Page 25 of Freeing Savannah

A close, breathy voice startled her, making her whirl around to see who had spoken. “You look beautiful.”

With a hand placed firmly over her wildly beating heart, she tried to calm the organ as it pounded against her ribs. Recognizing the man, she let out a breath and said, “Oh, Brian,” her voice soft. Brian Hammerstein was her piano technician. He followed her to all her performances and made sure the pianos were tuned and in perfect order. “How are you? Did you have any troubles working on the piano?”

His smile showed a crooked canine tooth that was quite noticeable. “Everything went perfectly.”

At nearly her own height, Brian stood there, his hands nervously fidgeting with the middle button on his shirt. The man was unremarkable in every aspect except for his unparalleled genius when it came to his work with pianos. Typically, most concert pianists didn’t travel with their own personal tuners, nevertheless, Savannah maintained the unwavering conviction that Brian was an indispensable member of her touring team and that she couldn’t possibly perform at her peak without him.

She returned his smile. “Good. That’s great. What would I ever do without you?”

Brian blushed more than any man Savannah had ever seen, a reaction that she found endearing. He continued twisting the already strained shirt button, causing her to fear its imminent detachment before he replied, “You never have to find out.”

Laying a hand over his fidgeting fingers, she gently stopped his nervous fiddling and softly said, “Thank you, Brian. Really.”

His eyes widened, his body rigid, and every inch of him stilled as his blush deepened, a tide of crimson rose in his neck and face. “You never have to thank me, you know that. I’m happy to help.”

She dropped her hand before replying. “I know. But I just wanted you to know I appreciate you.”

Embarrassed, his chin fell, and he instinctively reached for the button, but hesitated, stopping himself before he could play with it again. “Well, I’ll leave you alone to prepare for your performance. Break a leg.”

He walked away, and she turned her attention back to the activity on the stage. The cavernous space was filled with the discordant sounds of the Orchestre National de France tuning their instruments as they prepared to accompany her. This wasn’t just a concert. It was diplomacy wrapped in a melody. A performance attended by foreign ministers, diplomats, press, and world leaders. She was expected to be more than a pianist tonight. She was a symbol. A bridge.

And she’d always hated being a symbol.

The truth was, she didn’t belong in a gilded theater under international scrutiny. She belonged in the quiet of practice rooms, in echoing rehearsal halls, in her home with her windows cracked open and sheet music scattered across the floor.

A place where the music was just . . . music.

But that wasn’t tonight.

“You all right?” Sawyer’s voice drifted from behind her, low and steady.

She turned slightly, just enough to glance over her shoulder and nod. He was close—close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence. His gaze scanned the theater, always alert, always reading the room like a chessboard.

“I just . . .” She hesitated, letting her eyes sweep the grandeur again. “It’s beautiful. But it doesn’t feel like it’s mine.”

Sawyer’s brow lifted. “You’re about to make it yours.”

Her chest tightened with emotion, an ache too familiar to name.

The orchestra quieted, and the concertmaster stepped out onto the stage with her violin clutched in one hand. With the precise tuning complete, the conductor emerged to a round of applause. Then it was her turn. With one last breath, she stepped onto the stage, her heels echoing faintly against the wood. The soft rustle of an audience settling into velvet seats reached her ears as the house lights dimmed.

Behind her, the curtain swayed gently.

Ahead, the golden hush of the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées waited, ready to hold her every note.

Savannah lifted her chin and walked to the gleaming black grand piano, ready to play.

The first note silenced the room. She poured herself into the music, clinging to every crescendo, every swell of emotion. The concert unfolded like a dreamscape, her fingers on the ivory keys painting stories of grief, love, unity. For a little while, she forgot everything—the expectations, the cameras, the Senator’s demands.

When the last note faded into reverent silence, applause erupted like thunder.

She rose, bowed. Smiled. And began to count the steps until she could breathe again, because now the real performance began.

The reception glittered beneath gold trim and wine glasses. Crystal chandeliers glittered above the grand hall like a thousand watching eyes. Waiters moved gracefully with silver trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Kandy gushed beside a French film producer. Henry charmed his way through the room, his smile dazzling each woman he encountered.

Savannah stood off to the side, smiling politely, glass in hand, but never partaking. Just another prop in the play that was her life.

Everyone wanted to shake her hand. Everyone wanted a quote. A photograph. A comment on her “courageous” musical mission. She smiled. Nodded. Gave polite, vague answers.

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