Chapter 8 Savannah
SAVANNAH
The south stairwell has become my best friend.
I’m on day five of taking these stairs instead of the main elevators, and my calves are screaming. Forty floors is no joke. But it’s worth it to avoid running into him.
I push through the door to the fortieth floor and nearly collide with Jenna.
“Whoa!” She steadies me, coffee sloshing in her cup. “Careful! You okay?”
“Sorry. Wasn’t looking.”
“You’ve been distracted all week.” She falls into step beside me as we head toward our desks. We started on the same day three weeks ago, and she’s been the closest thing I have to a friend here. “Seriously, what’s going on? Ever since that presentation, you’ve been weird.”
“All good. Just a lot in my head.”
“You’re taking the stairs forty floors every day. That’s creepy.” She lowers her voice. “Is it because of what happened? With Mr. Volkov clearing the room? People have been talking about it.”
“It was just a misunderstanding,” I say quickly.
“Must have been some misunderstanding.” She grins. “Anyway, if you need anything, I’m two desks over.” She walks away, and I head to my desk, grateful she didn’t ask more questions.
My computer is already on, the marketing report glaring at me. I’ve been staring at the same data for an hour, and nothing is sinking in. All I can think about is that marriage certificate.
My handwriting. His name next to mine.
Mrs. Savannah Volkov.
One Month Ago
I wake up to sunlight burning through my eyelids and no memory of where I am.
My head feels like it’s splitting open. My mouth tastes like death. And there’s warmth beside me.
I open my eyes slowly. Massive windows. Luxury suite. A man sleeping next to me with silver hair and a face I vaguely recognize but can’t place.
Panic hits me like ice water.
I slip out of the bed, moving carefully so I don’t wake him. My dress is on the floor. My shoes are by the door. I’m completely naked.
Oh God. What did I do?
There’s something on the nightstand, a piece of paper, but I don’t bother to check. I grab my dress and shoes, pulling them on as quietly as possible. My purse is on the couch. My phone is dead. I need to get out of here before he wakes up.
The elevator ride down feels like it takes forever. My hands won’t stop shaking.
At the front desk, I ask them to call me a cab to the airport. The woman gives me a look, probably because I’m clearly doing a walk of shame in last night’s dress, but she makes the call.
I slump in the back seat of the cab when it arrives and try to piece together what happened.
I remember the bar in Chicago. Murphy’s Tavern. Winning the trip. The plane.
Then fragments. A club. Lights. Dancing. Kissing someone.
At the airport, I buy a ticket back to Chicago on the next available flight. It leaves in thirty minutes. I don’t have luggage. Just my purse and phone.
On the plane, I pass out before takeoff and don’t wake up until the flight attendant is shaking my shoulder, telling me we’ve landed in Chicago. Home.
Except it’s not home anymore, is it?
I take a cab back to my mother’s house. The house is quiet and empty, just like I left it. Mason’s stuff is gone. Lizzy hasn’t tried to contact me.
I remember that part clearly—Mason with his face in Lizzy’s ass. The betrayal. The rage. That memory is crystal clear because I was sober when it happened.
But Vegas? Vegas is a blur of tequila and bad decisions.
I sit on the floor of my living room and pull out my phone. It’s charging now, and notifications flood in.
Three voice memos from that night.
I could listen to them. Figure out what happened. But something stops me.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
Maybe it’s better if I don’t know. Maybe I can just pretend it never happened and move on. I have the job in New York starting next week. A fresh start. A chance to be someone new. I decide to accept the offer.
I don’t listen to the memos. I pack up my things and leave Chicago behind.
Present Day
That worked for exactly three weeks. Then Ledger walked into my presentation, and everything I’d buried came roaring back.
I went home that night, five days ago, and tried to search for a hidden voice memo that apparently doesn’t exist. The voice memos told me nothing about the wedding. Nothing about him. Just the betrayal and the trip.
Which means I have no idea what happened after I got to Vegas. No explanation for how I ended up married.
I’m sitting on my balcony now, trying to calm down. My new apartment is nice, nicer than anywhere I’ve lived. Two bedrooms, modern kitchen, a view of the city.
Company housing. Provided by Kryla Holdings.
Provided by Ledger.
My husband owns this building. Owns the company I work for. Owns probably half the city.
The balcony door to my left slides open, and my neighbor steps out. She’s older, maybe early forties, and always friendly when we pass in the hallway.
“Evening,” she says, holding a glass of wine. “Mind if I join you?”
“Go ahead.”
She settles into the chair next to mine. “I’m Julia, by the way. I don’t think we’ve officially met.”
“Savannah.”
“You just moved in a few weeks ago, right?”
“Yeah. New job.”
“How’s it going?”
I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to my ears. “It’s been interesting.”
“Interesting good or interesting bad?”
“Interesting complicated.”
She nods like she understands. “Men?”
“How did you know?”
“It’s always men.” She takes a sip of wine. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I look out at the city. “But thanks.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. It’s nice to have another person nearby without the pressure to explain myself.
My phone hums in my hand with a new email.
Ms. Castellanos,
You are required to accompany Mr. Volkov on a business trip to Chicago. Departure Monday, 6 AM. A driver will pick you up at your residence. Itinerary attached.
Please confirm receipt.
My hands tighten on the phone.
“Bad news?” Julia asks.
“Work trip. To my hometown.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It’s complicated.”
She gives me a knowing look. “Let me guess. The man?” I don’t answer, but my face must give something away because she laughs. “Honey, whatever it is, you’ll figure it out. You’re young. You’ve got time.” She stands. “And if you need someone to vent to, I’m right next door. Door’s always open.”
After she leaves, I’m alone again.
I pull up the email and stare at it.
Chicago. With Ledger. For three days.
I can’t avoid him forever. Clearly, he’s not going to let me.
And despite everything, despite the fear and confusion and anger, there’s this pull I can’t explain. When he walked into that conference room, my heart recognized him even though my brain didn’t.
When he reached for my face and I pulled back, part of me wanted to lean in instead.
I don’t remember marrying him. Don’t remember the wedding or the sex or any of it. But my body does. Somewhere deep down, something in me knows him.
I type out a response to the email.
Confirmed.