Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Galeana
Eighteen months later . . .
My childhood was . . . different.
Mom was always busy with work. Back then, I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t volunteer at school like the other mothers. Why she couldn’t chaperone field trips or show up with a plate of homemade cookies at bake sales. But at least I wasn’t the only one with just one busy parent. I tried my best to understand our circumstances, to be supportive, to be the obedient child. I was Galeana Adele Monroe , the textbook definition of “the good daughter.” Smile, nod, do your best. Repeat.
But kids have imaginations that refuse to stay tethered to reality. After watching The Princess Diaries , a tiny, ridiculous part of me started waiting for a grandmother to appear out of nowhere, pearls gleaming as she declared my father was the king of some tiny, exotic country, and I was the future princess . The works. Cue the tiara and the royal wave lessons.
And then there was that other movie where the girl turns out to be the princess of England . . . I can’t recall the name, but it was cute. Dramatic, but endearing in a way that I cry every time I watch it.
The point is, deep down, I waited for someone to drop out of the clouds, hand me a jewel-encrusted scepter, and say, Galeana Monroe, your real name is Princess Galeana Whitmore. Here’s your crown and all the applause that comes with it.
It was a silly dream, sure. But tell me that wouldn’t have been amazing.
By twenty-three, though, reality and I had struck a truce. The dream was officially retired, boxed up alongside my childhood diaries and overly sparkly tiaras from Halloween costumes past.
Fast-forward to two months ago—just shy of my thirty-second birthday. Fine, it wasn’t exactly my birthday, but close enough. I was in my tiny apartment, mid-laundry-fold, when someone knocked on the door. A man stood there, briefcase in hand, wearing the kind of suit that screamed legal trouble. He wasn’t even trying to look friendly—just somber, like he’d been sent to deliver bad news or a jury summons.
Turns out, he’d been searching for my mother. She’d been gone for three years, cancer taking her in a swift, merciless sweep that left no time for proper goodbyes. Even now, the memory still cuts like glass.
“Well,” Mr. Grayson said, clearing his throat, “since your mother has passed, her next of kin has been identified.” He paused for dramatic effect, but I was too stunned to even blink. That next of kin? Me.
Then came the kicker. Mom’s name wasn’t Helen Monroe. Not even close. It was Ellen Doherty. And Ellen Doherty wasn’t just anyone. She was the daughter of the Dante Doherty, founder of Maple Haven by Doherty. You know, the maple syrup and confectionery empire that practically turned the Northeast into a sugar-drenched legend.
So, in case the math wasn’t clear: I, Galeana Adele Monroe—full-time college teacher, part-time dreamer—was now the heir to Maple Haven. Owner of it all. Every sugar-coated piece of it.
Like any other person who hears the words inheritance, empire, and the like, I quit my job, packed up my life, and moved to Birchwood Springs. I wanted a clean slate, a chance to start over, a new life, new people, new everything .
Except, it wasn’t like the movies where a long-lost inheritance swoops in, solves all your problems, and comes with a castle. No. Life, with its twisted sense of humor, handed me a hot mess of legal battles, family drama, and a town full of skeptics who seemed determined to test my last nerve. It didn’t take long to realize the “empire” I’d inherited wasn’t just short of glamorous—it was teetering on the edge of collapse.
To top it off, the lawyer failed to mention one glaringly crucial detail: I wasn’t the only contender for this inheritance.
“Oh yeah,” Delilah, my new best friend-slash-local-history-encyclopedia, said with a knowing snort over coffee at her bakery-slash-café, The Honey Drop. “There are contenders. Plural. And some of them aren’t too thrilled about you waltzing in like you’ve already won.”
I almost dropped my mug. “What do you mean contenders?”
“What? You thought they’d just hand over Maple Haven on a silver platter?” Delilah reached for the coffee pot, topping off my cup. “That’s not how things work in Birchwood Springs, honey. You’re not the only heir. You’ve got cousins—and one particularly nasty one—gunning for that syrupy empire of yours.”
I blinked. Cousins?
“Your mother’s nephew. Well, half-nephew. He’s been sniffing around this town for years, trying to figure out how to get his sticky fingers on your grandfather’s money.” She smirked. “Figuratively, of course. He’s more of a tailored suit, big-city business type than someone who’d actually work the maple farms.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me this before I quit my job and moved here?” I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. If I had a sinking feeling I was walking into the sequel of a family feud I wouldn’t have packed my things and moved here.
The will’s pretty clear. Mom would inherit everything. But . . . she had to be married to someone to get her inheritance. Her father was pretty controlling when it came to his only daughter. Hence why she escaped and never looked back. At least that’s what Delilah’s mom—Mom’s former bestie—said.
Now I’m the one who has to get married. It’s this archaic, ridiculous stipulation Dante Doherty wrote in. Something about ensuring stability or, I don’t know, family values. That’s the wording. The truth is that he was a misogynistic asshole who wouldn’t want a woman in charge of his business—the scandal.
So here I am, trying to figure out when this cousin—Evan or Emmet or . . . God, I don’t even remember his name—is going to roll into town and make a move to take all of this away from me.
And worse? It’s not like “available suitors” are lining up to marry the girl who just arrived with half the ownership of Birchwood Springs. The same girl who still doesn’t even know what half the town does for a living or why everyone whispers the minute she enters or leaves a room.
This would’ve been solved if eighteen months ago I hadn’t done something stupid and leave the hotel without finding out who my roommate was—or Chase hadn’t left me at the altar for . . . I don’t even want to think about him.
If I had stayed in the honeymoon suite . . . I mean. I would’ve known the name and number of that hot guy with the filthy mouth and let him talk me into one of his ridiculous dares. Hell, maybe he’d even agreed to marry me just for the inheritance. A mutually beneficial arrangement, of course. No strings, no drama—just a contract, a ring, and a chance to finally figure out if he was as much action as he was talk.
The thought lingers longer than it should, and I can practically hear his low, dirty voice teasing me about needing a husband to save my ass—or have my ass. The smirk that would come with it. The way his eyes would dip, like he already knew exactly how he’d convince me to say yes.
I shake my head, the heat creeping into my cheeks more from irritation than anything else. This is exactly why I decided to leave the honeymoon suite and let the hotel relocate me to Tuscany—the vacation of my choice. It was safer. Too many hours with hot guy and I might’ve actually considered his dare to “let him suck me dry.” Or even have seven days of uninterrupted sex.
But you know what’s safe?
Tuscany. Where the closest thing to temptation would be a vineyard tour and too much wine. But maybe—just maybe—I should’ve taken his number before I left. For insurance purposes, obviously. Who knew I would’ve needed it now?
I sigh as I glance out the window of my grandfather’s mansion. The grounds stretch out like something from a magazine—lush green lawns, trimmed hedges, and a winding driveway that leads to the quiet streets of Birchwood Springs. Beyond that, the town square sits, a perfect blend of charm and nostalgia. It’s not the Amalfi Coast, but it has its own appeal. The kind that feels just shy of familiar.
The mansion itself is . . . a lot. Stone walls, grand windows, and ivy creeping up one side like it’s been here forever. Inside, everything feels impossibly polished—the kind of place that shows elegance and wealth with every corner you turn. Crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains, and rooms so large they make your voice echo if you say more than a few words. It’s beautiful, almost intimidating, but I can already see myself here.
I’m not giving up. Not yet.
Birchwood Springs can try to chew me up and spit me out, but I survived four years at an all-girls Catholic high school. And let me tell you, teenage girls are cold-blooded assassins in plaid skirts. You think small-town politics are cutthroat? Try surviving a lunch table where one wrong comment can exile you to the library for the rest of the year.
I survived that, and I’ll survive this. Birchwood Springs can throw its secrets, its whispers, and its smug cousins at me, and I’ll still be standing when it’s all over.
This is mine now. All of it. And no one’s going to take it away.