"Let's just get this over with."
Savannah's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried across the hollow corridor like thunder in a tomb. The courthouse walls were the color of dead teeth beige, flaking, institutional. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting shadows under her eyes that no amount of powder could conceal. She stood beside Rhett like a mannequin, her hands locked in front of her to stop the trembling.
The clerk behind the counter yawned as he shuffled through papers, unimpressed, as if the next transaction could've been a parking dispute or a pet license.
No flowers. No music. No witnesses.
Just her name being signed away under state seal.
The judge entered, a balding man in a wrinkled grey suit with a red blotch on his tie and eyes that hadn't sparkled since the Reagan era. He barely looked up.
"Do you, Rhett Callahan, take Savannah Delacroix to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do." Rhett's voice didn't rise. Didn't waver. Just settled in the room like a closed door.
Savannah's lips parted, but no sound came at first. Her throat was too tight. The air too dry. Her lungs ached from holding it all in.
"And do you, Savannah Delacroix "
"I do." She cut in before she could think better. The words scraped her throat on their way out. Bitter glass on her tongue.
The judge nodded as if checking a box.
"By the power vested in me by the state of Missouri, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
There was no kiss. No ring. Just a pen, a stamp, and the sound of Rhett retrieving his copy like he was collecting a signed contract because that's what it was. A merger. Not a marriage.
Savannah turned to look at him.
He wasn't smiling. His mouth was a straight line, his eyes locked on hers. When he leaned in, it wasn't affection he offered. It was declaration.
"You belong to me now."
Her stomach twisted.
The private jet reeked of power sterile, silent, and soulless. White leather. Chrome fixtures. The air tasted like disinfectant and wealth. Savannah sat rigid beside Rhett, her seatbelt fastened, hands folded over her lap.
He said nothing.
Neither did she.
The hum of engines and the clink of ice in his scotch glass were the only sounds between them. Outside, Arizona stretched beneath them red earth, jagged cliffs, canyons deep enough to bury secrets. The sun dipped low, casting everything in hues of fire and rust.
When they landed, the sky was bleeding into night.
A matte black SUV waited near the tarmac. The driver dressed in black, expressionless opened the door. Rhett entered without hesitation.
Savannah followed, heels clicking against the concrete like defiance barely restrained.
The estate rose ahead like a fortress cut from obsidian. Modern angles. Tall stone columns. Windows like slits. It wasn't a home. It was a statement.
Inside, silence lived in the walls. Every step echoed.
The ceilings were high. Too high. A grand piano sat in one corner, untouched. The walls were dressed in art that didn't belong expensive but emotionless. Savannah caught glimpses of oil paintings depicting gods and storms and nameless battles. Cold. Detached.
A woman emerged from the hallway, dressed in black. Her heels didn't make a sound. Her posture was perfect. Her face polite and unreadable.
"Mrs. Callahan," she said with a nod. "I'm Iris. Head of household. If you require anything, ask. But the Master has requested your wing remain private."
Savannah blinked. "Private?"
Rhett didn't answer. He simply gestured toward the staircase.
Savannah's pulse quickened as she climbed. Each polished wooden step felt more like a verdict. The hallway was long. Empty. Lights dimmed to a moody glow. The doors she passed were identical smooth, seamless, shut.
Her room was at the end.
She turned the knob.
Locked.
Her spine straightened. She tried again.
Nothing.
A soft beep clicked from behind. She turned.
Rhett stood at the far end, holding a remote in his hand. No expression on his face.
The lock disengaged with a quiet click.
Savannah stepped inside.
The room was breathtaking. Vaulted ceiling. Ivory silk curtains. A bed so large it could fit every lie she'd ever been told. A walk-in closet already filled with clothes she hadn't chosen. A vanity with her initials etched into the mirror's corner.
The door closed behind her.
And locked, From the outside.
She was his now.
A wife on paper. A prisoner in practice.
The ballroom of the Mirage Hotel glittered like temptation dipped in gold. Crystal chandeliers rained light across polished floors. Waiters in white jackets floated past with silver trays. Champagne foamed in fluted glasses.
Savannah stood at Rhett's side, the world watching.
Her navy satin gown hugged her body like a whisper meant to deceive. Her hair had been curled, brushed, and pinned by strangers. Her makeup was perfection. Her earrings sparkled like warnings. Around her wrist sat a cuff silver, thin, sleek.
A shackle disguised as style.
Paparazzi crowded the entrance. "Mr. Callahan! Savannah! Over here!"
Rhett stood still, his hand hovering near hers but never touching. His smile was barely there chiseled, rehearsed, camera-ready.
Savannah turned slightly. She gave them her practiced smile. Not too warm. Not too cold.
The cameras clicked like a countdown.
Inside, the ballroom pulsed with power. Men who ran corporations. Women who ran them better. Models who glittered like currency. Politicians who smiled too wide.
Someone whispered behind a crystal flute, "The newlyweds."
Someone else said, "God, she's thinner in person."
Savannah spotted Blair across the room draped in red silk, laughing too loud, hair twisted into a knot of perfection.
But Blair wasn't the one who reached her first.
It was Weston Blackwell.
He moved like he owned the floor. Like the air parted for him. Tall, dark suit tailored to sin, his grin a little too knowing.
"Mrs. Callahan," he said smoothly, bowing like a gentleman raised on dirty secrets.
Savannah turned to face him. "Weston."
"May I?" he asked, offering his arm.
Rhett's glance didn't shift. Didn't matter.
She took it.
They walked to the center of the ballroom where the orchestra hummed. They danced. Slowly. Elegantly. The world watched.
Weston's hand settled lightly at her waist.
"You're holding yourself well," he murmured. "For someone dressed in chains."
She didn't smile. "Say what you came to say."
He leaned in. "You know he doesn't trust you."
"Good," she said. "I don't trust him either."
Weston's eyes gleamed. "Careful, Savannah. You're playing in a game with rules you don't know yet."
She met his gaze. "Then maybe it's time someone changed the rules."
He laughed soft, surprised, impressed. "You were wasted on privilege. I like this version."
"I don't care what you like."
"Liar," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "We all care what someone thinks. Even you."
She didn't flinch.
He pulled back just enough. "If you ever want to know what Rhett's hiding call me."
She stepped back from his arms. "If I ever call you, Weston, it won't be for answers."
He grinned. "That's what I'm hoping for."
She walked away before he could say more.
Across the ballroom, Rhett watched her. His jaw tight. His eyes unreadable.
Savannah returned to his side, her smile painted on like armor.
"Your friend is charming," she said.
"Your tone is dangerous," he replied.
They stood in silence, married in name, enemies in flesh.
And somewhere beyond the champagne and chandeliers, the cameras flashed again