. Then another. The warmth spread through my chest, dulling the ache just enough to breathe through it.

I had heard the rumors.

Jacob was planning to propose tonight.

The thought twisted something deep inside me. He had always been kind when we were younger. Always the one who noticed when I spoke. The one who didn’t treat me like I was invisible.

He listened in ways that felt dangerous to notice

Our families were intertwined. Holidays together. Summers together. Daniel and Jacob had even been college roommates. Our lives had been tangled long before I understood what that meant.

Jacob stood over six foot three, his build disciplined and strong. Dark hair that never quite stayed in place. Blue eyes that made people feel seen. He carried himself with quiet certainty, the kind that didn’t need to be announced.

If he proposed to Lizzie tonight, any foolish hope I had ever harbored would finally die.

I turned another page.

A photo from a college football game. Jacob and Daniel laughing. Lizzie between them, bright and glowing.

And me.

Blurred in the background.

My stomach knotted.

Footsteps sounded behind me.

I looked up to find Jacob standing in the doorway. His expression was wrong. Not warm. Not steady. Something fractured lingered in his eyes.

The kind of fracture that came from holding something together too long

“Jacob?” I asked softly. “Are you okay?”

He let out a bitter laugh and dropped into the chair across from me. “I’ve been better.”

The space between us felt suddenly smaller. I caught the faint scent of his cologne, familiar and warm, threaded with the sharp edge of wine. His knee brushed the table as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, and I had the strange, unhelpful thought that I had never seen him look this unguarded before. Not with Lizzie. Not with anyone.

My fingers tightened around my glass. “Did you… ask her?”

He nodded, staring at the floor. “She said no. She’s leaving for Washington. Doesn’t want to be tied down.”

Five years, unspoken, sat heavy between us.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

He exhaled sharply. “Was I blind? Did everyone else see it coming?”

“No,” I said immediately. “You couldn’t have known.”

Silence stretched. I refilled my glass and held it out to him. He hesitated, then took it.

“You deserved better,” I whispered.

His gaze lifted, catching mine. “What you want and what you deserve don’t always line up.”

Then he studied me. Really looked at me.

“What about you, Leah?” he asked. “What do you want?”

My breath caught.

No one had ever asked me that.

I looked down at my hands, heat creeping into my cheeks. “I just want to be happy,” I said quietly. “To matter. To belong somewhere. And maybe to build a life where I wasn’t the only one swallowing their pain in silence.”

And for the first time that night, someone listened.

I didn’t know then that answering him would cost me everything I thought I understood about loyalty, love, and myself. I only knew that in that moment, sitting across from him in the quiet of the library, something had shifted — and there would be no way to put it back the way it was.

Not for him. Not for me. And certainly not in a family where love had always been conditional.