"You think I'll just let him buy me?"
Savannah's voice cut through the silence like a blade as she burst out of Rhett Callahan's office tower, her fury boiling over in the cold. The wind slapped her cheeks, sharp and punishing, but it wasn't the weather that made her tremble. It was shame. Anger. The sick knot of defeat coiled beneath her ribs. Her coat hung open, the buttons flapping as she stormed across the marble plaza, her heels clacking with every sharp step like the snapping teeth of war.
The contract was still clutched in her hand creased, damp, and shaking.
People turned to stare. Suits, tourists, a man with a dog none brave enough to approach her, but their eyes followed her like spotlights, catching every unraveling thread.
She didn't care.
She didn't stop until she reached the corner, where the sidewalk met a row of boutique windows flaunting mannequins in silk and diamonds. Dresses she once wore. Designers who once called her by name. Now, they mocked her hollow plastic necks strung with pearls, lips painted in colors more permanent than her fortune.
She leaned against the brick wall beside a storefront, her breath ragged. Her fingers, red from the cold, tightened around the document.
And then they gave out.
The contract slipped from her hand and fluttered into the gutter like a wounded bird.
She didn't chase it.
"Savannah?"
The voice came soft but sure low and unmistakably alive. Like heat slipping under a locked door.
Savannah turned, and her breath caught.
Celeste Arden stood a few feet away, arms crossed over a black trench coat, dark braids slicked back into a bun that framed her cheekbones like sculpture. Her boots clicked once as she stepped closer, eyes narrowed in a mix of concern and sarcasm.
"What the hell are you doing out here like a broken trophy?"
Savannah tried to speak, to smile maybe, but all she could muster was a whisper. "Just needed air."
Celeste followed her gaze to the paper lying in the wet street. She arched a brow, stepping forward and plucking it up between two fingers like it was toxic.
"Don't tell me Rhett Callahan handed you this."
Savannah hesitated, swallowing back the bile in her throat. "He offered me a deal. Marriage. My debt… for his reputation."
Celeste blinked once. Then again.
"Marriage?" she echoed. "Like… tuxedos and signature cocktails and a first dance?"
"More like contracts and handshakes and photo ops," Savannah muttered. "He wants a wife. A silent, well-dressed wife who looks good on Forbes covers."
Celeste shook the wet contract gently, watching the ink bleed. "Jesus, Sav. This looks like a curse you'd summon in Latin."
Savannah laughed, but it was jagged, bitter. "He doesn't even want me. He wants what I represent. My name. My pedigree. An accessory in stilettos."
Celeste's expression shifted. The tease faded from her voice.
"Then why are you crying?"
The question landed with surgical precision. Savannah's lip quivered. She turned her head, but not before the tears streaked her cheek.
"Because I almost said yes," she whispered.
Celeste stepped in and cupped Savannah's face with a warm, steady hand. Her thumb brushed a tear away. Her eyes, always so sharp, softened.
"Come on. Let's sit. You're shaking like a leaf in a storm."
They settled on the edge of a stone planter box outside the old opera house, beneath the harsh yellow glow of a streetlamp. The city pulsed around them horns, sirens, voices blurring into a soundtrack of survival. The scent of wet concrete mingled with the hint of jasmine from Celeste's perfume.
Savannah wrapped her arms around herself. "All I have left is pride, and that can't buy groceries or keep a roof over my head. My apartment's falling apart. My fridge is empty. And now the press will chew me up and spit me out."
Celeste didn't interrupt. She waited.
"And I hate him," Savannah continued. "I hate Rhett for knowing I'd consider it. For being right. For standing there so calm while he dismantled the last of my dignity."
"You want honesty?" Celeste asked.
Savannah nodded.
"Pride's not going to save you. Not anymore. It won't put food in your mouth or silence the rumors. It's a nice fantasy but we're past that now."
Savannah stared down at the contract again, her name still visible through the water-smudged ink.
"What saves me then?" she murmured.
"Survival," Celeste said. "And choosing it before it chooses you."
They sat in silence after that. Savannah's fingers tightened around the contract. It was soaked now, flimsy, fragile.
Just like her.
Hours later, she sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand. The screen glowed with a headline that punched the breath from her chest.
SOCIALITE-TURNED-SELL-OUT? SAVANNAH DELACROIX SPOTTED LEAVING CALLAHAN TOWER
The photo was grainy. The angle unflattering. Her coat hung open, her expression weary and unreadable.
But the comments God, the comments were worse than knives.
"Didn't take her long to spread for a bailout."
"Daddy's girl finally learning to beg."
"From Chanel to charity case."
She dropped the phone onto the mattress and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes.
Everything hurt.
The walls of the apartment closed in around her peeling paint, humming radiator, silence thicker than air. The shadows cast by the single lamp stretched long and sharp across the floor.
She stood abruptly and faced the mirror above her dresser. What she saw was not Savannah Delacroix. Not the woman who once graced magazine covers and hosted charity galas. This woman was tired. Hollow-eyed. Hair knotted at the nape. A silk blouse wrinkled from sleep and stress.
"What am I even holding onto?" she whispered.
A knock shattered the quiet.
Three sharp raps.
She froze.
Then crossed the room and peered through the peephole.
Her landlord.
Again.
When she opened the door, he didn't waste time. "Ms. Delacroix. I gave you thirty days. It's been thirty-one."
She opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat.
He pulled a folded paper from his coat. "I didn't want to do this. You were always polite. But I've got tenants waiting. This is final."
He handed her the notice. Eviction.
Savannah's fingers trembled as she took it. "You think I'm still throwing parties while I drown, don't you?"
He hesitated, his face softening. "I think you're out of time."
She watched him walk away under the flickering hallway light. The paper in her hand felt heavier than it should.
She closed the door. Locked it.
Then she sank to the floor.
It was nearly dawn when she found herself walking no destination, just movement. The city was quiet, slick from rain, the sky streaked with the first signs of sun.
She ended up where she always did when the weight got too much.
The cemetery.
The grass was wet. The pines whispered in the wind. Her boots sank into the mud as she made her way to the only place left that felt like home.
Her father's grave was still. Simple. Cold.
Savannah knelt, her coat damp at the knees. She ran her fingers along the carved name. Benjamin Delacroix. The man who'd once ruled ballrooms and boardrooms.
"You said you had everything handled," she murmured. "You promised I'd never have to beg."
The wind didn't answer. The trees didn't move.
"I can't fix this. I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm tired, Dad. I'm tired of pretending I'm not terrified."
Her voice broke. She didn't try to hide it.
A few leaves danced across the stone. The rain returned in soft, misty drops.
"Do I say yes?" she whispered. "Do I give him my name to protect yours?
She didn't expect an answer.
But then…
A shadow stretched across the grass. Heavy. Human.
Savannah stiffened, turning slowly.
A man in a black overcoat stood behind her. Stoic. Grey at the temples. His hands were clasped in front of him like he was used to waiting. The kind of man who didn't blink unless told to.
"Miss Delacroix," he said. "Mr. Callahan is waiting."
Her stomach dropped.
She rose to her feet, slowly. The wet hem of her coat clung to her calves.
"Where?"
The man stepped aside and motioned toward the black car parked at the edge of the gravel path. The back door was open. Waiting.
"Where he always is," the man replied, "when someone finally says yes.