We've been arguing about this since last night. Romeo wants to be in the room and stand beside me as I present the evidence. He wants to make sure my father understands exactly what will happen if he doesn't help us. But my father made it clear he would meet me only on the condition that he and speak alone, and that Romeo wasn’t present. Romeo’s compromise was that my father and I meet at the penthouse, while Romeo waits outside. But I can see how hard that is for him to stomach.
"I'm sure." I turn to face him, and I reach up to touch his face. "He won't hurt me. Not physically. That's not how he operates."
"There are other ways to hurt someone." Romeo's jaw is tight, and I can see him fighting every instinct he has to protect me, to control the situation, and make sure nothing goes wrong. "If he says anything—if he threatens you?—"
"I'll call for you immediately. I promise." I kiss him softly. "But I need to try this my way first. Please."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes. Finally, he nods. "I'll be right outside the door. If I hear anything that sounds wrong?—"
"You'll come in. I know." I squeeze his hand. "Thank you for trusting me."
"I do trust you." His voice is rough. "It's him I don't trust."
The intercom buzzes, and my stomach clenches with anxiety. This is it.
Romeo answers and tells the doorman to send my father up. Then he looks at me one more time, and there's something in his eyes that makes my heart ache—fear and love and the desperate need to keep me safe all tangled together.
"I love you," he says quietly.
The knock comes a minute later, and Romeo opens the door. My father stands in the hallway, and for a moment, the two men just look at each other. My father’s expression is cold and assessing, taking in every detail of Romeo's appearance—the expensive clothes, the tense posture, the barely contained violence simmering just beneath the surface.
"Mr. Beauregard." Romeo's voice is perfectly polite. "Thank you for coming."
"I'm not here for you." My father’s tone is dismissive. "I'm here for my daughter."
"Of course." Romeo steps aside to let him in, and I can see the effort it takes for him to maintain his composure. "Savannah is in the living room. I'll give you privacy."
My father walks past him without another word, toward me. "Daddy." My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"Savannah." He doesn't move to embrace me or offer any gesture of affection. "You said you had something I needed to see."
Romeo catches my eye from the doorway, and I nod slightly. He leaves, pulling the door closed behind him, but I know he's right outside, listening. Waiting.
"Sit down,"I say, gesturing to the couch. "Please."
Edgar sits, but his posture is rigid, like he's attending a business meeting rather than talking to his daughter. I take the chair across from him, and the folder of evidence sits on the coffee table between us like a bomb waiting to detonate.
"Before I show you this," I say carefully, "I need you to understand something. I didn't call you here to ask for permission or to beg you to change your mind about Thad. I called you here because I think—I hope—that once you see what I've found, you'll understand why I can't marry him. Why I won't."
"Savannah—"
"Please. Just listen." I lean forward, and my hands are shaking as I open the folder. "Thad has a history. And I need you to see it."
I start with Rebecca's story, laying out the photos of her injuries, the hospital records, the threatening text messages, without giving any names that could implicate her. I watch my father's face as he looks at each piece of evidence, searchingfor some sign of shock or horror or concern. But his expression remains neutral, giving nothing away.
"This is a woman I spoke with," I explain. "She dated Thad in college. When she tried to leave him, he beat her badly enough to put her in the hospital. Broken ribs, fractured cheekbone, internal bleeding. And when she tried to press charges, Thad's father made the case disappear. They threatened her family. She had to flee to another state and change her name."
Edgar picks up one of the photos—Rebecca's face swollen and bruised beyond recognition—and studies it for a long moment. Then he sets it down carefully and looks at me.
"And you believe this woman?" His voice is calm. "You believe the word of someone who clearly has an axe to grind against the Whitmore family?"
The question makesmy stomach turn. "I believe what I can see right in front of me. The medical records are real. The text messages are real. The?—"
"Evidence can be fabricated." He's already dismissing it, trying to find ways to explain it away. "Disgruntled ex-girlfriends often make accusations?—"
"There's more." I cut him off, and my voice is harder now. "Jennifer Windsor. She dated Thad before Rebecca. She was planning to file a restraining order against him and expose what he'd done to her. And then she fell from her apartment balcony. Fourth floor. The police ruled it an accident."
I pull out Jennifer's journal entries, the photos of her bruises, the restraining order she never got to file. "Her roommate doesn't think it was an accident. She thinks Thad killed her. And after seeing what he did to Rebecca, after experiencing his violence myself?—"
