"The bank smelled like bleach and marble," Savannah thought bitterly, stepping through the revolving door like someone still clinging to the illusion of belonging. Her heels echoed too loudly in the cathedral-quiet lobby, each step betraying her presence in a place that now felt foreign.
She didn't belong here anymore.
Once, she would glide through these spaces with the grace of old money and confidence carved into her bones. But today, her coat hugged her arms a little too tightly, the seams whispering of weight lost to stress and sleepless nights. Her handbag once a statement of understated luxury had scuffs along the edges she hadn't noticed before.
The receptionist barely looked up, tapping long, shell-pink nails against a glowing screen.
"Miss Delacroix?" Her voice was too sweet, too casual for the gravity in Savannah's chest. "They're expecting you. Top floor. Executive suite."
Savannah offered no smile, only a brief nod, and moved toward the elevators. The mirrored walls reflected a version of her she didn't quite recognize shoulders squared in defiance, yes, but eyes shadowed by months of quiet desperation.
The doors slid open with a hush. She stepped in. Alone.
When they opened again, she was greeted by the sterile chill of air conditioning and the disinterested gazes of two men in dark suits Hill and Donner. Neither rose from their leather chairs, their posture stiff with corporate politeness.
"Miss Delacroix," Hill began, gesturing to a glass chair across the obsidian desk. "Thank you for coming."
She didn't sit right away. Let the silence breathe. Then: "Did I have a choice?"
Donner glanced at his colleague, then cleared his throat. "We've completed the final audit on your father's holdings."
Savannah sank into the chair, back straight. "And?"
Hill leaned forward. "The liabilities exceed the assets by approximately "
" eight figures," Donner finished, removing his glasses as if that softened the blow.
She stared at them, unmoving. "You're saying there's nothing left. Not even the Savannah house?"
Donner folded his hands. "That property was used as collateral in a leveraged investment deal. Meridian Development owns it now."
The words knocked something loose inside her chest. Something brittle. The house her childhood summers, her mother's laughter in the garden, her father's scent in the library. Gone.
Gone.
"So I'm broke." Her voice didn't crack. She wouldn't let it.
"You're insolvent," Hill corrected, too gently. "Your accounts are frozen, your name flagged, and multiple creditors have already initiated collection procedures. You're out of time, Miss Delacroix."
She inhaled through her nose, lips parting. "An extension. Two months. I have a vineyard plot in Oregon. It's old, but the land alone "
"Your father defaulted on three liens in his final year," Donner interrupted. "The estate is no longer yours to leverage."
Silence folded around them like damp velvet.
Hill reached into a drawer and produced an envelope. No logo. No return address. Just her name, written in dark ink that looked hand-pressed. Personal. Intentional.
"There is one party willing to assume the debt," Hill said, pushing it toward her. "Wipe it clean. Completely."
Savannah didn't move. "Who?"
"He's waiting for you. Downstairs."
She descended back to the lobby with trembling hands hidden in fists. Her breath caught as the elevator doors opened again, not to the sterile lobby but to a private wing. She stepped into a room more like a sanctum than an office: dark wood, high ceilings, a sweeping view of the city obscured by rain.
He was standing by the window. One hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of amber scotch.
Rhett Callahan.
He didn't turn when she entered.
"I thought you might come," he said.
She paused, a few steps in. "You didn't even know I got the envelope."
"I knew you were desperate."
That shut her up.
When he turned, it was like being hit by a cold wind. Tall, lean, brutal in the precision of his beauty. His features looked chiseled from some unforgiving stone sharp cheekbones, a firm jaw, lips that knew exactly when to smirk and when not to move at all. His eyes were cool, calculating. Too calm.
She crossed her arms. "If you dragged me here for a pity play, I'll save you the trouble. I'm not interested in handouts."
Rhett walked to the desk, pressed a button. The door behind her slid shut, sealing the room.
"I'm not offering charity." He poured more scotch, the clink of ice sharp. "You need money. I need a wife."
The silence after that was deafening.
"A what?" she said, voice too high, too thin.
"A wife," he repeated. "Twelve months. Appearances only. You wear my name, attend a few events, smile for the cameras. In exchange, I erase your debt. Every last cent."
Her breath caught. "You're out of your goddamn mind."
"No," he said, calmly. "I'm efficient. I acquired your debt last night. Technically, I already own you."
She took a step back.
He didn't flinch. "This isn't coercion. You can walk away right now. But the moment you do, your creditors will bury you. You'll lose everything. Whatever pride you have left won't stop the legal avalanche that's about to hit."
He placed a folder on the desk. No label. No company seal.
Just her name again.
"Why me?" she asked.
His eyes met hers. There was a flicker. Not kindness. Not cruelty. Something in between.
"Because you're used to pretending."
She opened the folder. The contract inside was dense with legal jargon, printed on thick ivory paper. Clauses about media control, confidentiality, performance expectations. Appearances. Statements. Family narratives. One year of fiction.
"No physical intimacy required," she muttered aloud.
"That part was your father's idea," he said absently.
Her head snapped up.
"You knew my father?"
"I made him an offer once," he said. "He laughed in my face. Now I'm making the same offer to you. Poetic, isn't it?"
She slammed the folder shut. "You think this is poetic?"
"I think it's survival."
"And what do you get out of it, exactly?"
He didn't blink. "My board is finalizing a merger with a conservative dynasty that values… image. Legacy. They expect stability, tradition. A wife. A future heir. This gives them the illusion. You provide the optics. I provide the escape hatch."
Savannah stared at him. "You're asking me to sell my name, my life, my future for twelve months of being your... accessory?"
He stepped closer, not quite touching her.
"I'm offering you a second chance."
She was shaking now. Rage, disbelief, or exhaustion she couldn't tell. "And if I break the contract? If I fall in love with you? Or if I so much as step out of line?"
Without a word, he flipped to the last page and pointed.
Clause 19.
Violation will result in immediate forfeiture of financial protections, asset seizure, and legal action to the full extent permitted under binding arbitration.
Savannah swallowed. "You're serious."
"As death."
Her voice cracked. "You're not even pretending to be human, are you?"
"No," he said. "But I do pay my debts."
She looked down at the contract again.
The paper felt heavier now.
"You'll have thirty days to prepare," Rhett said. "You'll move into my home. My staff will instruct you. Wardrobe, etiquette, background briefings. Everything will be curated. No surprises."
Her eyes narrowed. "And after twelve months?"
"You walk away. Debt-free. Anonymous. Untouched."
"Except for my pride."
He didn't argue.
Savannah stared at the pen beside the folder. Her hands felt numb.
"You're not here to fall in love, Savannah," he said softly. "You're here to survive. Sign it."
And though he said it like a man offering a business transaction, something about the way he looked at her steady, unreadable, controlled made her wonder what the hell he'd buried beneath that glass-and-iron exterior.
She reached for the pen.
And for the first time in months, her hand didn't tremble.