Page 14 of Freeing Savannah

“Will Senator McNabney be joining the tour at any point?”

“Savannah, will you be only performing solo pieces, or can we expect a collaboration between you and Kandy? Or you and Henry Patrick.” Henry was one of the other singers participating in the tour. A man who gave Savannah the heebie-jeebies with just one word.

She nodded, murmured her lines. Said what she was supposed to say. But her gaze kept drifting past the reporters, past the flashing cameras, toward the edge of the hangar where she knew Sawyer was waiting. Leaning in the shadows like a silent wall between her and everything fake about this moment.

He stood a few feet from the wall and tucked his sunglasses into his collar as her mother approached. As they spoke, hecrossed his arms over his chest like he was daring trouble to come his way. He hadn’t smiled much, but somehow, his presence alone was the first steady note in a cacophony she hadn’t learned how to silence.

She wanted to be near him. Just breathe the same air without feeling like she had to impress anyone.

Savannah took a step back, just an inch, and the weight of the cameras shifted. The Senator’s hand tightened on her side, fingers pressing just under the cover of her billowy sleeve. To the press, it looked like a loving touch between a father and a daughter. To her, it felt like a warning.

He leaned in, voice low and cool through clenched teeth. “Eyes forward. Smile wider. You’re slipping, Savannah. Act like you’re thrilled to be here.” Then louder, for the cameras, “She’s just a little shy in the spotlight, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Savannah’s stomach twisted. She nodded, trying to salvage the moment with a polite laugh, but her throat felt tight.

Kandy tossed her head with a laugh at some reporter’s joke, the crowd eating it up. Savannah gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. A headache started to form, and her eye twitched involuntarily, a tell-tale sign of the migraine’s approach. With the overseas flight looming, she really didn’t want to be dealing with the added misery. She knew the nausea and light sensitivity of a migraine would make the cramped conditions and long hours of the flight a living hell.

She tried to ignore the growing discomfort as they were peppered with a rapid-fire volley of questions, coming at them one after the other so fast they could barely keep up. “Savannah?” a journalist called out. “How do you respond to critics who say this tour is political theater dressed in designer clothes?”

“Senator McNabney, is this tour intended to boost diplomatic relations or your reelection campaign?”

The reporter in front of her leaned in. “Savannah, how does it feel to be representing classical music alongside Kandy’s pop appeal? Are you excited to show a different side of culture to the world?”

She hesitated. Her real answer sat on the tip of her tongue—I don’t belong up here—but the Senator’s hand pressed slightly harder.

Smile. Speak.

“I’m . . . honored,” she said finally. “I hope to remind people that music, no matter the genre, speaks the same language.”

The Senator, a smirk playing on his lips, stepped in with a chuckle, the sound grating on Savannah’s nerves as much as his self-importance. “Savannah has always believed in the power of music to unite. This tour is about cultural connection—and yes, a little fun, too.”

The press laughed.

Savannah didn’t.

Her gaze pulled back toward Sawyer. He was watching her. Not the media, not the Senator. Her. And there was a furrow in his brow, like he could see exactly how badly she wanted to run. His eyes on her felt like a touch, comforting, quiet, and attentive. Not demanding. Not disappointed.

Just there.

And it struck her then with a sudden, breath-stealing certainty that while the world expected her to be the good girl, the Senator’s daughter, the pianist who smiled on cue, the only person who sawher—really saw her—was standing in the shadows.

And she wanted nothing more than to go to him. As Savannah took a step to do just that, a sharp crack echoed through the hangar. It wasn’t loud enough to be a gunshot, but it wasn’t far off.

The reporters went quiet in a wave, heads turning, cameras lowering mid-click.

Sawyer was already moving.

Savannah’s heart jolted. He was cutting across the space with purpose, his hand instinctively brushing the holster at his back. His eyes swept the perimeter like a predator scenting blood.

“Stay here,” the Senator barked to her under his breath, suddenly all steel behind the politician’s mask. Secret Service agents stepped forward, shielding the Senator and the VIPs.

Savannah’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“What was that?” Kandy whispered, eyes wide behind her false lashes. “OMG. A crazy fanatic is coming after me. I need protection,” she yelled. “Now!” Savannah fought the urge to roll her eyes at the diva’s dramatics.

From the far corner of the hangar, near the loading bay, a figure stumbled out from behind a stack of equipment cases the crew had been diligently loading as the press conference occurred.

A disheveled and wild-eyed man, definitely not one of the tour staff, was yelling something incoherent, his voice rising above the returning chaos.

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