Twisted Devotion

Chapter 1

SAVANNAH

The August heat hits me the moment I step out of the taxi, thick and oppressive in a different way from Charleston. It’s not that Southern humidity, but a baking, oven-like heat that makes me feel as if I might catch fire just standing outside for too long.

New York City smells different too—exhaust and hot pavement and a sort of crowded, lived-in smell that makes my stomach flutter with equal parts excitement and terror.

I’m standing on the sidewalk outside the NYU graduate housing building, my two suitcases at my feet, and for the first time in my twenty-two years, I'm completely alone.

No father watching my every move. No household staff reporting back to him. No Thaddeus hovering at my elbow, his hand possessive on the small of my back.

Just me.

The thought should be liberating. It is liberating. But there's a tightness in my chest that won't quite release, a voice in the back of my mind that sounds suspiciously like my father reminding me that this freedom has a price. That I've already agreed to pay it.

Don't think about that now, I tell myself firmly, grabbing the handle of my larger suitcase. You have two years. Two whole years before you have to go back for anything more than the occasional visit and holidays.

The building's lobby is mercifully air-conditioned, and I take a moment to catch my breath while a student worker checks me in.

He's much less friendly than what I’m used to back home, all efficiency and no small talk, handing me my keys and a packet of information about move-in procedures.

I quickly discover that my dorm is on the fourth floor, and the elevator is out of order, apparently.

By the time I've hauled both suitcases up the stairs, I'm sweating through my linen blouse despite the building's AC, and my carefully styled hair is starting to frizz at my temples.

So much for making a good first impression on my roommate.

I pause outside my dorm, smoothing down my hair and taking a deep breath before I knock.

The door flies open before my knuckles can make contact.

"Oh my God, you must be Savannah!" The girl standing in the doorway is tall and curvy, with dark curls pulled into a messy bun and a casual, effortless style I've always envied but would be grounded in an instant if I ever tried to put it into practice. She’s wearing ripped jeans, an oversized band T-shirt, has multiple ear piercings and a nose piercing, and a smile so genuine it immediately puts me at ease.

"I'm Vivian. Vivian Davis. I’m your roommate!

Come in, come in! Let me help you with those. "

She grabs my smaller suitcase before I can protest, chattering the entire time as she leads me into the dorm.

It's small but bright, with two bedrooms off a shared living space that has already been decorated with colorful throw pillows and string lights.

Through the window, I can see a sliver of the city skyline.

"I got here yesterday, so I already claimed the room on the left—I hope that's okay? They're basically identical anyway. I'm in the Art History program, first year. What about you?"

"Classical Archaeology," I manage, following her to the empty bedroom. "First year."

"Oh, that's so cool! Like Indiana Jones stuff?" Vivian sets my suitcase down and turns to face me, her eyes bright with interest. "Wait, you're from the South, right? I can hear it in your voice. Where?"

"Charleston." I set my other suitcase down, suddenly self-conscious about my accent. I've tried to soften it over the years, but it always comes through stronger when I'm nervous. "South Carolina."

"I love Charleston! I went there for spring break once. So beautiful." Vivian leans against the doorframe, studying me with open curiosity. "So what brings you all the way up to New York? Besides the program, I mean."

The question is innocent and friendly, but it makes something twist in my stomach. What brings you to New York? Freedom. Escape. A desperate bargain with my father that I'm still not sure was worth the cost.

"I wanted a change," I say instead, which is true enough. "And NYU has one of the best classical archaeology programs in the country."

"Well, you're going to love it here. The professors are amazing, the city is incredible, and the dating scene—" Vivian grins wickedly. "Let's just say there are a lot more options than in Charleston, I'm guessing. On and off campus."

I force a smile, thinking of the engagement ring currently locked in my jewelry box, the one I'm supposed to be wearing but plan to only put on if need be, if Thaddeus is coming to visit. Not that I’m planning on doing anything…

untoward. I just don’t want the constant reminder or the questions that would come from having that rock on my finger.

The ring that represents the end of all those options Vivian is so excited about. Not that I ever really had all that many options to begin with. Just the illusion of them.

“The guys are going to go nuts over you,” she continues in a burst of excited chatter. “Your hair, that accent, man, you’re going to be the hottest commodity on campus—”

"I'm actually engaged," I hear myself say, and immediately regret it. I don't know why I told her. Maybe because keeping secrets feels exhausting already, and I've only been here for twenty minutes.

Vivian's eyes widen. "Oh!” She sounds startled, changing tone immediately. “Congratulations! When's the wedding?"

"After I graduate." The words taste bitter. "In two years."

"That's a long engagement." There's something in Vivian's tone that I can't quite read, but she doesn't push.

Instead, she straightens up and claps her hands together.

"Well, we should get you unpacked! And then I can show you around campus.

Classes don't start until next week, but there's an orientation thing tomorrow for new grad students. We should go together."

I nod, grateful for the change of subject, and Vivian leaves me to unpack.

The room is small, especially compared to the near-palatial bedroom I left at home, in my father’s grand Southern mansion.

But it feels special. It feels like it’s really mine…

no one can tell me how to decorate here, or demand I be downstairs at a certain time for dinner, or judge how long I stay in here reading or watching television.

I’m on my own, this is my space—and for the first time, I feel more like an adult than I ever have before.

I hang my dresses in the closet, fold up my jeans and blouses and underwear in the narrow dresser, arrange my books on the built-in shelves, and set my laptop on the desk.

I'm putting away the last of my clothes when my phone buzzes with a text.

My stomach drops before I even look at the screen, knowing somehow that it's going to ruin this fragile sense of peace I've been building, no matter who it’s from.

It's from my father.

Dad: Arrived safely?

I type back quickly: Yes. Just finished unpacking.

His response is immediate: Good. Thaddeus will be visiting this weekend. Friday evening. He'll make dinner reservations. Wear something appropriate.

My fingers tighten around my phone. I want to throw it across the room and watch it shatter against the wall. Instead, I take a slow breath and type: Okay.

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally: Remember our agreement, Savannah. Two years of graduate school in exchange for your cooperation. Don't make me regret giving you this opportunity.

I don't respond. There's nothing to say that won't make things worse.

When I emerge from my room, Vivian is in the kitchen making tea. She takes one look at my face and frowns. "You okay?"

"Fine." I paste on the smile I've perfected over years of Charleston society events. "Just my father checking in."

Vivian doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. "Tea? I have, like, fifteen different kinds. I'm kind of obsessed."

"That sounds perfect."

We spend the rest of the afternoon talking, and I find myself relaxing despite the lingering weight of my father's text.

Vivian is easy to be around, funny, warm, and refreshingly honest. She tells me about her family in San Francisco, her obsession with Renaissance art, and her terrible ex-boyfriend, whom she finally dumped last semester of university before coming here.

She asks about Charleston, my undergraduate years at USC, and what drew me to archaeology.

I tell her about the one time I went to Europe, when my parents took me on a tour of London, Paris, Greece, and Rome as part of my “finishing” education.

My mother wanted to shop endlessly, and my father was tied up with business most of the time, but I spent as much time as I could in the museums. I loved the art, but the history exhibits took up most of my attention, especially the ones about archaeology and all of the things that have been found that way.

I went home and devoured every book I could find about ancient civilizations, taking Greek and Latin classes as part of my curriculum, even though my parents thought that was as useless as the rest of my education.

After all, history and ancient languages don’t offer much toward becoming the perfect future society wife.

But I don’t tell Vivian any of that. I don’t want my baggage following me here, and I’d rather she see me as the person I’ll get to be for two years than the one that I’ve been for all the ones that came before.

"That's amazing," Vivian says when I finish. "You're going to do incredible things here, Savannah. I can tell."

I want to believe her. I want to believe that these two years will be enough, that I can pack a lifetime of dreams into twenty-four months before I have to give it all up and become Mrs. Thaddeus Whitmore.

But I don't say that. Instead, I smile and change the subject, and we talk until the sun sets over the city.

—