Chapter 1

Amara

The air in the Havenwood Town Hall meeting room smells like old paper, lemon-scented floor polish, and desperation. It’s a scent I’ve become intimately familiar with.

“If we cut the library’s hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we save four thousand, one hundred dollars by the end of the fiscal year,” George says, tapping a thick finger on the spreadsheet projected onto the wall. His voice is a gravelly rumble of reluctant pragmatism. He’s been on the town council since before I was born, and the lines on his face seem to deepen with every dollar we don’t have.

I rest my chin in my hand, a gesture I know makes me look thoughtful when I’m actually just trying to physically hold my head up. The weight of three hours of this debate is settling deep in my bones. “And in exchange for that four thousand dollars, George, we tell the seniors who use the library for heat and community on Tuesdays that they can just stay home. We tell the kids who go there for homework help after school that they can figure out algebra on their own.”

Martha, bless her perpetually anxious heart, wrings her hands. “Amara, no one wants that. But the numbers are the numbers. We’re bleeding.”

“We’re not bleeding, we have a cut that needs stitches,” I counter, keeping my tone even. Losing my cool is a luxury I can’t afford. It’s the first thing people expect, and the last thing I’ll ever give them. “There are other options.”

“Like what?” George challenges, crossing his arms. “We’ve trimmed every ounce of fat. We’re down to the bone.”

My phone buzzes on the table, a frantic text from Sal, our head of public works. Pipe on Main burst again. Near the bakery. Big one.

I don’t even flinch. I type back a quick reply under the table. Shut off the main valve for that block. Call Miller’s Hardware, tell them it’s an emergency order on the town’s credit. I’ll handle the paperwork.

I slide the phone away and look back at the council, not missing a beat. “It’s not about fat. It’s about creative solutions. We could start a ‘sponsor a book’ drive, a community fundraiser for the library. We can appeal to the county for a historical preservation grant based on the building’s age…”

“Appeals take months, Amara,” Martha frets. “We need a solution for next month’s payroll.”

The door creaks open and my daughter, Lily, peeks her head in. Her braids, which I meticulously plaited this morning, are already coming loose around her face. She’s holding up a drawing, her brown eyes wide and impossibly bright. Mrs. Gable from the clerk’s office, who doubles as Lily’s after-school minder in a pinch, gives me an apologetic shrug from behind her.

The tension in my shoulders eases an inch. Lily is my anchor, my true north in this sea of insolvency.

“Mommy,” she whispers loudly, because a seven-year-old’s whisper is a very specific, and very audible, frequency. “It’s a volcano. With a dinosaur escaping.”

I offer her a small, private smile that’s reserved only for her. “I see that, sweet pea. It’s a very dynamic scene. Give me ten more minutes, okay?”

She nods, satisfied, and disappears back into the hallway. The sight of her, the sheer, uncomplicated joy of her existence, refuels me.

I turn back to the council. My voice is harder now, the brief softness gone. “We are not cutting the library’s hours. We will find another way. We always do.” My tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the one I use when I’ve moved from debate to decree.

George sighs, but he nods. Martha looks relieved. The meeting is over.

As they file out, muttering about budgets and burst pipes, I stay seated for a moment, letting the silence wash over me. I tuck a stray braid that has escaped my bun back behind my ear. Ten more minutes. A hundred more crises. This is the job.

Back in my office, which is really just a glorified closet with a window overlooking the town’s slightly crooked flagpole, a crisp, cream-colored envelope sits squarely in the middle of my desk. It’s heavy, expensive-feeling paper. It doesn’t look like any of our usual bills. My stomach tightens. Good news never arrives in an envelope this nice.

My name and title are printed in sharp, unforgiving letters: Mayor Amara Paige, Havenwood Town Hall.

I slide my finger under the seal, my movements precise, controlled. Inside, a thick sheaf of papers, full of dense, legalistic jargon that I’m all too familiar with from law school. But I don’t need to read the fine print. The words at the top, in bold, red letters, are enough.

NOTICE OF INTENT TO FORECLOSE

The air evacuates my lungs in a single, silent gasp. It’s not a warning anymore. This is the main event. They’re coming for the town hall. For the historical records in the basement, for the portrait of the town’s founder that hangs in the lobby, for the very building where I am sitting, where Lily just showed me her dinosaur drawing.

My hands start to shake, just a little. I place them flat on the desk, forcing them still. My gaze darts around the room—the framed photo of Lily on my desk, smiling her gappy-toothed smile; the map of Havenwood on the wall, with all my handwritten notes and plans for a future that suddenly feels like a fantasy.

This isn’t just about payroll anymore. This is about erasure. And a cold, sharp fury cuts through the panic. Over my dead body.

The door opens again. It’s Martha, holding a brightly colored flyer. “Amara, I know the meeting was tense, but Sarah from the diner just brought this by, and I think… well, I think it might be something.”

I look at her, my face a mask of neutrality I’ve spent years perfecting. “What is it, Martha?”

She lays the flyer on my desk, right next to the foreclosure notice. The contrast is nauseating. The flyer is all candy-cane stripes and glittery snowflakes. “‘America’s Most Festive Town,’” she reads, her voice trembling with a desperate sort of hope. “It’s a reality TV competition. The grand prize… Amara, the grand prize is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

I stare at the glossy paper. At the smiling, generic family in matching Christmas sweaters. At the promise of a televised winter wonderland. And I feel a laugh, sharp and humorless, bubble up in my chest.

“So that’s the plan?” I ask, my voice dangerously soft. “We’re going to save Havenwood with tinsel and an inflatable Santa Claus?”

“It’s not just that!” she insists, tapping the paper. “It’s about community spirit, revitalization… It’s a national platform!”

“It’s a humiliation, Martha. It’s begging for scraps on national television. We are better than that.” I push the flyer back towards her. “No.”

“But what about…?” She gestures vaguely at the pile of bills, at the foreclosure notice I’ve subtly covered with another file.

“I will handle it,” I state, the words tasting like ash. “We are not pinning our hopes on a Christmas-themed reality show.”

She deflates, clutching the ridiculous flyer to her chest as she backs out of my office. I watch her go, the anger draining out of me, leaving behind a cold, heavy dread.

Later, in the blessedly normal chaos of my own kitchen, the foreclosure notice feels a million miles away. Lily is at the kitchen table, narrating her artistic process in a loud, cheerful monologue.

“And the lava has to be super red, Mom, because it’s super hot. And I need baking soda for the explosion. And vinegar. And maybe… glitter? For magma sparkles?”

I’m chopping vegetables for a stir-fry, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the knife on the cutting board a steadying beat in the whirlwind of my thoughts. Here, with Lily, I am not Mayor Paige, the woman holding a town together with sheer force of will. I am just Mommy. And Mommy can handle anything.

“Glitter is an excellent idea for magma sparkles,” I say, smiling at her. This is real. The smell of garlic and ginger hitting the hot pan, the sound of my daughter’s happy chatter, the weight of her small hand when she reaches for me. This is what I’m fighting for. This is what they will not take from me.

The phone rings, its shrill tone cutting through our peaceful bubble. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and answer, expecting it to be Sal with an update on the burst pipe.

“Amara Paige speaking.”

“Amara! Karlie Clark. I’m an executive producer on ‘America’s Most Festive Town.’” The voice is slick, fast, and oozing a kind of professional cheer that sets my teeth on edge.

I close my eyes. Of course. Martha went behind my back. “I believe someone from my council already spoke to you. We’re not interested, but thank you for thinking of us.” I try to keep the dismissal polite, but my patience is worn tissue-thin.

“Hold on, hold on! I think you’re going to want to hear this,” she says, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial register. “We’ve been following the narrative of Havenwood. The little town that could, fighting the good fight. It’s great TV. But you know what’s even better TV?”

I say nothing, just listen to the sizzle of the stir-fry.

“Rivalry,” she breathes, as if it’s a sacred word. “And we’ve been looking at your neighbor, Silver Creek. The picture of affluence. The perfect antagonist for your story. We want to offer a joint application.”

I almost laugh. “A joint application? Silver Creek doesn’t need prize money. Their mayor probably uses hundred-dollar bills as bookmarks.” The image of Harvey Sterling flashes in my mind—his perfectly tailored suit, his infuriatingly charming smile, the condescending op-ed he wrote last year about the "charming inefficiency" of small towns like mine.

“Exactly! That’s the drama!” Karlie chirps, completely missing my point. “The rich town and the struggling town, forced to work together. And we have an idea to really seal the deal, something that would guarantee you’d be the season premiere. A symbol of your two towns coming together in the holiday spirit.”

A cold dread begins to creep up my spine. This sounds worse than an inflatable Santa.

“We want you and Mayor Sterling to have a wedding,” she says, the words so absurd they don’t immediately register. “On-air. A holiday-themed ceremony. A mayoral marriage to unite your communities. It’s ratings gold, Amara. Gold.”

I stand in my warm, safe kitchen, listening to this woman from a world away propose the most insane, insulting, and ludicrous idea I have ever heard. She wants me to sell my dignity, to marry my rival, to turn my life and my town’s struggle into a primetime spectacle.

The knife is still in my hand. I stare at it. I think of the foreclosure notice. I think of Lily’s volcano. I think of Harvey Sterling’s smug, handsome face.

My voice, when I finally find it, is ice.

“Absolutely not.”