Chapter 1 (Part 2)

Camp was ending. We had only a few days left before everything dissolved into goodbyes and boxes and highways. I was headed back across the country to finish college. He was supposed to go home.

We were sitting in the clearing, the grass pressed flat beneath us, talking about what came next when he looked at me and said, “I don’t want this to end.”

I said, “Me neither.”

And then—casually, bravely—he asked, “Could I come with you?”

There was something reckless in his voice, something honest. He said he wanted to see where this could go. He didn’t want us to end when the camp season did. And deep down, neither did I.

So I said yes.

Later that night, I lay in my bunk and thought about what came next. Not just the logistics, but the impact. Him leaving his family 1,500 miles away. How my roommates would feel. What my parents would say. What he would do while I was in class every day.

He said he’d find work if it turned into a long-term thing. I nodded, and pretended that made me feel better.

I didn’t ask too many questions. I didn’t want to poke holes in something that felt like a dream. I told myself it would work itself out.

I wanted this to be easy. Romantic. Meant to be.

He didn’t tell his mom. Not really. Just that he was leaving, that he needed to figure some things out. I didn’t exactly tell my parents either—just that I was going back and he might visit.

I did ask my roommates, casually, if it would be okay if he stayed with us for a while.

And then, just like that, camp ended.

He threw his bag in my car like he belonged there. Like this had always been the plan. No ceremony. No roadmap.

We left.

Living together started out like something out of a movie. We ate late-night snacks on the floor, binged shows under mismatched blankets, and kissed until we forgot what day it was. I loved having him there. It felt spontaneous and sweet and full of potential.

He got a job—but it never paid quite enough. Never had enough hours. It was always temporary, always not quite stable.

But we managed. Barely. We lived week-to-week. He said he was trying.

And I was trying too—to hold it all up, to keep the fridge filled and money for nights out like college kids do. But back then, I didn’t realize how much I was quietly carrying. I just thought: this is love, right? This is what building a life looks like.

Sometimes, when things got hard, I’d think back to that clearing. The hush of the trees. The way his hand found mine was like a secret. The way he’d looked at me like I was a new chapter he couldn’t wait to read.

That memory became a place I went back to. A touchstone. A soft light.

Even when reality began to unravel around the edges.

He went home for Thanksgiving. No idea when he would be back. I went home for Thanksgiving and then back to college, juggling exams and a growing knot in my stomach. He still didn’t have plans to return.

Christmas came. His brother stepped in and bought him a plane ticket as a gift.

When he walked through the door, snow-dusted and tired, he hugged me like I was breath itself. He said he never wanted to be that far from me again.

And I believed him.

But something had shifted.

Tension started to build—between us, around us. We argued. I felt pressure from my parents. From the version of myself, I was starting to lose track of.

So I made a choice.

I quit school. We packed up what little we had and moved 1,500 miles to where his family lived.

It felt bold. Romantic. Like the kind of thing people write songs about. Like something you do for love.

At first, it was just temporary—we lived with his mom. Then we got our own place.

And that’s when the inheritance came into play.

It had been sitting untouched, meant for something meaningful. And this felt like that. Like the start of a forever. A shared dream.

So I used it.

Rent, furniture, groceries, bills—piece by piece, it went into the life we were building. He still had work, but it was never enough. It didn’t cover what we needed. But I wanted to believe that one day, it would.

I told myself I was investing in us.

I saw us as a team. I pictured a ring. A wedding. Children. A house with a yard and late-night dance parties in the kitchen. I thought this was the middle of the story—where the struggle was part of the climb, where it would all eventually pay off.

I loved him. That much was true.

And I wanted so badly for love to be enough.

What I didn’t realize was that I’d become the one holding everything up. Quietly. Consistently. Willingly.

He wasn’t asking me to—but he wasn’t stopping me, either.

He let me make it easy. He let me believe that I had to.

And over time, it stopped being a choice and started being a pattern.

Looking back, I can see it now: that urge to keep the peace, to hold things together, to never rock the boat. I thought it was love. I thought it was loyalty.

But maybe it was just me… trying to prove I was enough for both of us.

I wish I could go back and tell that younger version of myself: it’s okay to want love, but not at the expense of your peace. Not at the expense of your future. You don’t have to carry it all to keep someone. And if you do, they were never yours to begin with.

He didn’t build with me. He simply stood beside me while I built around him. And when it was no longer easy, he walked away, leaving behind a mess I had already cleaned up too many times before.

But even in all of that, I learned. I grew. And I am still standing—wiser, stronger, and far more careful about what it truly means to build a life together.

Chapter 1 (Part 1)

 It didn’t feel ordinary. I was a junior in college when a friend encouraged me to be a camp counselor. Eager for adventure, I applied everywhere I could think of. That summer, I landed at a small nature camp in Wisconsin—1,300 miles from home.

I arrived later than everyone else, missing the early bonding activities because of my brother’s graduation. Driving solo across four states to get there before the rest of the group, I felt both excitement and apprehension. Walking into a close-knit group that had already spent a week together was intimidating—especially for someone as naturally reserved as I was.

I knew summer romances were common at camp. A friend had warned me that counselors often found themselves drawn together in the unique bubble of camp life. When you spend an entire summer in close quarters, sharing experiences and making memories, it’s almost inevitable that connections will form.

At the time, he lacked direction. His uncle, hoping to push him toward something meaningful, encouraged him to take the camp job for the summer. The owner was a family friend, and it seemed like an easy escape. For me, it was different. I was chasing adventure.

That decision changed everything. I stepped into a world of towering trees, endless lakes, and a newfound sense of independence. Campfires, late-night talks under the stars, and children's laughter—it was a place where anything felt possible.

I noticed him right away. He was the first to say hello, to ask my name and where I was from. And in that simple moment, our story began. He wasn’t quiet. If anything, he was the opposite of me—loud, outspoken, always quick with a joke or an opinion. He was a charmer, the kind of person everyone gravitated toward. People liked him instantly—campers, counselors, even the camp director. He could make anyone laugh, fill any silence, and somehow always knew the right thing to say. He was from a big city—Chicago—while I was from rural Idaho. Our lives had been completely different, yet somehow, our paths converged.

It didn’t take long for our group to form—a tight-knit circle of counselors who spent nearly every free moment together, hiking, swimming, and sneaking extra marshmallows from the campfire stash. Many of us paired off naturally, summer romances unfolding under the glow of firelight and the hum of cicadas. But there was another girl who was interested in him, and everyone knew it.

I wasn’t the type to fight for someone’s attention—I never had been. But he seemed to only have eyes for me.

The camp itself was its own little world, tucked away in the forests of northern Wisconsin. It sat right on the edge of a vast, glassy lake, where we spent afternoons canoeing beneath the open sky. Days were filled with archery, hiking, and the clang of the mess hall bell calling us to meals. Evenings brought the glow of campfires, the laughter of skits, and the quiet reflection of vespers under a sky bursting with stars. The first session welcomed campers who had never been there before, wide-eyed and eager for adventure. Then came the longer sessions—three weeks each—reserved for returning campers who knew the songs, the trails, and the traditions by heart.

Time moved differently here. Without cell phones or the internet, the outside world faded, leaving only the present—the sounds of loons calling across the lake at dusk, the smoky scent of burning wood, and the hum of cicadas in the thick summer air. The camp had its own rhythm: early mornings when the bell clanged through the trees, waking us before the sun had fully risen, and late nights when embers from the fire burned low, long after the last ghost story had been told. It was a place where anything seemed possible.

Was it fate? Coincidence? Or is it just the inevitable pull of camp life? At first, I wasn’t sure what drew me to him. Was it his quiet confidence, the way he carried himself despite not knowing his path? His kindness, the way he made me feel noticed in a place where I was a stranger? Or was it simply the magic of that summer—the way time seemed to stand still?

Looking back, I wonder—were there moments I should have questioned? Subtle signs I ignored because I wanted to believe in something beautiful. Would I have made the same choice if I had known how it would all unfold?

This is where our story began. And as I reflect on those early days, I see how that beginning shaped everything that followed.

Introduction (Part 3)

 Betrayal isn’t just a moment—it’s an unraveling. It’s the slow, excruciating realization that the person you trusted most has been living a double life, making decisions that fracture your reality. At the same time, you scramble to piece it all together.

I am telling this story because I lived this unraveling, and I know how isolating, confusing, and devastating it can be. But I also know that telling the truth—wholly, unapologetically, and without sugarcoating—is the first step toward reclaiming power.

There is something profoundly necessary about putting this experience into words and writing forces me to confront everything—the lies, the gaslighting, and the slow erosion of trust that I didn’t even see happening then. But more than that, it allows me to take control of the narrative. I refuse to let betrayal be the final chapter of my story. By writing it down, I am no longer just surviving it—I am documenting it, understanding it, and owning it.

This is my way of releasing what was done to me and transforming it into something that belongs to me. Betrayal tried to break me, but I was still standing. And in telling my story, I am proving to myself that I was never the weak one—he was.

Betrayal doesn’t just happen to the naive, the unlovable, or the foolish—it happens to strong, intelligent, loving people who gave their hearts in good faith. It happens in marriages that look solid, in relationships with no apparent signs, and to people who never thought they’d be “the one” whose life would be ripped apart.

I’m writing this because someone out there is still in that fog, still questioning themselves, wondering how they missed it or why they weren’t enough to stop it. And I need them to know: It wasn’t you. It was never you.

The shame of betrayal doesn’t belong to the betrayed but to the betrayer. And the more we talk about it, the more we strip away the power of silence, guilt, and self-doubt.

Betrayal isn’t just an affair. It’s lies, manipulation, rewriting history, and gaslighting. It’s watching someone you once loved morph into a stranger who won’t even acknowledge the damage they’ve done. I want to expose all of it—the tactics, the excuses, the way betrayal ripples out and destroys more than just a relationship.

But this isn’t just a story about heartbreak. It’s also a story about survival, clarity, and rising from the wreckage with more strength than before.

Introduction (Part 2)

 For 18 years, our marriage was built on what I believed to be love, trust, and partnership. Together, we raised two incredible daughters, now in high school, navigating the ups and downs of life as a family. We shared dreams, built a home, and created a life that, on the surface, seemed stable and secure.

But beneath that facade, a hidden truth lurked. For four years, he carried on a secret affair, going to great lengths to conceal it—lies, deception, calculated efforts to maintain the illusion of fidelity. The betrayal wasn’t just in the infidelity but in the years of manipulation, the stolen time, and the choices made in the shadows. At the same time, I unknowingly held onto a marriage that no longer truly existed.

Ironically, we had been trying to reconnect in the months leading up to the truth. I had sensed the emotional distance and the strain, and I believed we were working to rebuild what had been slipping away. I fought for our marriage, unaware that I was fighting alone, that his heart had already left long before I ever knew. The discovery was not just painful—it was cruel in its timing, a realization that he had already let go while I was reaching for him.

Then, as the dust settled from the betrayal, he abandoned us completely. There was no effort to mend what was broken, no genuine remorse—just a swift exit, leaving me and our daughters to face the wreckage alone. As I struggled to comprehend the loss of my partner, my daughters were forced to grapple with their grief. The father they had known and trusted was suddenly a stranger, quickly moving on with another woman while they were still mourning the loss of their family’s security. Their pain was palpable; their world turned upside down overnight, and they were forced to accept a new woman in his life before they had even processed the devastation he had left behind.

But in that darkness, we found our light. It became the three of us—standing together, holding each other up, and learning how to rebuild from the ground up. I refused to let this betrayal define us. Instead, I became the steady presence my daughters needed, showing them that we could rise even in the face of unimaginable heartbreak. Together, we created a new life filled with laughter, love, and the understanding that our strength did not come from what we lost but from what we built in its place.

There were difficult days, moments of doubt, and waves of pain that came without warning. But through it all, we discovered something powerful: resilience. We leaned on each other, grew together, and redefined what family meant. This was not just the end of a marriage but the beginning of something new—a life in which we were not victims of betrayal but survivors who chose healing, strength, and love above all else.

And in the end, we didn’t just survive—we thrived.

Introduction (Part 1)

As night fell, the house embraced a comforting silence. With my phone softly glowing beside me, I cherished the tranquility that had begun to weave back into our lives. Lately, things between us felt brighter—filled with more laughter and those precious moments we stole just for ourselves. After all these years together, it seems like we’re rediscovering each other, gently healing the little cracks that life had etched into our marriage.

That night, I wasn’t checking my email out of suspicion. I wasn’t searching for answers or preparing for another disappointment. I was simply winding down after a good day, one of many we’d had recently. But there it was—an email in my very public work email. No subject line. That unfamiliar sender.

I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. A flicker of unease broke through my contentment, and I opened it.

The image stopped me cold. Him. My husband. The man I had spent almost two decades building a life with. In a bathtub. Standing just outside of it was an unknown woman. I didn’t need to ask who she was; I already knew.

Her smirk burned into me as I stared at the photo, unable to look away. It wasn’t just a picture. It was a message—a deliberate, calculated message. She wanted me to see them like this. She wanted me to feel it. “Do you believe me now?” the photo seemed to say. The intimacy of the image wasn’t just a betrayal; it was a weapon deliberately chosen and fired straight at me.

At that moment, every inch of progress we had made, every fragile piece of trust I had started to rebuild, came crashing down. The pain wasn’t just sharp—it was shattering. This wasn’t just betrayal. It was cruelty.

The weight of it settled over me like a fog, but it wasn’t confusion—I knew exactly what was happening. This wasn’t just about him. It was about her, too. She had already found ways to worm herself into my life, sending these anonymous emails to my work account and mailing an unsigned card that claimed they’d been having a 4-year affair. I’d questioned him, of course. But, he had brushed the emails off as spam. The card as lies. But this photo? It wasn’t something I could deny.

The life I thought we were rebuilding had been a mirage. And now, all I could feel was the ground shifting beneath me, pulling me down into a truth I wasn’t ready to face.

Review: Revenge and the Wild by Michelle Modesto

Title: Revenge and the Wild

Author: Michelle Modesto

Series: Stand Alone

Published: February 2nd 2016 by Balzer + Bray

ISBN: 9780062366153

Source: Publisher via Edelweiss

Description: The two-bit town of Rogue City is a lawless place, full of dark magic and saloon brawls, monsters and six-shooters. But it’s perfect for seventeen-year-old Westie, the notorious adopted daughter of local inventor Nigel Butler.  Westie was only a child when she lost her arm and her family to cannibals on the wagon trail. Nine years later, Westie may seem fearsome with her foul-mouthed tough exterior and the powerful mechanical arm built for her by Nigel, but the memory of her past still haunts her. She’s determined to make the killers pay for their crimes—and there’s nothing to stop her except her own reckless ways.  But Westie’s search ceases when a wealthy family comes to town looking to invest in Nigel’s latest invention, a machine that can harvest magic from gold—which Rogue City desperately needs as the magic wards that surround the city start to fail. There’s only one problem: the investors look exactly like the family who murdered Westie’s kin. With the help of Nigel’s handsome but scarred young assistant, Alistair, Westie sets out to prove their guilt. But if she’s not careful, her desire for revenge could cost her the family she has now.

I GIVE THIS ...

This is probably the fastest I've finished a book in awhile. It kept me up at night, messed with my brain in the form of some crazy dreams, and finished with a bang!

I'm still not sure I'm crazy about Westie. She's a little to head strong for me. But, I have to admire her shear determination to get her revenge on the family that killed hers. And lets all admit, this was no ordinary murder. I don't think I've ever read a book based around cannibalism! And this was not glossed over in an way. That's were it really messed with me. 

The setting was a little bit much for me. It was hard for me to get a real handle on this western world that was full of steampunk, magic, and every mythical creature imaginable. It made for some interesting twists to the story though, because the story would not have been the same without most of these elements!

I really loved the secondary characters. Nigel was the perfect father figure and he tried really hard not to put up with Westie's bullshit. I loved Alistair. I knew exactly were the story was going with him, but I enjoyed the build up immensely. But honestly, my favorite was James. He character literally blew me away.

I highly recommend this if you are looking for something totally different!

America's First Daughter Feature Tour!

EXCERPT:

 It was my haste that made me stumble halfway down the stairs. Only a wild, wrenching grasp at the carved wooden rail saved me from a broken neck. Alas, the heavy fall of my feet echoed up the staircase and drew my father from his rooms.

 “Patsy?” he called, peering over the bannister.

 I froze, breathless, my belly roiling with shock and anger and revulsion. I ought to have pretended that I didn’t hear him say my name. I ought to have hurried on, leaving him with only the sight of my back. I ought never to have looked up at him over my shoulder.

 But I did look up.

 There on the landing my father loomed tall, a tendril of his ginger hair having come loose from its ribbon, his shirt worn without its neck cloth, the stark white linen setting off more vividly the red flush that crept up his throat. Was it shame for his behavior with Sally or . . . ardor?

 On the heels of giving witness to his behavior, the thought was so excruciatingly horrifying that heat swept over me, leaving me to wish I’d burn away to dust.

 “Are you hurt?” Papa asked, hoarsely.

 I couldn’t reply, my mouth too filled with the bitter taste of bile. Finally, I forced a shake of my head.

He glanced back to the door, then back at me, his hand half-covering his mouth. “Were—were you at my door just now?”

“No,” I whispered, as much as I could manage under my suffocating breathlessness. And how dare he ask if I’d been at his door when neither of us could bear the honest answer? Even if Papa didn’t know what I’d seen, he knew what he’d done.

 He ought to have been downstairs with us, reacquainting himself with the little daughter who still didn’t remember him. He ought to have been sipping cider with the young man who fancied me, giving his permission to court. He ought to have been doing a hundred other things. Instead, he was preying upon my dead mother’s enslaved half-sister—and the wrongness of it filled my voice with a defiant rage.

 “No, I wasn’t at your door.” I held his gaze, letting him see what he would.

 My father paused on the precipice, clearing his throat, absently smearing the corner of his lips with one thumb. “Well—well. . .did you need something?” As if my needs were at the forefront of his thoughts.

 My fingers curled into fists as a lie came to me suddenly, and sullenly. “I was coming up to fetch my prayer book.” Surely he knew it was a lie, but I didn’t care. If he challenged me, I’d lie again, without even the decency of dropping my eyes. I’d lie because between a father and a daughter, what I’d witnessed was unspeakable. And I’d learned from the man who responded with silence to my letters about politics or adultery or the liberation of slaves. . . .

 Papa never spoke on any subject he didn’t want to.

 Neither would I.

 “Are you certain you weren’t hurt,” Papa finally murmured, “ . . . on the stairs?”

 Rage burned inside me so hotly I thought it possible that my handprint might be seared upon the railing. I bobbed my head, grasped my skirt, and took two steps down before my father called to me again.

“Patsy?”

 I couldn’t face him, so I merely stopped, my chest heaving with the effort to restrain myself from taking flight. “What?”

 A heavy silence descended. One filled with pregnant emotion. I feared he might be so unwise as to attempt to explain himself, to justify or confess his villainous lapse in judgment, but when he finally spoke, it was only to ask, “What of your prayer book?”

 Swallowing hard, I forced words out despite the pain. “I’ve reconsidered my need of it. I’m not as apt as some people to forget what it says.”

 


Stephanie Dray and Laura Kamoie’s AMERICA’S FIRST DAUGHTER Blog Tour Schedule:

February 29^th

What Is That Book About – Guest Post

Only One More Page – Review

A Fortress of Books – Excerpt

For the Love of Books & Alcohol – Review

March 1^st

My Girlfriends Nook Korner – Review

Talking Books Blog – Excerpt

Smexy & Fabulous – Excerpt

Ramblings From This Chick – Excerpt

March 2^nd

Maari Loves Her Indies – Excerpt

This Wacky Momma Reads – Review

Roxy's Reviews – Excerpt

Brooke Blogs – Excerpt

March 3^rd

A Diary of a Book Addict – Review

E-Reading After Midnight – Guest Post

Small Review – Guest Post

March 4^th

Sassy Moms Say Read Romance – 2 Reviews

Leeanna.me – Review

Creative Madness Mama – Excerpt

March 5^th

A Dream Within A Dream – Guest Post

Chick with Books – Review

Vagabonda Reads – Review

March 6^th

Mama Reads Hazel Sleeps – Review

Movies, Shows & Books – Excerpt

Eclectic Ramblings of Author Heather Osborne – Review

I Read Indie – Excerpt

March 7^th

No BS Book Reviews – Interview

My fictional escape – Review

Words with Sarah – Review

March 8^th

The Maiden's Court – Review

Unabridged Chick – Review

The Book Cellar – Interview

Becky on Books – Review

March 9^th

Sofia Loves Books – Review

A Soccer Mom's Book Blog – Review

One Book At A Time – Review

Curling Up by the Fire – Review

March 10^th

A Bookish Affair - Interview

Curled Up and Cozy – Review

Into the Hall of Books – Review

Margie's Must Reads – Review

March 11^th

Book Talk – Review

JB's Book Obsession – Excerpt

Genre Queen – Review

Leigh Anderson Romance - Interview

About AMERICA’S FIRST DAUGHTER:
In a compelling, richly researched novel that draws from thousands of letters and original sources, bestselling authors Stephanie Dray and Laura Kamoie tell the fascinating, untold story of Thomas Jefferson’s eldest daughter, Martha “Patsy” Jefferson Randolph—a woman who kept the secrets of our most enigmatic founding father and shaped an American legacy.
 
From her earliest days, Patsy Jefferson knows that though her father loves his family dearly, his devotion to his country runs deeper still. As Thomas Jefferson’s oldest daughter, she becomes his helpmate, protector, and constant companion in the wake of her mother’s death, traveling with him when he becomes American minister to France.
 
It is in Paris, at the glittering court and among the first tumultuous days of revolution, that fifteen-year-old Patsy learns about her father’s troubling liaison with Sally Hemings, a slave girl her own age. Meanwhile, Patsy has fallen in love—with her father’s protégé William Short, a staunch abolitionist and ambitious diplomat. Torn between love, principles, and the bonds of family, Patsy questions whether she can choose a life as William’s wife and still be a devoted daughter.
Her choice will follow her in the years to come, to Virginia farmland, Monticello, and even the White House. And as scandal, tragedy, and poverty threaten her family, Patsy must decide how much she will sacrifice to protect her father's reputation, in the process defining not just his political legacy, but that of the nation he founded.
 
Buy Links:

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1oT6IZw
Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/1oT6Hon
iBooks: http://apple.co/1Kz82KS
Kobo: http://bit.ly/1Q19xyl

Add it to your Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25817162-america-s-first-daughter

About Stephanie Dray: 

STEPHANIE DRAY is an award-winning, bestselling and two-time RITA award nominated author of historical women’s fiction. Her critically acclaimed series about Cleopatra’s daughter has been translated into eight different languages and won NJRW's Golden Leaf. As Stephanie Draven, she is a national bestselling author of genre fiction and American-set historical women's fiction. She is a frequent panelist and presenter at national writing conventions and lives near the nation's capital. Before she became a novelist, she was a lawyer, a game designer, and a teacher. Now she uses the stories of women in history to inspire the young women of today.

 

 

 

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About Laura Kamoie:
 
Laura Kamoie has always been fascinated by the people, stories, and physical presence of the past, which led her to a lifetime of historical and archaeological study and training. She holds a doctoral degree in early American history from The College of William and Mary, published two non-fiction books on early America, and most recently held the position of Associate Professor of History at the U.S. Naval Academy before transitioning to a full-time career writing genre fiction as the New York Times bestselling author of over twenty books, Laura Kaye. Her debut historical novel, America's First Daughter, co-authored with Stephanie Dray, allowed her the exciting opportunity to combine her love of history with her passion for storytelling. Laura lives among the colonial charm of Annapolis, Maryland with her husband and two daughters.

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