CHAPTER FOUR
1091 Words
Savannah had not slept in thirty-six hours.
Not that it mattered. Sleep had ceased to provide rest. Every time she closed her eyes, she was in that sick f**k's greenhouse again, standing over an ultrasound she did not agree to. Her body buzzed with rage, with fear, with something else she couldn't quite name — a burgeoning realization that she would never see the world the same way again.
She sat by a window and saw mist creeping over the far trees. The estate's grounds were vast, but she had a creeping sense that the walls were closing in. Even nature here seemed tranquilized, trimmed, and manicured like her.
She held tight to the feather that remained on her nightstand — Cash's note folded next to it. "You'll never get out. But I will."
The horrible part was that he was right.
By noon, Boone came calling.
He didn't knock. He just walked in with his hands behind his back as if that was justification for the invasion.
"The family doctor has asked for a new interview," he said. "They're going to need updated psychological and biological evaluations to know they're on course for fetal development as expected."
Savannah didn't move. "You can't compel me to cooperate."
Boone smiled faintly. "Mrs. Pennington, we got to the ink on your consent before the wedding flowers wilted. You will be examined."
She turned and looked past me out the window.
He sighed and put a paper down on the table next to her. "This is your updated activity privileges. You will have access to the garden, library, east wing parlor, and solarium. "You are still barred from the media room, staff quarters, and master archives."
"So generous," she muttered.
Boone straightened. "Defiance doesn't suit you. If you want to affect your future here, learn to play the long game."
She shot him a look. "I'm not playing. I'm surviving."
Boone paused — some flicker in his eyes. For a millisecond, he didn't seem like a Pennington loyalist. He seemed like a man who had learned to breathe through a muzzle as well.
"If you want to survive," he said softly, "begin with obedience."
That night, Savannah exercised her garden privilege.
She walked the stone path by herself, hands clenched, seeing the shadows grow long. The hedges were too tall. The wind too still. She no longer trusted peace.
There stood Wren, an attendant at the side of the path.
She hadn't said much before. Mostly quiet. Always watching.
She had her back to Savannah this evening, trimming ivy gently.
"You weren't always this way," Savannah said gently.
Wren turned, eyes blank. "Like what?"
"Silent. Detached. Afraid to talk to anyone who wasn't talking to me."
Wren stared at her for a long moment. "I was you. Before you arrived."
Savannah's throat tightened. "Did he do it to you, too? Cash?"
Wren nodded slowly. "He took what he wanted. And then he left me the pieces."
"And you stayed?"
"Because now I have my own game," Wren said. "He won't see it coming."
Savannah stepped closer. "Help me."
Wren gave the faintest smile. "You help me first."
Savannah hid in the library that night. A forbidden wing.
She used a tool she made from a loose earring and a spoon handle to pick the lock. Her fingers shook as the tumblers fell open. The door opened with a creak, and she slipped inside.
The library was cold, unvisited. Dozens of tomes lined shelves. Worn ledgers, dusty reports, family trees — relics of the Pennington legacy.
She discovered a filing cabinet labeled: "Medical: Class E Reproduction Files."
The key was missing.
She didn't care.
She tugged on the drawer until the metal buckled. Inside, there were sealed folders, each identified by code.
One folder had her birthdate.
She opened it.
There, printed in black ink:
"Carlisle Genetic Compatibility: Tier 1. Date of Birth: Savannah Leigh Carlisle. Note: Genetically viable carrier for designed genealogy."
She turned the page.
"Implantation Date: June 6 (Unauthorised Advance Protocol).
June 6.
Weeks before the wedding.
Her blood turned to ice.
She didn't sleep again.
Not even after she gave the file back. Not after she bolted the door, buried her stolen key, crawled into bed with trembling fingers.
Her body did not belong to her.
Her womb was a corporate locker.
The following morning, she appeared at breakfast wearing red.
Lorelei blinked.
"Well," she replied, taking a sip of her tea. "Someone's feeling dramatic."
Savannah took her seat. Crossed her legs. Poured herself coffee.
"Let's discuss business," she said.
Boone raised an eyebrow. Slade did not lift his eyes from the paper.
"I want the accounts," Savannah said. "I want a personal staff. And I want the media to know that I'm the wife. Not the shadow."
"That wasn't in the deal," Slade said.
"The deal was done," she said. "You want peace? Give me power."
Silence.
Boone folded his hands.
Slade finally met her eyes.
"You're beginning to sound like a Pennington," he said.
Savannah smiled tightly. "Then I now remember who I am."
Wren slipped her a key later that day.
"South Hall basement. Ten minutes before midnight."
Savannah stashed it in the hem of her coat.
The house was a graveyard of whispers at midnight.
She skulked through the hallways, each footfall deliberate, each extended shadow examined.
She got to the South Hall door.
Unlocked it.
Into the cold stone, the flickering light.
Wren stood at the bottom of the steps, peering into the darkness with his flashlight.
And together, they went down into the dark.
Past the third corridor was a vault. Not a metaphor. An actual vault.
Wren entered a code.
The door opened with a hiss.
Inside: files. Footage. Discs. Photos. Blood charts.
Savannah picked up a reel. Played the footage.
Her mother.
Strapped to a bed.
Screaming.
The words: "UNSTABLE CARRIER. DISPOSAL RECOMMENDED."
She dropped the reel. It clattered.
Wren closed the file.
"They attempted to wipe her from history," Wren said. "Just like they're doing to you."
Savannah watched the screen flicker.
And what she needed to become.
The next morning, Savannah didn't bat an eye when Boone gave her her medical results.
She accepted them, smiled, and slid them into her book.
She'd seen the actual records.
She now understood: Her mother was not insane.
She had resisted.
And for that, they put her away.
Savannah gazed at Slade from across the table.
And by her silence, she took an oath:
They would never erase her.
Not this time.
Not ever.
- Writer
