Page 19 of Freeing Savannah

Daphne groaned while continuing to take pictures with her phone. “This isn’t a traffic circle—it’s a death wish.”

For a moment, everything slowed. The arch rose beside them, regal and timeless, carved with centuries of triumphs and grief. Pedestrians paused on the distant viewing deck above, silhouetted against a cotton-candy sky, and the Eiffel Tower shimmered far in the background like a memory. Savannah turned her face to the window, breath catching.

“It’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” she murmured. But her heart hammered for reasons that had nothing to do with the driving or the iconic landmark. Maybe it was the history towering beside them, maybe it was the rush of adrenaline. Or maybe it was the way Sawyer turned to look at her just then, his gray eyes catching hers, steady in the whirlwind.

“We survive this,” he said, “I’m buying everyone croissants.”

Savannah laughed, loud and unrestrained, and for a moment, despite the chaos, it felt like the most beautiful place on Earth.

The car spun in a wide arc, navigating the madness with the confidence of someone born to it. Their driver grinned, weaving past a truck and veering toward one of the twelve exits without blinking. “Voilà!” he declared as they peeled off onto another avenue, tires humming.

Savannah let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her laugh bubbling up in the wake of adrenaline. “That was?—”

“Insane,” Daphne groaned.

“Exhilarating,” the driver declared. A shared look of disbelief passed between Savannah and Sawyer, his eyes mirroring hers before he turned away to face front again.

The Arc de Triomphe faded behind them in the rear window and it dawned on her.

She was in Paris.

She should’ve felt enchanted.

But all she felt was . . . off. Like she was an imposter and didn’t belong on this tour. Who was she, a nobody, to think she could navigate the treacherous world of diplomacy? What qualifications did she possess, or what experiences had she had, to believe that she was suited for this role?

She was a musician. Plain and simple. Though she was used to large audiences, the sheer scale of the world stage felt different, the pressure a palpable weight.

The reality of what she was doing, the magnitude of this world tour, the way the media dubbed her “the musical diplomat,” pressed heavily on her chest.

Uniting nations through music. It sounded poetic. Noble, even. But no one seemed to care that she was an introvert with a fear of public speaking and an aversion to crowded rooms. Shecould command a stage with a piano, but small talk with heads of state?

The thought filled her with a queasy feeling, a nauseous dread that made her stomach clench.

The SUV glided to a stop in front of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, its cherry-red awnings fluttering gently in the breeze like silk flags marking the end of a royal procession. The doormen, dressed in crisp navy uniforms with gold trim, moved in perfect synchrony to open the doors, like they’d been waiting just for them.

Savannah blinked up at the hotel’s façade, breath catching. Ironwork balconies overflowed with scarlet geraniums, and the pale stone gleamed like something out of a Parisian fairytale. It didn’t feel like a place people stayed. It felt like a place people dreamed of.

“This is . . .” Daphne slid out behind her, turning in a slow circle. “Okay, this isridiculousin the best way.”

Savannah stepped onto the curb, boot heels clicking against the cobblestone, the scent of blooming flowers and freshly baked pastries lingering in the air. Everything felt heightened. Too beautiful, too perfect. Paris had a way of doing that. But this? This was another level.

Sawyer joined her at the curb, slipping his sunglasses into the breast pocket of the sports coat he’d slipped on after their arrival as he surveyed the building like a man trained to notice every detail. He looked exactly the same and entirely different. Older, broader, a shadow of steel in his expression. But when he looked at her, something soft flickered in his eyes.

Inside, the lobby sparkled with chandeliers and hushed elegance, all ivory marble and velvet textures that made Savannah instinctively stand a little taller. Sawyer stood beside her as the concierge stepped forward with a bow and a warm, “Bienvenue.”

And suddenly, the glittering hotel didn’t feel so overwhelming.

Because she wasn’t walking into it alone.

Savannah’s suite was nothing short of a dream carved in silk and sunlight. She didn’t even bother to hide her jaw drop reaction as Sawyer and the bellhops with their luggage followed her into the room. Just like Daphne had downstairs, she spun in a slow circle, taking in every detail of the luxury suite.

The room was bathed in soft gold light pouring through tall windows that overlooked Avenue Montaigne. Just beyond the delicate ironwork balcony, the Eiffel Tower rose in perfect view, half-shrouded in afternoon mist, like it had been painted there just for her.

Inside, elegance whispered from every detail. The walls were dressed in pale cream paneling trimmed in gold leaf, with hand-painted floral motifs trailing like vines toward the ceiling’s crystal chandelier. A tufted velvet chaise in a muted rose sat at the foot of the grand canopy bed, its gauzy curtains tied back with tasseled cords that looked too delicate to touch.

Fresh flowers, roses and peonies in soft blush and ivory, had been arranged on the polished writing desk beside a welcome note in graceful script and a silver tray holding macaroons in pastel colors. The scent of vanilla and roses lingered in the air, subtle but unmistakably French.

Savannah walked to the window, resting her fingers lightly on the frame as the city stretched out below her. It was breathtaking, yes. Almost too perfect.

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