1789

You nearly spat out your tea all over the parlor rug when you heard the news—your father, Thomas Jefferson, was finally returning home after five long years serving as ambassador to France.

Monticello hadn’t been the same without him, and neither had you. He’d left when you were barely more than a child, and now you were practically grown.

You were overjoyed, practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of seeing him again. Last he saw you, you were just a little girl, and now here you were, all grown up—well, mostly.

The second he stepped through the door, you launched yourself at him like a cannonball. Thomas barely had a chance to drop his bags before you wrapped your arms around him. He laughed, ruffling your hair like he used to, his voice tinged with guilt and fondness for all the years he’d missed.

You chatted with him in the drawing room, trying to soak up every second—until another carriage pulled up.

Maria Cosway. Introduced sweetly as your father’s “fiancée.”

You took one look at her polished smile and ridiculous bonnet and knew.

She looked at you with that perfect, painted smile—but you could tell. She didn’t like you. Not one bit.

Because of course, when you’re the daughter who’s been waiting years for her father, the new fiancée is always the one who wants you gone.