Page 12 of Fallen Heir
And two… somehow, I’d just volunteered to save him.
Chapter 6
Jaxson
“Absolutely not, Mr. Westbrook.” Her voice cracked through the air like a whip. “I see it all over your face. I’m not doing it.”
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t need to.
She was right, Ihadbeen thinking it. The second the words left her mouth, the moment she laid out the solution to my PR disaster with that sharp, strategic mind of hers, I knew.
I wanted her.
Not just for the job.
As my plus-one. My cover. My constant.
From the moment I walked in those double doors this morning and saw Savannah Sinclair—alive, real, right in front of me—I’d been trying to work out how the hell I was going to keep her safe without tipping my hand. She had no idea what kind of danger still surrounded her. What kind of people wanted to find her. What kind of power her last name still held.
And now, she’d unknowingly handed me the key.
I could be there. Every event. Every photo op. Every moment. By her side.
And she wouldn’t suspect a thing.
All I had to do was convince her. Let her believe it was all business. That I needed her formysake. That this was just a business transaction, nothing more.
She didn’t need to know my secrets. I just needed to knowhers.
Because Savannah wasn’t just the solution to my PR problem. She was the key to something bigger. Barbara had whispered it in that letter—something about secrets her daughter didn’t even know. I was to keep her protected at all costs. And now that Savannah was here, alone, vulnerable... I wasn’t just protecting her. I was protecting whatever the hell Barbara died for.
I’d spent the weekend pulling threads, tracing every shadow left behind in her wake. The financial trail was too clean to be accidental. Quiet deposits—thousands at a time—landing in accounts that had already cleared seven figures. All of it routed through businesses tied to old Southern money. Her father's name kept surfacing in back channels, buried inside holdings connected to one name.
The Southern Mafia.
Most people didn’t even know it existed, thought the mob was something you only saw in movies or read about in books. That it died out decades ago, replaced by street thugs and wannabe gangsters.
But I knew better.
Years in the private sector had taught me one thing: the worst monsters didn’t skulk in alleys or wear ski masks. They lived in plain sight—smiling across dinner tables at country clubs, shaking hands at charity galas, calling themselves businessmen. And I knew them all.
Yet… she acted like she didn’t know any of it.
Like she hadn’t grown up with it in her blood.
Was Savannah a pawn—completely unaware of how deep this went? Or was she protecting herself, keeping secrets of her own, making sure her husband didn’t get to the fortune she now controlled?
Or worse… was her husband the one running the empire now?
I’d seen too many women lose their freedom behind wedding vows, too many bruises disguised as marital problems. But this? This felt different. Like whatever Bruce had done to her had cracked something deep, something still healing. And the thought of him near her again? I’d burn the world to stop it.
I hated thinking of her that way—as someone who belonged to another man, even on paper. It gnawed at something raw in me, the idea that she was still tethered to the very thing she could be running from.
And if that was the case—if he wanted her dead—then getting close to her wasn’t just about keeping up appearances. It was about staying one step ahead of a threat that was far too real.
It was survival. Hers and maybe even mine.
Let her think this arrangement was about fixing my reputation. Let her think she was in control.
