CHAPTER FIVE
963 Words
Rain fell like a whisper on the windows.
Savannah stood at the glass, hands on the sill, and gazed at the aqueous trails, falling like tears, down the polished pane. The estate grounds had been drenched in fog and something else — something decidedly cooler. Even the hedges around the garden looked haunted.
Three days since she and Wren discovered the vault.
Three days later, she saw her mother strapped to a hospital bed, marked as unstable. Discarded like a stain in the bloodline.
She hadn't cried.
She couldn't afford to.
She was playing a different game now.
And every move mattered.
She arrived at the east wing parlor at noon on the dot.
Slade was already there, sitting with Boone, Lorelei and Presley Vaughn — the PR strategist whose every fluttering blink seemed deliberate. A warm, moody camera setup was in place by the fireplace. There had been a velvet loveseat set up as a backdrop.
"We're doing a press spot?" Savannah asked.
Presley smiled. "Only a short one. Ten minutes with Southern Society Weekly. We'll keep it high-gloss — legacy talk, family values, and a little bit of romance."
Boone nodded. We want the public to be focused on unity. On you and Slade, together."
Then, Slade finally glanced away from his phone. "Can you play nice?"
Savannah walked to the loveseat, sat down, and crossed her legs.
"I can do better than that," she told herself. "I can lie."
Presley grinned. "Perfect."
They filmed it in one take.
Savannah smiled on cue. Held Slade's hand. Against his shoulder like they were lovers and not captors and captive.
She even recounted how they "met" at a Carlisle charity gala. It was a script Boone had written, one she now recited with exactness and poisoned grace.
But when the questions turned toward legacy, Savannah changed.
"And what's motherhood to you?" the interviewer asked.
Savannah smiled tightly. "Legacy is not just bloodlines. It's true. It's the determination to fight for a future that is not only created by men in suits but by the women who outlive them."
There was a pause.
Presley tilted her head.
Slade's fingers tightened ever so slightly around hers.
Boone said nothing.
Savannah smiled wider.
The camera light clicked off.
That night, Wren brought her a slim package — a burner, prepaid and unregistered.
"This one is from someone named Dalton Creed," she whispered.
Savannah tensed. "Judge Creed's son?"
Wren nodded. "He's a journalist. Claims he knows what they did to your mother. And he wants to help."
Savannah opened the phone. One message flashed on the screen:
"They made her disappear. You don't have to."
She stared at the message.
And typed back:
"What do you have on the second boat?"
At dawn, she arrived in the church courtyard to meet Dalton.
No security. No PR agents. Just fog and fear.
He had a black raincoat and eyes that had seen too much. Before he had a word from her, he handed her a manila envelope.
"Your mother was admitted under the name Rachel Leigh. Formalized by a private program that Pennington subsidiaries pay for. I have the documents."
Savannah skimmed through the records. Photos. Medical scans. Electroshock records. Her stomach twisted.
Dalton stepped back. "The program was designed to assess the limits of fertility and the limits of the drivers on neurological function." They used women like your mother. She was the first. You are the second."
Savannah glanced up, her expression icy. "Why are you helping me?"
Dalton met her gaze. "Because my father had signed her commitment papers. And I want to torch every inch of this empire."
She took a breath. "Then you and I are on the same team."
At the estate, Savannah no longer moved as a guest. She strode the halls like a specter with unfinished business.
She'd crossed paths in the hall with Cassidy Monroe — the PR girl being prepped to replace her. Slade's fallback. In Savannah's color, in Savannah's scent.
Cassidy smiled too brightly. "Lovely segment. You sell the southern wife fantasy, like, really hard.
Savannah didn't stop walking. "And you sell desperation. "One of us is better at his job."
Cassidy's smile faded.
She found Lorelei trimming roses in the solarium.
"You're glowing," Lorelei said without raising her eyes. "Pregnancy suits you."
"Stop pretending you actually care," Savannah responded.
"Quite the opposite," Lorelei said, facing. "I care deeply. After all, I'll be the one to bring up your son when you inevitably crack."
Savannah smiled. "Let's test that theory."
She took a step closer and murmured in Lorelei's ear.
Lorelei paled.
She dropped her shears.
Later, Boone summoned her to his office.
He slid a fresh contract across the desk.
"To amend your rights in media. Expanded public access. Your brand is being recognized.
Savannah did not lay a finger on the paper.
She simply stared him in the face. "How long have you known that I was your sister?"
Boone froze.
Savannah leaned back. "Your mother worked for us at our estate. You were sent away. Paid off. But you came back. Why? To serve them? Or to watch me drown?"
Boone exhaled slowly. "To save whatever small part of us remains."
She stood. "Then start acting like it."
The next evening, she went back into the vault.
She catalogued everything. Made copies. Files stored on encrypted drives Wren had smuggled onto the estate.
She named all the documents: "Phase One: Rewrite."
Her mother wasn't an anonymous victim anymore.
Savannah was about to become the storm that the Penningtons never saw coming.
Up in her room, Savannah slid the last file into a black box under her bed.
She turned off the lights.
And whispered into the dark:
"I remember you, Mama. I remember everything."
- Writer
