Chapter 6 Savannah
SAVANNAH
The thing about starting over is that you have to pretend the old version of yourself never existed.
I’m good at pretending. I’ve been doing it for three weeks now.
New city. New job. New Savannah, who doesn’t think about Mason or Lizzy or the house in Chicago. New Savannah, who definitely doesn’t think about the weird gap in her memory from that night in Vegas.
Well, mostly doesn’t think about it.
I smooth down my skirt and gather my notes for the presentation. The conference room on the fortieth floor has floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Manhattan, and normally, the view makes me nervous. Heights have never been my thing.
But today I’m too focused on not screwing this up.
“You’ve got this,” Jenna whispers beside me. She’s another new hire, started the same day I did. “It’s just a presentation.”
“To the executive team,” I mutter back.
“They’re just people.”
People who could fire me if I mess this up.
I pull up my slides on the screen and take a breath. The conference room is filling up with executives in expensive suits. I recognize a few from the company directory. The CFO. The COO and Various VPs whose names I can’t remember.
The chair at the head of the table is empty.
“Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Castellanos,” someone says.
Right. Okay. I can do this.
I launch into my presentation. Market analysis for our Q4 campaigns.
Slide one goes fine. I hit my talking points, make eye contact, and try not to sound like I’m reading off a script.
Slide two is better. I’m finding my rhythm, and a few people are nodding along.
I click to slide three. The door opens.
A man walks in, and people immediately sit up straighter. Conversations die mid-sentence. He’s tall, silver-haired, and wearing an obviously luxurious suit. He moves with the kind of confidence that comes from owning everything in sight.
And I know his face.
I know him.
The room tilts sideways. My vision tunnels, and the edges start going dark. The clicker slips from my hand and hits the table.
I know him. I know him. How do I know him?
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. I can’t breathe. My panic is rising fast, crushing my chest, and I’m reaching for my bag with shaking hands. My medication. Where’s my medication? My fingers close around the pill bottle, but I can’t get the cap off. My hands won’t work right.
“Ms. Castellanos?” The voice sounds far away. “Are you alright?”
No. I’m not alright. I’m dying. I’m having a heart attack or a stroke or something, because why do I know this man’s face?
“Everyone out.” His voice cuts through the panic in a familiar way that makes my stomach drop. “Now.”
“Sir, the presentation—”
“Out.”
Chairs scrape. Footsteps shuffle. The executives file out like they’ve been dismissed by a king, and within thirty seconds, it’s just me and him. The door clicks shut.
I finally get the pill bottle open and shake one into my palm and swallow it dry. It sticks in my throat.
“Savannah.”
I look up at him. He’s closer now, just a few feet away, and those eyes. Steel blue. I know those eyes.
“How do you know my name?” My voice comes out hoarse.
“How do I—” He stops. Studies my face. “You really don’t remember.”
“Remember what? I don’t know you. I’ve never—” But that’s not true. I do know him. His face is burned into my brain somewhere, hiding behind a wall I can’t break through.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Sets it on the table between us.
I stare at it. “What is that?”
“Look at it.”
I unfold the paper.
It’s a marriage certificate.
My name is on it. Savannah Castellanos. The handwriting is mine, messy and drunk-looking, but definitely mine.
Next to it: Ledger Volkov.
I read it three times. Four. The words don’t make sense.
“This is a joke.” I look up at him. “This is some kind of—”
“It’s not a joke.” He sits down across from me, movements careful, like he’s approaching a spooked animal. “We got married three weeks ago in Las Vegas. We were drinking, so maybe that’s why you don’t remember?
The room is spinning again. “I don’t—I didn’t—”
“You did.” His voice is gentler now. “We met on a plane. You were running from a bad day. I was flying commercial because my jet was being serviced. We talked for hours. Then we ran into each other at a club, and we decided to get married.”
Fragments flash through my mind. A plane. Tequila shots. Lights. Music. Silver hair.
Princess.
Someone calling me princess.
“Oh my God.” I press my hands to my face. “Oh my God, what did I do?”
“You married me.”
“You’re my boss.” I’m standing now, pacing. “I’m married to my boss, and I don’t even remember it.”
“Technically, I own Volkov Industries, which owns Kryla Holdings. So yes, I’m your boss.”
I want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. “This is insane. This is—I need to sit down.” I sink back into the chair before my legs give out.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he says quietly. “For three weeks. You left while I was sleeping. Left the ring behind. I tore Vegas apart trying to find you, and then I searched every database, every social media platform. You’re good at staying hidden.”
“I’m not hiding. I just don’t post my life online.”
“I noticed.” He leans forward, hands on the table. “Savannah, I remember everything. If you let me, I can help you remember too.”
“I married you on purpose,” I whisper. “I knew I’d forget, and I did it anyway.”
“Yes.”
I look at him. The silver hair. The sharp jaw. The tattoos peeking out from his cuffs. He’s beautiful and dangerous and completely out of my league.
And apparently, he’s my husband.
More fragments surface. Dancing. His hands on my waist. Kissing on a dance floor. A white dress. A ring.
A hotel room.
My face burns. “Did we…did we have sex?”
“Yes.”
“Oh God.”
“It was incredible, if that helps.”
It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. I’m married to a man I don’t remember, working for a company he owns, and my entire life is a disaster.
He stands and moves around the table. When he’s in front of me, he reaches out like he’s going to touch my face.
I jerk back fast. “Don’t.”
He freezes. “Savannah—”
“Don’t touch me. Please.” I’m shaking now, the panic medication doing nothing to stop the spiral. “I can’t—I can’t handle this. I’m married to you. You’re my boss. I don’t remember any of it. This is a nightmare.”
“It’s not a nightmare.”
“It is for me!” My voice cracks. “Do you know how terrifying this is? To find out you did something this huge and have zero memory of it?”
His expression softens. “I do, actually. I know what it’s like to lose pieces of yourself. To wake up and not know what happened while you were gone.”
“Then you understand why I need you to stay away from me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my wife.” He says it simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And I’ve been looking for you for three weeks. I’m not walking away now.”
I want to scream and rewind time to before I ever got on that plane.
But I can’t do either of those things. So I just sit there, staring at this stranger who’s apparently my husband, and try to figure out how my life became this mess.
“I need time,” I finally say. “I need to think.”
“Take all the time you need.” He straightens and buttons his jacket. “But, Savannah? We are married. That’s not changing. So figure out how you want to handle it, but running won’t work this time. I’ll find you again.”
It should sound threatening. Instead, it sounds like he’s making a promise he won’t back down on.
He walks to the door, then pauses. “For what it’s worth? You were the one who suggested we get married. Not me. You wanted this.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in the conference room with a marriage certificate and a head full of fragments that don’t quite fit together.
My voice recording. I pull up the voice memo from that night, but there’s nothing after winning that plane ticket and going home to pack. Nothing. That was my last recording of the night.
“What were you thinking?” I ask my past self.
But she doesn’t answer. She never does.
All I have are the pieces she left behind and a husband I don’t remember marrying.