The Callahan estate rarely allowed for surprises, but Celeste Arden didn't bother asking permission. The sound of her heels against the marble foyer struck like the prelude to a storm.
Savannah heard the commotion from upstairs. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Celeste was already standing in the entryway, framed by sunlight, fury in every line of her posture.
"Where is he?" she demanded.
Savannah blinked. "Celeste?"
"He's not here, is he?" Celeste said, voice sharp, eyes scanning the space. "Of course he isn't. Because you've been stuck in this museum of a house, playing the perfect wife to a man who's too busy to even show up."
Celeste was stunning bronze curls piled high, dark eyes gleaming, her dress a fitted navy sheath that made her look like she was headed to war rather than brunch. Her diamond earrings flashed with every movement, matching the fire in her words.
Savannah moved forward quickly, glancing toward the hallway. "Lower your voice."
"I'm not here to whisper," Celeste snapped. "You didn't return my messages. And I had to find out from the tabloids that you were giving interviews like some polished mannequin. Savannah, what the hell is going on?"
"I'm fine," Savannah said, the lie falling from her lips like a leaf.
Celeste laughed bitterly. "That's not an answer."
They made their way upstairs, past the gallery hall, and into Savannah's suite. Once the door shut, Celeste dropped the act of formality and reached for her friend's hands.
"You're pale. You've lost weight. Your smile on TV was glass."
"I'm just tired," Savannah murmured.
Celeste moved past her, stopping at the ornate desk where papers lay scattered schedules, designer swatches, PR scripts, and press releases stamped with the Callahan crest. But it was the ivory folder in the corner that caught her attention.
She flipped it open.
And her blood ran cold.
A marriage contract.
Clause after clause. Restrictions. Penalties. Stipulations. Declarations of non-affection. Media obligations. Financial conditions.
She read one line aloud, her voice a whip: "Violation of public decorum may result in termination of financial agreement and property seizure."
She turned slowly. "Savannah, what is this?"
Savannah's mouth parted, but the words didn't come. Her lips trembled, and when she finally spoke, her voice was raw. "It's the reason I can still breathe."
Celeste narrowed her eyes. "He bought you."
Savannah looked away.
Celeste clenched the contract. "You think I won't tell anyone?"
SCENE 8: A Deal with a Friend
"I should burn this," Celeste said, waving the contract.
Savannah grabbed her wrist gently. "Don't."
Celeste stared at her, dark eyes wide. "You married him for this?"
"No. I married him because I had no choice."
Celeste's shoulders sank. She lowered the folder. "You should've told me."
Savannah moved to the window. The desert beyond looked endless, a cage of dust and sky. Even the air outside looked sterile, like it belonged to someone else.
"It was supposed to be a business arrangement," she said softly. "He saved everything. The house. The debt. My family's name."
Celeste crossed to her, her voice low. "At what cost?"
Savannah turned. "You can't tell anyone."
Celeste looked at her like she had just asked her to bury a body.
"You think I want this secret out?" Savannah said. "They'll tear me apart. They'll tear you apart for knowing."
Celeste shook her head. "You can't fake love without bleeding."
Savannah blinked back tears. "I already am."
They sat in silence. Celeste rested her hand gently on Savannah's shoulder, her anger softening into sorrow.
Then Celeste broke it with a sigh.
"I saw Weston Blackwell at the studio yesterday," she said. "He was hanging around the set. Asking questions."
Savannah tensed. "Why?"
Celeste shrugged. "He said something cryptic. About the truth always finding its way out."
Savannah's spine straightened. Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. "He knows."
"Or he wants you to think he does."
SCENE 9: Weston Makes a Move
The art charity gala was held in an old museum downtown converted into a lavish event space filled with gilded sculptures and too much champagne. Chandeliers sparkled above silk-draped tables, and every guest wore their ambition like perfume.
Savannah moved through the crowd like she belonged there, her dress a shimmering slip of gold that hugged her body like a second skin. Her hair was swept up in a sleek twist, her smile honed to perfection. She shook hands, posed for photos, and accepted compliments about her interview with a practiced nod.
Then she saw him.
Weston Blackwell.
Dark suit, crooked grin, leaning against a column like a man who'd just read the last page of a book you were still struggling through.
"Savannah," he said, approaching with two glasses of wine.
She accepted one, reluctantly. "Weston."
"You wear the role well," he said, sipping his drink.
"Did you come to talk about my fashion?"
"I came to talk about your husband."
Her grip tightened on the glass.
Weston's eyes glittered. "Not everything about Rhett Callahan is public record."
She stared at him. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket, "some ghosts don't stay buried."
He handed her a flash drive. "Consider this a wedding gift."
She didn't take it.
"Why me?" she asked.
"Because you're either the smartest liar in the room or the most broken truth."
Then he pressed the flash drive into her palm.
And vanished into the crowd.
Savannah stood frozen, fingers clenched around the plastic.
And somewhere deep inside her chest, the truth began to stir.