Chapter 4

The following morning, Savannah stepped into the lobby of the Briggs Tower, her heels echoing across the pristine marble like metronomes counting down the seconds of her borrowed life. She hadn’t slept. The lipstick message was gone when she’d checked again — the mirror wiped clean, spotless, as though the night had simply conjured the warning from the shadows of her imagination. But her nerves had not forgotten. Her bones still buzzed with unease.

The front desk manager handed her a printed schedule without so much as a glance, eyes glued to the monitor. Everyone in this building moved like ghosts, polite and mute, barely acknowledging her. The silence pressed in on her like an invisible crowd.

As she neared her office — a minimalist space Colton insisted she maintain to uphold the illusion of a supportive, public-facing wife — she saw someone already seated inside. The man’s legs were crossed in practiced confidence, his figure framed by sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling glass. His face was hidden behind dark sunglasses, but something about the posture, the familiar lean, made her stomach twist.

He looked up.

“Sawyer?” she breathed.

Sawyer Langston. Her ex. Her first love. The boy who once scribbled sonnets on diner napkins and played Dylan from dusty cassette tapes while tracing the freckles on her back. The man who vanished from her life after her father’s funeral, leaving only silence and regret behind.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice shaking like her fingers.

He pulled off the sunglasses slowly, revealing tired green eyes with shadows etched beneath them. “I’m here for the truth.”

Savannah took a cautious step forward. “You can’t be here. This is private property.”

“I’m a journalist now,” he said, pulling out a freelance badge. “I’m chasing a story.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m not a story.”

“You are if the man you married killed your father.”

The words struck her like a slap. The air felt thinner, sharper. Her heart kicked against her ribs.

“What did you just say?”

He leaned forward, voice hushed and urgent. “Your father’s death wasn’t an accident, Vanna.”

The nickname cracked something in her chest. She hadn’t heard it since the funeral — the last day she ever saw him.

“I found a mechanic who inspected your dad’s truck,” he continued. “The brakes were tampered with. There were fresh grooves in the frame—like someone removed and reattached the lines.”

Savannah backed up slowly.

Sawyer’s eyes searched hers. “There was a second car, too. Tire tracks that disappeared overnight. And guess who owns the stretch of land where the accident happened?”

“Don’t.”

“Colton Briggs.”

She turned her face away, but the nausea surged. She wanted to scream, to slap him, to cry. Instead, her voice came low and dangerous. “Stop talking.”

“I can show you everything. Documents. Witnesses. Just five minutes—”

“Get out!”

“Vanna—”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped.

Security guards had already arrived, alerted by some unseen signal. Sawyer stood, lifting his hands in surrender.

“I’ll go,” he said. “But this isn’t over.”

He brushed past her, close enough that she caught the scent of cedar and regret. She stood in the doorway long after he was gone, her fingers trembling, her chest too tight to breathe.

***

Back inside her office, Savannah shut the door and leaned against it, as if bracing herself against the rush of invisible waves.

The space felt colder now, the minimalist furniture suddenly sterile. Even the sunlight pouring through the glass felt like interrogation lights.

She moved stiffly to her desk and lowered herself into the chair, gripping its arms to keep from shaking. Sawyer’s voice still rang in her head.

Her father. The accident. Tampered brakes.

Colton.

No. It couldn’t be.

She buried her face in her hands. Sawyer was lying. Stirring the past because he hated Colton, because he missed the spotlight, because he still wanted to control her.

Didn’t he?

She stood suddenly, pacing the room. Her reflection followed her in the wall of windows. Polished. Elegant. Trapped. The wedding ring on her finger gleamed mockingly.

She poured herself a glass of water from the decanter Colton had installed, watching her hand tremble slightly as she brought it to her lips. She hated that he could still get under her skin. She hated more that part of her wanted to believe him.

Colton owns the land.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

The phone buzzed. A calendar reminder flashed: Media Shoot – 4:00 PM. Location: Studio A.

Another charade to play. Another camera to smile for.

She straightened her spine. Pretend. Lie if you must. That’s what Colton expected. And what she’d become very good at.

***

The penthouse loomed like a cathedral of silence that evening. Even the staff moved more quietly than usual, like the halls themselves demanded reverence.

Savannah wandered barefoot, wrapped in a charcoal cardigan two sizes too large—one of Colton’s, left abandoned on the back of a leather armchair. It smelled like him: bergamot, rain, and something colder.

She walked without purpose, following instinct more than intention. Her mind spun circles around Sawyer’s words, around her father’s voice — long gone but never truly silent.

She found herself on the third floor, in front of the black door. It pulsed with secrets. Her hand hovered over the keypad.

Her reflection in the polished metal looked fragile. Tired. Curious. A woman balanced on the edge of something she couldn’t yet name.

She reached forward—

“You don’t want to open that.”

She turned fast. Rhett Maddox stood a few feet away, as if he’d been summoned by the weight of her intent.

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie,” he said. Not unkindly. Just firmly.

Her lips pressed together. “What’s in there?”

He stared at the door, his broad shoulders casting shadows across the wall. “Whatever’s behind that door already ruined one life. Don’t let it take yours too.”

Her skin prickled. “Whose life?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and disappeared down the hallway.

The door’s keypad glowed briefly before dimming again. Savannah stood there, alone with her questions and the whispering silence.

***

The migraine hit without warning—sharp, relentless, blooming behind her eyes like fire.

She barely made it to the bed. Her limbs were lead. Her skull felt as though it were splitting down the middle. Even breathing hurt.

Time became elastic. Minutes bled into hours. She wasn't sure when the knock came. Soft, measured.

The door creaked open. A silhouette appeared in the golden hallway light.

Colton.

He stepped inside, quiet as mist, holding a silver tray. A steaming mug. Two white pills. A folded cloth.

He didn’t speak as he set it on the nightstand. Didn’t ask questions. Just sat beside her and brushed the damp hair from her forehead.

She winced at the touch—but it was cool. Steady.

“You should’ve called someone,” he murmured.

Her lips parted, but her voice was gone.

He dipped the cloth into ice water and pressed it gently to her forehead, the gesture startling in its tenderness. Then he pulled the covers higher around her shoulders, tucking her in like glass.

She stared at him through half-lidded eyes. He looked different in the dimness. Tired. Haunted.

“Why are you being nice to me?” she rasped.

He didn’t answer. Just brushed a hand across her temple, eyes shadowed with something she couldn’t name.

Guilt?

Fear?

He rose and walked to the door.

“Sleep,” he said without turning.

And then he was gone.

In the silence that followed, Savannah lay still. Staring into the dark. Wondering which version of Colton was real — the cold manipulator she feared.

Or the man who brought her tea when she couldn’t ask.