Chapter 2
789 Words
Then, he appears.
Sawyer Beckett.
He moves with a lion’s grace, shoulders squared beneath the tailored cut of obsidian-black wool. The subtle sheen of wealth clings to him, as if power were cologne, strong enough to stop hearts. His hair is darker now, shorn closer at the sides, and the clean lines of his jaw look carved from something crueler than memory.
He sees her.
And the music crashes to a low throb. Every heartbeat in the room belongs to Savannah now.
He doesn’t speak at first. His gaze does enough. Cold. Hard. Lethal.
Then he walks.
No, not walking stalks. Across the ballroom floor, through glitter and silk and whispers, past politicians and heiresses who part like the Red Sea. His shadow touches her before he does.
“You’ve got some nerve showing your face here.”
His voice cuts through the violins. There’s no mercy in it. Just years of iced-over rage and one fragile echo of hurt.
Savannah doesn’t blink. Not once.
She lifts her chin. The ballroom is watching.
“Hello, Sawyer.”
He laughs. Just once. A cold, humorless sound.
“Is that all you have to say?”
She swallows. The taste of regret is bitter, but not new. “It’s not the time or place.”
He leans in. Not touching, not yet. Just enough for his breath to ghost over her ear.
“Then pick one. I’ll make time.”
And like that, he walks away.
But not far.
She watches him vanish through a velvet-curtained side corridor, toward the private lounges. And just like that, the pull of gravity shifts.
She has to follow.
Behind her, whispers swell. Cameras flash. But all Savannah can hear is the old rhythm of her heart breaking.
It was raining that night.
Five years ago. The scent of thunder curled through the bedroom, sweet with petrichor. Savannah sat on the edge of Sawyer’s bed, her tears soaking into the collar of her blouse. He was asleep, his hand curled beside her pillow, the slow rise and fall of his chest an agonizing lullaby.
She couldn’t bear to wake him.
His room was still, filled with the soft hum of his breath and the distant city traffic. Outside the window, the sky flickered like a warning.
She unfolded the note in trembling hands.
I love you. I always will. But I can’t stay. They said they’d ruin you. And I believe them.
She signed her name, folding the letter like a wound. Her fingers hovered over the ink, smudging a single tear.
Then she stood. Picked up her shoes. Moved as if sleepwalking.
She didn’t see the woman standing in the hallway.
Scarlett James. Sawyer’s mother. Draped in silk and menace.
“Good girl,” Scarlett had whispered. “You made the right choice. You’d never survive in our world.”
Savannah said nothing. She walked past the woman, her heart pounding so hard she couldn’t feel her feet. Down the stairs. Out into the storm.
Behind her, lightning flared like the beginning of war.
The corridor is quiet. Too quiet.
Dim sconces line the walls, and velvet carpet drinks the sound of her heels. The door at the end creaks open just enough. She steps inside.
Sawyer stands by the window, back to her. He’s taken off his jacket. His white dress shirt clings to his frame, a ripple of muscle and tension.
He doesn't turn.
“You were gone for one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six days.”
Savannah flinches. She hadn’t counted. She didn’t have to.
“You think I didn’t look for you?”
She exhales, quiet. “I know you did.”
Now he turns.
His eyes burn. Gold and fury.
“And you let me.”
She opens her mouth, but the words are stuck.
He steps forward. Slowly. Every inch is a punishment.
“You left a note.”
“They threatened me.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“They said they’d destroy you.”
He stops a breath away. Her spine hits the wall.
“You destroyed me.”
Her hand rises, instinctively, touching his chest. Just once.
He catches her wrist.
“You don’t get to do that anymore.”
Tears sting her eyes.
“I didn’t come here to make excuses.”
“No?” he breathes. “Then why?”
Her lips part.
“I need your help.”
He laughs. And it’s not kind.
“Of course you do.”
“It’s the house. My parents’ house. The bank ”
He steps away.
“So now I’m a bank?”
“Please, Sawyer.”
He turns, eyes narrowing. His voice lowers to a blade.
“Then let’s make a deal.”
- Writer
