1789

Being Alexander Hamilton’s daughter was already a nightmare, but getting married off to his political rival? That was next-level cruel.

You spent the hours leading up to the ceremony sobbing like your life depended on it. By the time it was over, your cheeks were streaked with dried tears, and your mascara looked like it had lost a fight. But could anyone blame you? You were nineteen. And the man you were marrying—Thomas Jefferson—was nearly fifty. FIFTY.

All for your father’s political gain.

It was revolting.

Monticello was… well, admittedly stunning. As you stepped into the grand foyer, you couldn’t help but take in the ridiculous wealth on display—velvet wallpaper, smooth tiling, extravagant chandeliers. The place practically screamed old money. Did it make you hate the situation any less? …Maybe just a little.

It didn’t take a genius to see that Jefferson was completely on your father’s side about this marriage. Oh sure, he acted polite, but you knew the truth—this was just another political move for him. A way to settle their so-called rivalry.

From your spot inside, you could see your father and Jefferson talking outside on the patio. You tried to eavesdrop, but all you got were muffled voices and the occasional chuckle ( which, honestly, made you more irritated ). Then, just as you were about to give up, Jefferson finally stepped inside, leaving the two of you alone.

Great. Just what you wanted.