Chapter 2

The car that came for Savannah the next morning was black and silent, like a hearse dressed in designer leather. The driver said nothing, offered her no greeting. He just opened the door and waited while she stepped inside, still clutching the only bag she owned. The silence followed her all the way uptown, through gilded gates and into a world carved out of Manhattan’s skyline.

Colton Briggs’s penthouse wasn’t merely expensive—it was untouchable. The elevator opened directly into the unit, depositing her in a marble foyer the size of her old apartment. Light spilled from chandeliers that looked like frozen galaxies. Art lined the walls, pieces she’d seen in textbooks and documentaries, now just… hanging there. She reached out toward a Degas sketch but stopped herself. It didn’t feel like hers to touch.

A woman in navy slacks and a stiff blouse appeared from nowhere. “Miss Cole,” she said coolly. “You’ll be shown to your room.”

“Savannah is fine,” she murmured.

The woman didn’t acknowledge it.

Two other staff members—one carrying her small duffel, the other unlocking a discreet side elevator—joined them without a word. They moved like ghosts, their steps measured, their expressions unreadable. Savannah studied them closely, trying to memorize faces in a place where no one offered names.

As the elevator ascended, Savannah dared to ask, “Do you all live here?”

The woman, whose name tag read Inez, offered a glance. “We serve here.”

No more.

The doors opened to the second floor. Her room wasn’t a room. It was a suite. A canopy bed draped in cream linens. French doors that led to a private balcony. A dressing room bigger than any store she’d ever stepped inside. Every drawer was filled. Designer clothes hung from velvet hangers. Even the perfume bottles were curated—Chanel, Tom Ford, Dior—lined up like soldiers on a mirrored tray.

Still, the air felt wrong.

Savannah turned slowly in the silence. Cameras blinked softly from two corners. A red light winked, then steadied.

Colton hadn’t spoken a word to her since she signed the contract. He hadn’t met her at the car. Hadn’t so much as texted. And now she was here, in a palace carved from marble and silence, alone among strangers who served but did not speak.

Savannah felt the weight of her new name pressing on her ribs like invisible hands.

She was Savannah Briggs now.

But it felt less like a name and more like a chain. A beautiful cage, wrapped in silk and gold.

***

Days passed without measure.

Colton appeared only once, late at night, stepping into the kitchen while she sipped tea and stared at the skyline. He didn’t look at her as he poured bourbon into a glass and downed it in one practiced motion. The tension was carved into his shoulders like a sculptor’s marks. His presence filled the room, though he barely said a word.

“Why me?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He didn’t turn.

“Wrong question,” he said and walked away, leaving the scent of sandalwood and silence in his wake.

Savannah wandered the penthouse during daylight hours, careful to stay out of places that felt forbidden. There was no warmth in the air, no comfort. Even the furniture seemed too pristine to touch. But on the third floor, nestled between two guest rooms and a study lined with leather-bound books, was a door she hadn’t noticed before.

Black.

Smooth.

No handle.

Only a small rectangular screen, glowing faintly.

A digital lock.

She stepped closer. The screen beeped once, then darkened.

That night, at dinner—a wordless, awkward affair where she sat across from Colton in silence broken only by silverware—she asked, “What’s behind the black door on the third floor?”

Colton didn’t look up. He cut into his steak, chewing slowly.

“That door stays closed,” he said finally.

“That’s not an answer.”

He set down his fork.

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

She didn’t press further. Not then. But something shifted in her chest. Something cold and small and coiled. A seed of dread, watered by silence.

***

The cameras followed her.

She was sure of it now.

It wasn’t just their presence—it was the way the lens blinked when she moved, the way the red lights seemed to follow her rhythm, like a mechanical heartbeat timed to her own.

She tested it one afternoon. Moved quickly across the hallway. Stopped. Turned. Blink. The camera was angled. Almost imperceptibly, but there it was.

Savannah reached for the phone in her suite—no dial tone.

Her cell phone? Gone. Colton had taken it during the contract signing, saying it would be replaced with a “company-issued device.” It never arrived.

She was isolated. Lavishly imprisoned. Bound by gold.

Then the box appeared.

It sat in the center of her bed like an accusation. Red velvet. No ribbon. No tag. No return address.

Savannah approached it like it might explode. She touched the lid gently, then opened it.

Inside was a photo.

The image was old but clear: a woman in a wedding dress. Not a white one—deep silver, like the shimmer of moonlight. On her hand gleamed the very same ring Savannah now wore.

Her face had been scratched out with something sharp. Violently.

Below the photo, a note written in jagged ink:

You’re next.

The handwriting was angry, desperate, and pressed so hard the paper had nearly torn. Savannah’s breath hitched. A prickle crawled up her spine, as if the room itself had grown colder. She dropped the photo, and it landed face-up, the faceless bride staring at the ceiling.

***

Savannah sat on the floor for an hour, the box open in her lap, the photo trembling in her fingers. The ring on her hand burned like ice.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. But instead, she walked to the en-suite bathroom, splashed water on her face, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked unfamiliar. Paler. Eyes wide, ringed with sleepless worry. The woman staring back at her wasn’t Savannah Cole anymore.

Savannah Briggs.

Wife in name. Target in silence.

She placed the photo back into the box, closed the lid, and tucked it into the false bottom drawer of her vanity. Not because she wanted to keep it—but because she needed to understand who had sent it. Who had worn her ring before her? Why had Colton never mentioned her?

Who was the woman in the photo?

Why was she wearing Savannah’s ring?

What did Colton mean when he said the door stays closed?

And why did it feel like someone had already lived—and died—through the life Savannah just agreed to live?

The camera in the corner of her room blinked once.

Watched.

Always.

She curled beneath the sheets that night, pulse steady, mind racing. The contract had bound her in luxury. But now, it was binding her in something far darker. Something with teeth.

She closed her eyes and whispered to no one:

“What did I sign up for?”

And in the darkness, the faint click of a lock turning somewhere in the house made her blood run cold.