Page 24 of Fallen Heir
He did that to her. I knew it in my gut. Bruce. The same bastard who manipulated her, isolated her, married her under a deal I still couldn’t fully unravel.
I wanted to kill him. But I couldn’t. Not yet.
Tonight mattered too much. This wasn’t just another black-tie event. It was my mother’s legacy—a promise she made after losing someone she loved to the kind of violence I’m certain Savannah had barely escaped. She never got to see what this became. But I did. And now, standing here, it wasn’t just about honoring her memory. It was about protecting someone who reminded me why my mother started this in the first place.
It was Saturday. The night of the gala at the Met. Savannah had insisted on arriving alone. That had nearly started a fight in itself.
We’d exchanged texts all week—light banter, harmless back-and-forths. But behind every word, I could feel her walls. Every sentence was perfectly composed. Guarded. And she lied. About where she was from. About her past. About everything that could tether her to the truth.
I couldn’t call her out. Not without exposing myself. And not without unraveling every quiet move I’d made since shewalked into my life. But I saw through it. And worse, now I knew why.
I stood in front of the massive marble mirror inside the Met, watching the final touches of the setup come together. My team had already arrived, photographers were staking out positions, and the VIPs were trickling in. But my eyes stayed on the front entrance. Waiting. Because if she showed up… I’d need every ounce of restraint to play it cool. And if she didn’t? Well. I wouldn’t blame her.
I’d sent the gown to her office the day before. Midnight blue, custom-fit, elegant enough to command the room but soft enough to remind her she didn’t owe it a damn thing. She hadn’t asked for this. I had. And she didn’t deserve to pay for my mess. Even if I knew she could.
Because I’d watched her all week—her accounts, her movements, her patterns. Not out of control. Out of caution. She only pulled from one account. A new one. Opened right when she landed in Manhattan. Her name on it. Transactions for coffee shops, a bookstore, groceries, nothing unusual—But it made her traceable. So fucking easy to find.
If Bruce got a sniff of her trail, it wouldn’t take him long. And I knew he eventually would.Why the hell hadn’t she changed her name? Why hadn’t she protected herself?Part of me hated her for it. Most of me hated myself for now knowing and continuing to let it happen. I shouldn’t have gone forward with our arrangement. But I wasn’t about to walk away. And I couldn’t show my hand.
Ben was already inside, dressed to blend, stationed near the front. His eyes were sharp, scanning every inch of the gala for signs of danger. Tonight, I’d introduce them—Ben and Savannah. He could watch her in ways I couldn’t. Not without making her run.
He’d track her every move—bathroom breaks, coffee runs, even if she so much as reached for a tissue. He’d know everything. And if anything went sideways—if Bruce made a move, if someone recognized her—Ben wouldn’t hesitate. He’d end it before it even started. He’d handle it.
I took a breath, slow and deep, grounding myself. Trying not to think too much about her inevitably having to deal with Bruce.
Then the doors opened.
And she walked in.
Not in the gown I’d sent—the custom midnight blue Oscar de la Renta that cost more than most people made in a month. No. She wore something else. Gold. Long sleeves. High neckline. Elegant. Conservative. Regal. And yet—every curve of her body was sculpted beneath that dress like it had been stitched onto her skin by the gods themselves.
My mouth went dry. She looked like royalty. Untouchable. Like she didn’t belong in a room full of people but above it—aboveallof us. And fuck me, she didn’t even try.
She wasn’t aiming to steal the spotlight, but she did—without lifting a finger. That dress wasn’t designed to seduce. It was armor. A quiet declaration of power. And somehow, it made her even more lethal.
My body reacted before my mind had a chance to catch up—heat spreading low in my spine, pulse thudding at the base of my throat. I shifted, hands balling into fists at my sides just to keep them from reaching for her. Every inch of control I had… gone.
Because that was the problem. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was devastating. And I had no idea how I was supposed to get through the night without showing every crack she put in my composure. She wasn’t mine. But watching her walk toward me in that dress? For a split second—that’s all I wanted her to be.
She hadn’t chosen that gown to impress me. She’d chosen it to hide. To cover every inch of her skin.
The reality of it all hit me like a ton of bricks. Every time I’d seen her—every outfit, every moment—she’d kept herself covered. Long sleeves in warm weather. High necklines. Nothing revealing. Not once. Because there were more scars.
I knew it now. Not just the vicious one I’d seen. But others. Scars no one was meant to witness.
And still... she stole the air from my lungs. The fabric shimmered beneath the Met’s golden lights, clinging to her waist, flaring just enough at her hips to make the entire room pause. No slit. No plunge. Not a single inch of skin beyond her hands and face.
My jaw clenched as I stepped forward, instinct dragging me toward her before logic could hold me back.
She scanned the room slowly, eyes calculating, cautious. Like she knew she was being watched. Her gaze found mine, and everything in me tightened. Because in that moment, the world could’ve been on fire…And I’d still only see her.
I stepped into her orbit, close enough to catch the delicate scent of her perfume—vanilla, and maybe jasmine, soft and fucking lethal.
“Savannah,” I said, voice low.
She tilted her chin up slightly, giving me that careful, practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes. “Jaxson.”
I leaned in and brushed a kiss against her cheek—innocent enough for the cameras, for the guests, for the story we were selling. But my body didn’t give a damn about the performance.
