Page 18 of Freeing Savannah

Sawyer exhaled slowly. “Dig for more information. And keep up appearances. It has to appear as if nothing has changed. Besides, your stepfather made it clear that nothing was to deter this trip or your involvement in it.”

“I’m not his campaign prop,” she whispered.

“No,” Sawyer said. “You’re not. You’re much more.” That last part slipped out before he could stop it.

Savannah turned her head slowly, studying him. “Sawyer . . .”

He reached down and lightly brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “Sleep. We’ll talk more after. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Promise?”

His heart twisted. “Always.”

She turned to her side, her head still resting on his thigh. While she settled, he pulled the blanked over her. As she drifted off, he sat back and stared into the dark, his hand instinctively drifted toward her. He touched her hair gently, marveling over the golden hues, darker than when she’d been a kid, that played through the strands before settling his hand on her arm. He couldn’tnottouch her. As if awakening from a twenty-year slumber, he felt a need to ground himself, to feel her presence beneath his touch, to steady his suddenly unsteady hands and mind.

Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed having her in his life. How much he needed her in his life.

His thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Olivia. Someone was using this tour for something. And if anyone laid a finger on Savannah, Sawyer would burn their entire plan, and everything behind it, to the ground.

CHAPTER 6

Savannah exhaled slowlyas the plane touched down on the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle. From her window, the glow of the City of Light shimmered in the late afternoon haze, a fairytale scene dressed in gold and mist.

This was supposed to feel magical.

Instead, her stomach knotted tighter with every passing second.

The moment she stepped off the private jet, the crisp Parisian air did little to calm the unease prickling beneath her skin. Cameras were already flashing from a distant press barrier. Her crew, with Sawyer at the helm, moved around her in choreographed motion, ushering her quickly into the waiting SUVs.

With a sigh, Savannah pressed her forehead to the cold window of the sleek black SUV as the skyline of Paris unfolded around them like a page torn from a dream. It should’ve been exhilarating. Her first world tour. TheTheatre des Champs-Élysées, thePalais Garnier. Centuries of music history, of legacy, of beauty,and she was at the center of it.

The black car purred smoothly down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, its polished exterior reflecting the gleam ofluxury storefronts and glowing streetlamps. Paris shimmered outside the windows like a living postcard. Louis Vuitton, Ladurée, Cartier, all iconic and impossibly elegant, lined the famed street. Pedestrians strolled beneath canopies of spring-green trees, and flower carts spilled color onto the sidewalks.

Savannah sat back against the leather seat, the hush of the car a stark contrast to the heartbeat thrumming just beneath her skin. “It’s almost too perfect,” she murmured, gazing out as they passed a café with tiny tables and impossibly stylish patrons sipping espresso.

Sawyer turned slightly in his seat, watching her through the rearview reflection. “Give it ten seconds,” he said, dryly. “We’re about to enter madness.”

Daphne perked up. “What do you mean?”

Their French driver let out a low laugh as the car surged forward toward the Arc de Triomphe, glowing like a crown at the head of the boulevard. “Ah, mesdames, monsieur . . . prepare yourselves.”

And then they were in it.

The orderly grace of the Champs-Élysées vanished in an instant, swallowed whole by a twelve-spoked whirlpool of honking horns, screeching brakes, and fearless scooters darting like minnows between steel sharks. The Arc towered above them, beautiful and unbothered, as if watching the chaos it commanded with amused detachment.

The car merged onto the chaotic roundabout like a fish diving into a glittering, swirling current. All around them, headlights spun in a dizzying ballet, Parisian drivers weaving in and out of invisible lanes with a kind of reckless grace only the French could pull off.

Savannah clutched the edge of her seat, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Do they even have rules here?”

A slow grin spread across Sawyer’s face before he winked, a playful glint in his eyes. “Sure. The rule is chaos.”

The driver chuckled again. “The only rule is you must yield to the right. Alas, not many adhere to that rule. Mon Dieu, hold on!” their driver shouted, more amused than alarmed, as he swerved around a delivery van with all the confidence of a man who’d tangoed with traffic every day of his life.

Sawyer braced one hand against the dash, the other gripping the overhead handle, his expression stuck between disbelief and admiration.

The guy steered smoothly, darting between a Vespa and a Mercedes as horns blared in protest, though no one seemed truly angry.

The Arc loomed massive and glowing, its pale stone bathed in the golden hue of late afternoon light. It was breathtaking. Cars swirled around it in a madness that somehow worked, an elegant mess of screeching tires and shouted curses that only added to the thrill of it all.

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