"There is no together, Romeo. There can't be. Not anymore."
But even as she says it, she's leaning into my touch. Her hand comes up to cover mine, and I can feel her trembling.
"You're lying," I say softly. "You don't want this any more than I do."
"What I want doesn't matter?—”
I kiss her.
I know I shouldn't. I know it's wrong, that it's exactly what she's asking me not to do. But I can't help it. I need to feel her, need to taste her, to prove that what we have is real.
For a moment, she kisses me back. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I can feel her desperation matching my own.
Then she shoves me away.
"No." She's breathing hard, her lips swollen from the kiss. "No, you can't—we can't?—"
"Savannah—"
"Get out."
"Please—"
"Get out of my life. Get—" Her voice breaks completely. "Just go, Romeo. Please. Just go."
I stare at her, and I can see the conflict in her eyes. The part of her that wants me to stay is warring with the part that knows I have to leave.
"I love you," I whisper. The words feel like they’re being torn from me. I see her eyes widen, and she shakes her head, backing up.
"I know." She's crying harder now. "I know you do. But it's not enough. Not when loving you costs me everything else."
"It doesn't have to?—"
"Yes, it does. And I can't—I can't pay that price. Not anymore." She steps back and starts to close the door.
"Savannah, wait?—"
"Goodbye, Romeo."
The door closes.
I stand there, staring at the wood, my hand raised to knock again. But I don't. Because somewhere, in the part of my brain that's still capable of rational thought, I know that knocking again will only make things worse. I know that pushing harder will only drive her further away.
I know that I've lost.
17
ROMEO
Ihaven't slept in three days, not really.
It’s just been fractured intervals of unconsciousness, where I dream about her and then wake up tangled up in sheets that smell like my own sweat and the memory of her perfume. Now I’m awake again, like I have been for most of those three days.
I've been staring at the same spreadsheet for the past two hours, watching the numbers blur and refocus until they stop meaning anything at all. I’ve gone over and over the proof of Whitmore’s embezzlement—bank transfers that don't match the ledgers, shell companies that exist only on paper, money flowing out of the Whitmore accounts and into offshore holdings. Transactions of debts paid to accounts that are clearly fishy enough to belong to debt holders and loan sharks.
I can't think about anything except Savannah, who told me to leave, and I'm using every skill my father ever taught me to find a way to keep her. This folder full of financial crimes and carefully documented fraud—it's not about justice or protecting the family's interests or any of the rational justifications I've been telling myself. It's about Savannah. It's about finding leverage,finding a way to break the hold her father has over her, finding something—anything—that will make Dante see that she's worth the risk. That she's worth breaking the rules for, that she's worth everything I'm willing to sacrifice to have her.
My time is up, and I can’t walk away from her, even if she told me to leave. I have to see this through.
