"Say something," Savannah said.
Rhett didn't even blink.
The ride back from the gala was bone-quiet, a silence so thick it pressed between them like glass. The luxury car rolled over moonlit desert roads, the city behind them flickering like a lie they'd already outgrown.
"Anything," she added.
Still nothing. He didn't look at her. Not once.
"You kissed me in front of the world, Rhett," she pressed. "And now you won't even look at me?"
"I don't regret it."
"You don't regret silencing me with a headline?"
"I don't regret the kiss."
The car swerved slightly as the driver flinched. Rhett didn't notice. Savannah stared at him.
"Why?" she whispered.
His jaw clenched, but his voice remained cold. "Because it shut them up. And because you needed to know what it felt like to matter in a moment that wasn't just about surviving."
"You think kissing me solved that?"
"I think it reminded you you're not invisible."
Her laugh was brittle. "Is that what I am to you? Something to remind?"
He didn't answer.
The estate's iron gates opened silently, swallowing them into its mouth of manicured stone and towering silence. By the time the car stopped at the grand entrance, Savannah's nails had left crescents in her palm.
She stepped out first, heels clicking against the marble. She didn't wait for him. Didn't ask.
The moment she reached the top of the staircase, she turned, voice clipped.
"Why did you kiss me like that, Rhett?"
He reached the stairs, loosened his tie, and walked past her like she hadn't spoken.
"Because no one questions what's real when it burns."
The words cut, tossed over his shoulder like scraps.
He disappeared down the west wing.
She stood frozen.
Savannah's feet moved before her thoughts did. Past the rows of closed doors. Past her designated room.
To the one that had no name.
No traffic.
No welcome.
But tonight, something pulled her to it like gravity.
She placed her palm against the door. Warm. Faintly pulsing, like the room itself was breathing.
Then she heard it.
A sound inside.
A thump. Then silence.
Her breath caught.
"Hello?" she whispered.
Nothing.
She turned the handle. Locked.
Her pulse quickened. The ache of unanswered questions pushed at her chest. This house was full of secrets, and Rhett had hidden them behind brushed oak and silence.
Not tonight.
She returned to her room, slipped out a thin brass pick from the lining of her purse the one she used on her father's old safe when money went missing.
Back at the door, her fingers worked.
Click.
The door opened.
And the breath left her lungs.
The air inside was still. Ancient.
Savannah stepped in slowly, letting the door ease shut behind her.
A velvet rug. A cracked leather armchair. Walls lined with floating shelves. But no books just photos, medals, baseballs, trophies.
And dust. Time had settled thick in the corners.
On the far wall, a collage of photographs.
Her steps slowed.
Two boys. One blond. One dark-haired. Beach photos. Graduation caps.
Rhett.
And the other similar in build but softer in spirit. A laugh
frozen in every frame.
Her eyes moved to the frame in the center.
A memorial.
Liam Callahan. 1989–2014.
A candle burned low beside it.
Her breath hitched.
She whispered, "He had a brother…"
She reached out.
Next to the frame, a sealed envelope. The handwriting was messy, childlike.
To Rhett. Open only when you're happy again.
Her fingers trembled as she grazed the corner of the paper.
"You don't go in there."
She froze.
The voice behind her didn't shout. It didn't need to.
She turned.
Rhett stood in the doorway, tie gone, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His face unreadable, but his eyes his eyes were stripped bare.
"I heard something," she said softly. "I thought someone was inside."
He stepped forward. "You were wrong."
"Rhett "
"I told you. This room is not yours."
She looked down. "I didn't mean to disrespect it. Or you."
His gaze didn't soften. "That room is all I have left of him."
Her throat tightened. "I didn't know. I didn't "
"Of course you didn't."
He walked past her. Blew out the candle. Closed the photo album. Touched the guitar's neck briefly, reverently.
She watched him. He wasn't angry. He was unraveling quietly, in the kind of silence that came from years of keeping everything in.
"Rhett," she said again.
He turned to her. "Do you want to know why I built this house with wings no one walks through? Why every door here locks from the outside?"
She nodded slowly.
"Because when Liam died, the walls stopped feeling like walls. They felt like coffins. Every room. Every sound."
Her voice cracked. "What happened?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I was supposed to pick him up that night," he said finally. "He called. I ignored it. Too busy with some board vote. I figured I'd call back in an hour."
She closed the distance between them slightly. "You didn't call back."
"No."
His hands flexed at his sides.
"They found him at the bottom of the canyon road. Car flipped. Phone in his hand."
Savannah's eyes welled. "He was calling you?"
"He was always calling me," Rhett whispered. "Even when I stopped answering."
A silence stretched between them. Thick with grief.
Savannah reached out. Her fingers brushed his forearm. He didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He looked at her truly looked.
"You want to understand me?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then understand this I don't let people in. Because when I do, they don't come back."
Her voice wavered. "You let me in."
"Don't remind me."
He stepped back, out of her reach.
Then he turned toward the door.
"I kissed you tonight," he said without facing her.
"I know."
"I wanted to mean it less than I did."
"I know that, too."
The air pulsed.
"I'm not the man you think I am," he murmured.
"No," she said. "You're the man you're terrified of becoming."
The words hung there like a truth too loud to ignore.
He walked out.
And this time, he didn't lock the door.
Savannah stayed, staring at the photo of Liam, her heart pounding.
The boy in the picture was smiling. But the man who loved him hadn't smiled in years.
She sat slowly on the old armchair. The guitar beside her. The candle cold.
And for the first time, she didn't feel like a guest.
She felt like a witness.
To grief.
To truth.
To the first door Rhett had ever opened without saying a word.