"You said I'd break," Savannah muttered under her breath, eyes fixed on the gleaming monolith of glass and steel before her. "Let's see who bends first."
Callahan Tower loomed like judgment carved into the sky. Its mirrored façade reflected a city that no longer belonged to her, its sharp lines catching dawnlight like a weapon. She stood at the base of it again not trembling, not stalling, but fueled by something colder than fear.
Her fingers gripped the strap of her worn leather bag like it held ammunition. Her boots clacked against the marble as she marched across the lobby, and this time, she didn't flinch under the glances of security or staff. The marble didn't shimmer with intimidation. It shimmered with memory her own ashes scattered across its polish.
"Mr. Callahan is expecting you," the receptionist said without lifting her gaze. No smile. Just obedience.
Good.
The elevator doors slid open, silent and sleek. As the cab rose, Savannah faced her own reflection again chin high, shoulders squared, jaw set. Her hair was pulled back, lips bare. She didn't look pretty. She looked prepared. The kind of woman who walked into fire and dared it to touch her.
When the doors opened on the executive floor, she didn't pause. Didn't knock.
She stepped into Rhett Callahan's office like it was hers.
He was by the window again. Always watching. This time, sleeves rolled to the elbow, no jacket, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked like a man deep in war plans not relaxed, not poised, but calculating.
"Didn't expect to see you so soon," he said without turning.
"I didn't come to beg," she replied, her voice clear.
A manila envelope landed on the edge of his desk.
"I came with terms."
That got his attention. He turned, slow and quiet, and studied her as if seeing her for the first time. There was something new in her eyes no longer desperation. It was defiance. Controlled. Refined. And it made his mouth twitch with something dangerously close to amusement.
He picked up the envelope, thumbed through the pages. His eyes scanned the clauses.
"You want conditions," he said.
"I want boundaries," Savannah corrected. "You may own the debt, but you don't own me. I want access to my own accounts. I want veto power over public appearances. I choose what I wear. What I say. I want terms that protect my image just as fiercely as you're protecting yours."
"You think this is a negotiation?"
"It's a contract. And I've read enough to know no agreement is binding without mutual benefit. You get your optics, Mr. Callahan. I get my dignity."
He closed the folder slowly. "You've grown teeth."
"No," she said, stepping closer. "I've stopped hiding them."
A beat passed. Then another.
Rhett let the folder rest flat on the glass.
"Your demands are… tolerable."
She raised a brow. "And subject to revision, just like yours."
He studied her. "You surprise me, Miss Delacroix."
"Good," she said. "I intend to."
The tension shifted. It didn't vanish it twisted into something more volatile. Not attraction. Not yet. But a current, coiled and sharp, pulsing between them.
"When do you move in?" he asked, voice like sandpaper.
Savannah didn't hesitate. "As soon as the ink dries."
Later that afternoon, the notary sat in the corner of Rhett's office silent, official, faceless behind thin glasses. The document lay open on the table, her name typed in elegant black font. Savannah Delacroix, soon to be Savannah Callahan by law, not love.
She hovered over the line, pen poised.
Rhett leaned against the far counter, arms folded. He wasn't watching the paper. He was watching her face.
Savannah signed.
The pen didn't tremble.
The notary stamped the bottom corner, the seal pressing into the page with a finality that made Savannah's stomach lurch. Rhett stepped forward, collected the document, skimmed the ink.
"Congratulations," he said. "You're now the most envied puppet in Missouri."
She slid the pen back into its holder. "Do I get a custom leash or is that extra?"
"When's the wedding?" she added coolly.
"One week. Quiet. No guests. No vows. You'll wear what I send you. Say what I write. And smile like we built this house with love."
"And when it's over?" she asked.
"You'll walk away debt-free, untarnished provided you follow clause nineteen."
Savannah didn't respond. She already knew clause nineteen by heart.
He turned toward the window, glancing at the skyline.
Then light exploded through the glass.
Flash. Then another.
Across the street, a long lens glinted like a sniper's eye. The window in the building opposite flickered with movement. A second photographer. Maybe a third.
"Damn it," Rhett growled, striding to the blinds.
He yanked them shut, the hiss of metal slicing the room into shadow.
"They were watching?" she asked, standing.
"They're always watching," he muttered. "But now it's official. You're mine."
She stepped around the desk, brushing her fingertips across the cool glass.
"Privacy's an illusion," she said. "Especially when you sell your name."
His eyes darkened. "We didn't sell. We signed."
"That's what makes it worse."
She left the room without another word.
The next day, Savannah stood in the fitting suite at Belle Couture, a fortress of velvet and champagne and whispers. Stylists swarmed around her like bees to a bloom pinning seams, tucking fabric, adjusting sleeves as if the gown mattered more than the woman.
She stared into the mirror, unblinking. The dress fit her like a lie. Soft ivory, lace on her shoulders, a satin bow at the base of her spine. It was the most beautiful trap she'd ever worn.
"Turn your chin, darling," a stylist cooed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
Savannah didn't move.
She felt hollow.
The door creaked.
Then clicked.
And in walked a storm.
Blair Montrose.
She wore white deliberately. A fur-collared coat draped over her shoulders, heels that made her taller than she already was, lips painted in something too rich to be subtle.
"Don't stop on my account," she said sweetly, her voice slicing through the room.
Savannah didn't flinch. "Did you get lost or just bored haunting exes?"
Blair smiled, slow and poisonous. "You always did mistake confidence for cruelty. It's adorable."
The stylists scattered like frightened birds.
"I heard you said yes," Blair added, circling the room. "I suppose desperation suits you."
Savannah turned back to the mirror. "You don't matter, Blair."
"That's cute," Blair said, drawing closer. "He didn't mention you in his future until the ink dried. He still calls me when he drinks. Still keeps my photograph."
Savannah didn't speak.
Blair moved behind her, fingers brushing the lace at her shoulder.
"He's never going to love you. He doesn't love anything but legacy. You're a placeholder, sweetheart. A beautiful one. But temporary."
Savannah's voice dropped. "Touch me again, and I'll break your wrist."
Blair laughed. "There she is."
Then, softer: "When he grows tired and he will I'll be here. He always comes back."
She turned to leave, pausing at the threshold.
"Enjoy the dress. I wore it first."
The door shut with a soft click.
Savannah stood there, surrounded by mirrors and silence. She stared at her reflection at the woman shaped to fit a man's story.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
But her hand moved to the lace over her chest, gripping the fabric until her knuckles whitened.
The dress wasn't elegant anymore.
It was armor.
And behind her reflection, a new voice rose from somewhere deeper.
Then let them come.