"Are we there yet?"
Savannah's voice was dry, quiet, nearly swallowed by the hum of the SUV's engine. The driver didn't respond. Neither did Rhett.
She turned her face back toward the tinted window, sunglasses still perched on her nose even though the Arizona sun had begun its descent behind the horizon. Her arms stayed crossed tightly against her chest, body stiff, breath shallow. She hadn't said a word for most of the drive, but the silence had grown too loud to sit with.
"You could at least pretend this isn't exile," she muttered.
Still, no reply.
She didn't expect one.
The black SUV glided off the main road and began to climb a narrow, winding stretch flanked by desert rock and silent cacti. The deeper they drove, the more surreal the world became. Sunlight turned to copper. Shadows lengthened. Dust kicked up in golden spirals behind them.
And then it appeared.
The Callahan estate.
Not a house. Not a mansion. A fortress.
It rose out of the earth like some forgotten deity's temple cut glass, stone, and iron forged into symmetry and silence. Its silhouette was sharp, otherworldly. Savannah had expected opulence, maybe arrogance. But this? This was something else entirely.
It didn't invite. It challenged.
Blackstone Ridge.
She hadn't even known the name of the house until the butler in grey gloves greeted her beside the car.
"Mrs. Callahan," he said with a shallow bow. "Welcome to Blackstone Ridge."
She stepped out slowly, her heels crunching against the marble-tiled driveway, head tilting back slightly as her eyes swept the structure towering before her. She'd seen hotels smaller than this. Fortresses less guarded.
Behind her, another vehicle had already arrived. Men in suits unloaded her suitcases wordlessly, setting them in a line with military precision. The staff stood at the main entrance in two perfect rows five on each side, all dressed in crisp black. None smiled. None spoke.
They bowed as she passed through them, but the silence of their welcome rang louder than any greeting.
"James," she said as the butler fell into step beside her. "That's your name, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You were at the wedding."
"I was."
"So... you've known about all this longer than I have?"
James said nothing for a moment.
Then, "Mr. Callahan is a man who prepares. He anticipated your arrival weeks ago."
"How comforting."
Inside, the house was colder than the desert.
Not in temperature. In spirit.
The grand foyer was cathedral-tall, lined with flawless white marble and backlit panels that gave the illusion of warmth without offering any. Savannah's heels echoed faintly as she followed James through its heart.
Glass. Steel. Abstract art that looked more like fury thrown on canvas than anything meaningful. The walls were bare of photographs. No family portraits. No warmth.
She passed a living room that looked untouched. A library where the books were pristine, untouched by human hands. A music room with a baby grand piano, draped like a coffin.
"There's no life in any of this," she said softly.
James glanced back but said nothing.
He led her down a long hallway. The marble softened beneath their feet, becoming plush carpet. The smell changed too soft, clean, floral. Manufactured comfort.
"The East Wing is yours," he said, gesturing to the corridor that stretched out ahead.
She didn't ask where the West Wing led. Not yet.
But the question still slipped out. "And his?"
"West Wing."
Of course.
"Of course," she repeated aloud, her voice quieter.
James opened a whitewashed door.
"Your suite," he said.
The room beyond was... breathtaking.
And hollow.
Ivory linens on a king-sized bed. French doors opening to a private balcony that overlooked the desert cliffs. A closet already filled with designer gowns, silk robes, lingerie far more daring than she'd ever wear alone. A vanity stocked with cosmetics she didn't use. Perfumes she'd never picked.
Everything here had been chosen for her.
Except her.
When James left, the silence deepened.
Savannah sat on the edge of the bed and stared at nothing.
Across the house, somewhere behind glass and stone, her husband existed.
But tonight, he might as well have been a thousand miles away.
Nightfall came slowly. The house did not adjust with it. No music played. No television murmured. No clink of glasses or rustle of life. It remained frozen.
Savannah changed into a silk robe cream with lace at the hem and padded barefoot into the corridor, toes sinking into the rug. Her fingers grazed the wall as she moved, seeking comfort, or perhaps proof that she wasn't dreaming.
Every hallway was different. Every door closed.
She turned corners until she didn't know which wing she was in anymore.
She paused at one particular door. Taller. Darker. Its wood richer than the others, hand-carved with symbols almost erased by time. The brass handle shone less than the rest.
It wasn't just a room.
It was a secret.
She reached for the handle.
"Some rooms are off-limits."
She jumped.
Rhett's voice behind her was like ice poured down her spine. She turned slowly.
He stood at the end of the hallway in a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled back, a glass of something dark in one hand. His other hand rested against the wall like he belonged to the house more than it belonged to him.
"I was just... walking," she said.
"And that just happened to bring you here?"
She straightened. "I didn't open anything."
"But you wanted to."
"Maybe."
He stepped closer, and she could see it in the way his eyes lingered on the door not anger. Caution. Memory.
"That room is history," he said quietly. "And history has teeth."
Savannah watched him walk past. He didn't look at her. He opened another door down the hall and vanished inside.
The music stopped.
She hadn't even realized it was still playing until it died.
Dinner was at seven.
She hadn't been invited, but she found the dining room lit and set anyway.
A table long enough for twenty. Candlelight flickering against polished silver. Gourmet food plated in symmetrical perfection. At the far end, Rhett sat with his phone in one hand, a glass of wine in the other.
She took her seat without asking.
Silence stretched.
He cut into his steak like a man slicing through time. She watched the flex of his wrist, the way he chewed methodical, indifferent.
"You eat like you're negotiating," she said.
No answer.
She reached for her own fork, barely touched her filet.
His phone lit up again.
Unknown.
He didn't answer it.
The screen faded.
Then lit again.
Same number. Unknown.
She cleared her throat. "Is that work?"
"Yes."
"You must be important."
He looked up. "Is that a question?"
"No. Just a reminder."
He set his fork down slowly.
"If you're trying to provoke me, you'll need to do better."
She sipped her wine. "No provocation. Just trying to remember what conversation feels like."
His gaze narrowed. "And does it usually include barbs?"
"Only when I'm with someone who's forgotten how to be human."
Rhett stood.
"Dinner's over."
He turned without another word and left the room.
Savannah remained at the massive table, a dozen candles flickering in glass towers, her plate untouched, her wine untouched.
Somewhere in the house, a door closed.
And she realized
For all the beauty around her, Blackstone Ridge was just a desert with air conditioning.