I have no clue what that is.
I don’t know if this is it. I should feel ridiculous, even thinking it in regard to a woman I’ve never even spoken to yet. But my every thought is consumed by her, my every breath is followed by the desire to see her. It’s an obsession, and right now, it feels like love.
I head to my car, already planning my next move. I need to find a reason to talk to Savannah, something natural and unforced. A question about the readings, maybe. Or an observation about Dr. Kouris's lecture style. Something that will let me get close to her, let me hear her voice directed at me, let me see what happens when those intelligent eyes focus on my face.
I'm good at this—reading people, understanding what they want, becoming whatever they need me to be. It's how I've survived in a world where showing weakness means death.It's how I've built relationships and alliances, and the careful network of connections that make me valuable to my family.
But this is different. This isn't about survival or strategy or family business. This is about need, pure and simple. I need her the way I've never needed anything before, with an intensity that terrifies me.
It also exhilarates me.
I drive home through the city streets, and I'm already counting the hours until our next class, imagining the moment when I'll finally hear her voice, when I'll finally have a legitimate reason to be close to her.
The sun is setting over Manhattan, turning the sky orange and gold, and I feel something that might be happiness—or anticipation, the dangerous thrill of standing on the edge of something that could either save me or destroy me.
I don't know which it will be, and I don’t care.
All I know is that I've spent twenty-six years feeling nothing, and now I feel everything, and it's all because of a woman I've never spoken to, a woman whose family has every reason to hate mine.
Savannah Beauregard.
Mine.
The word echoes in my mind as I park in my building's garage and take the elevator up to my penthouse. Then pour myself a scotch and stand by the window looking out over the city.
Mine.
It's not a question. It's not a hope or a wish or a possibility. It's a certainty.
I've never been more sure of anything in my life.
3
SAVANNAH
Thad texts me on Thursday morning to remind me about our date:Coming to visit this weekend. Arrive Friday evening. Remember—reservations at Le Bernardin. Navy dress.
Nothing even remotely close to “Are you looking forward to it?” or “Does that sound good?” Just a clipped reminder, delivered with the assumption that I'll rearrange my schedule to accommodate him.
I stare at the message for a long moment before typing back:Okay. Looking forward to it.
I should be looking forward to seeing my fiancé. This will be our first real date since I moved to New York. This should feel exciting. Romantic. The beginning of something.
Instead, I feel a vague sense of dread that I immediately push down. I'm being ridiculous. Ungrateful. Thad is handsome, successful, from a good family. He's everything I should want.Everything my father wants for me.
I spend Friday afternoon getting ready. I put on the navy dress, which is conservative but elegant, picked out by my mother. It has cap sleeves and a boatneck, the hem fallingappropriately just below my knee. I put on my pearl earrings and the heels that I know Thad likes, the nude Louboutins that he complimented at our engagement party.
I look at myself in the mirror and see exactly what I'm supposed to be: a well-bred Southern girl, appropriately dressed for dinner with her future husband.
I feel faintly sick.
Thad arrives promptly at six-forty-five, meeting me in the lobby of my building. He's wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal-grey suit, and when he sees me, his face breaks into that perfect smile.
"There's my girl," he says, pulling me into a hug that lifts me slightly off my feet. His cologne is overwhelming, woody, and expensive, and it makes my eyes water. "God, I've missed you."
"It's only been a couple of weeks.” I force a smile, trying to match his enthusiasm.
"That’s too long." He keeps his arm around my waist as he guides me toward the waiting car. He's hired a driver for the evening; I suppose a taxi is beneath him. His hand rests possessively on my hip. "I have the whole evening planned. Dinner at Le Bernardin, then maybe drinks at this rooftop bar I've heard is fantastic."
