Chapter 3

Savannah didn’t sleep. Her body lay still under silk sheets, but her mind stormed endlessly. Every creak in the hallway, every blink of a security camera, made her skin tighten with dread. She kept returning to the red box, replaying the moment she lifted the lid and saw that photograph—an image that had wormed its way beneath her skin.

By morning, her nerves were frayed. Her reflection in the hallway mirror showed a woman unravelling—not from poverty, as before, but from uncertainty cloaked in diamonds. She looked older, wiser in ways she hadn’t earned. The wedding ring weighed on her finger like a secret. The red velvet box was still hidden in her vanity drawer, but the image inside was burnt into her thoughts.

She had to confront him.

She found Colton on the penthouse’s rooftop garden, sitting alone with a black coffee and a tablet, dressed in a tailored navy suit. The skyline unfurled behind him like a kingdom he owned, cool wind teasing at his cufflinks. He looked too calm, as if untouched by the fire that had ignited inside her.

“I want to talk,” Savannah said, voice harder than she expected.

He didn’t look up. “You’re not here to talk.”

She stepped forward. “Who was she?”

That made him pause. The tablet dimmed in his hand. “Who?”

“The woman in the photo”, Savannah said. “The one who wore this ring before me.”

Colton finally looked at her. His eyes were sharp as shattered ice. “That part of the past is dead.”

“Someone left it in my room,” she continued, heart thudding. “They want me to believe I’m next. Am I?”

He stood slowly, like a storm unfolding in deliberate slowness. “You signed the contract, Savannah. Not a diary. My past is none of your concern.”

“You dragged me into it the moment I put this ring on.”

His jaw flexed. “You're not in danger.”

“Then why can’t I leave? Why do the staff act like I don’t exist? Why is there a door in your house I can’t open?”

“Because some truths cost more than a million dollars,” he said coldly. “And you were already paid.”

She stood rooted, fury burning beneath her skin as he walked away. His presence was like a storm she couldn’t contain—brilliant, volatile, and always out of reach.

***

Savannah found a note that evening tucked neatly on her pillow in perfect handwriting: Formal attire. Be ready by 7.

The black dress laid out on the bed was floor-length, velvet, and heavy. A slit ran dangerously high up one thigh, and the neckline plunged low. It wasn’t a suggestion—it was a command.

When she entered the dining room at precisely seven, Colton was already seated at the long mahogany table. Candelabras flickered between them like soft fire. He wore black on black: shirt, jacket, and even his tie. Only the white gold cufflinks glinted, catching the light with every subtle movement.

A string quartet played faintly in the background. The table was set for two, though the space between them felt vast.

He didn’t speak until the staff served dessert.

“You flinched this morning,” he said, not looking at her.

She blinked. “You brushed me off like I was disposable.”

He cut into a slice of chocolate tart with surgical precision. “You weren’t chosen to feel. Just to play a part.”

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass. “Then stop pretending this isn’t a stage.”

Colton’s gaze lifted slowly, cold and unreadable. “You may not like the play, but the audience still expects a show.”

He stood, walked over to her, and offered a hand. “The car will be here in five minutes.”

“For what?”

He smiled, sharp and hollow. “A performance.”

***

The gala was all glass and champagne, the guests dressed like gods and demons. Colton moved through the crowd with practised ease, shaking hands and nodding to titans of industry and women who clung to his past like perfume. He was the puppet master in a room of million-dollar marionettes.

Savannah stood by his side, the perfect ornament. Her heels pinched, her dress scratched at her skin, and every smile felt like a lie she wasn’t paid enough to tell.

When the media swarmed, everything changed.

“Mr and Mrs Briggs!” someone called.

Colton pulled her close. Too close.

His hand found her waist, fingers splaying with a possessiveness that made her stomach twist. Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t romantic. It was control masked as affection, a claim staked for the world to see. Her lips froze beneath his. Cameras flashed like lightning around them. The air turned to static.

When he pulled back, his lips brushed her ear.

“Smile like your life depends on it,” he whispered.

She did. Her cheeks ached from it.

He raised a toast minutes later, arm around her waist, eyes never leaving the cameras. The room applauded. Flashbulbs burst like small bombs.

Savannah kept smiling. But inside, something broke. Something small and soft that had once hoped for safety, for kindness. She could feel it wither in real time.

Later, as they left, Colton didn’t speak to her. But his hand never left her back.

***

The car ride back was silent. The low hum of the engine was the only sound that filled the void between them. Colton stared out the window, his expression unreadable, while Savannah kept her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her reflection stared back from the tinted glass—polished, poised, and completely hollow.

Inside the penthouse, Savannah climbed the stairs without a word. The dress clung to her skin like a wound. Her heels clicked against the marble like gunshots in an empty hall.

She entered her suite, locked the door behind her, and collapsed onto the cold bathroom tiles. The mirror loomed above her, sterile and gleaming. Her breath fogged the edges as she leaned in.

The tears came then—fast, hot, and bitter. She pressed her palms to her face and tried not to scream. Her sobs echoed in the pristine bathroom, bouncing off glass and porcelain with nowhere to hide.

When she finally looked up, she saw it.

Written in lipstick across the surface of the mirror, jagged and rushed:

Run.

The lipstick was not hers.

Savannah’s pulse thundered. She turned slowly, heart crashing in her chest. But the room was empty.

Empty—and yet no longer hers alone.

She backed toward the door, breath short, fingers trembling. Her skin crawled with invisible fingers. Her eyes darted toward the window—locked. Curtains still drawn.

Someone had been here. Someone had crossed into her sanctuary and left a message not of warning, but prophecy.

She pressed her back to the wall and tried to slow her breath.

The cameras. The locked doors. The faceless woman in the photo.

What if Colton wasn’t the only one hiding something?

What if he wasn’t the monster she should fear… but the guardian of something darker?

She didn’t know what scared her more—the thought of running… or the possibility she already couldn’t.