Chapter 1 #2
As tired as I am from the trip and settling in, I end up lying awake in bed that night, unable to sleep despite my exhaustion.
I keep replaying the conversation I had three months ago, in my father's study in Charleston, the air conditioning fighting a losing battle against the June heat. I’d just gotten my acceptance letter to NYU—I’d sent off the application in secret, thinking that maybe it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.
It wasn’t as fruitful a strategy as I’d hoped.
"Absolutely not." My father didn’t even look up from the papers on his desk when he said it. "We've discussed this, Savannah. You have your degree. That's more than sufficient."
"It's a master's program, Daddy." I hate how my voice sounds—pleading, desperate. I'm twenty-two years old, and I'm begging like a child. "At NYU. One of the best programs in the country for classical archaeology. I've already been accepted."
"And I'm very proud of you for that." He sets down his pen and finally looks at me, his expression the same one he uses in business negotiations—calm and immovable. "But what you should be thinking about is your future… about being a wife. That’s what your mother and I have raised you to be, someone who contributes to this family, who marries well and carries on the work that I’ve done here through the connections you can make—”
"This is my future." The words come out sharper than I intend, and I see my father's jaw tighten. I force myself to soften my tone, to be the obedient daughter he expects. "Please. Just two years. I'll come home every holiday, I'll—"
"Savannah." He stands, walking around the desk to face me. He's not an exceptionally tall man, but he's always seemed larger than life to me, filling every room he enters with his presence. "I understand that you're disappointed. But you're a Beauregard. You have responsibilities. Obligations."
"To whom?" The question bursts out before I can stop it.
"To you? To Thaddeus? What about my obligations to myself?" Just saying Thaddeus’s name makes me cringe. I know my father wants me to marry his protégé. To be a wife to the man who has filled a role that my father has never been able to satisfy any other way—that of a son and heir. It’s the last thing I want.
Thaddeus is charming and handsome and the picture of a wealthy Southern gentleman, but to me, something has always felt… wrong about him. I don’t want to be with him at all, much less marry him. Nothing about him is attractive or desirable to me. But none of that matters to my father.
His expression hardens. "Don't be selfish. This marriage is important. Thaddeus is going to take over significant portions of the business when I retire. He needs a wife who can support him, who understands her role. Not someone gallivanting around New York playing archaeologist."
The dismissal in his voice makes my chest tight. Playing archaeologist. As if my degree, my passion, my dreams are nothing more than a child's game.
My father turns away, and I know the conversation is over… unless I say something that will catch his attention. Something that will make him listen to me, understand how important this is to me.
"I'll marry him." The words feel like they're being torn out of me, edged with the desperation that they’re entirely born of. "After I finish the program. I'll come home and marry Thaddeus and be whatever kind of wife you want me to be. But please. Please give me these two years."
My father studies me for a long moment, and I can see him calculating, weighing the costs and benefits as he would in any business deal. Finally, he nods slowly, and I stare at him, hardly able to believe it actually worked.
"Two years," he says. "You can attend NYU for your master's degree.
But the moment you graduate, you will come home and marry Thaddeus.
No delays, no excuses. And while you're in New York, you'll maintain regular contact with him.
He'll visit you. You'll visit him. You'll remember that you're engaged and conduct yourself accordingly. "
Relief floods through me so intensely that I feel dizzy. "Yes. Of course. Thank you, Daddy, I—"
"I'm not finished." His voice cuts through my gratitude like a knife. "If you embarrass this family in any way, if you do anything to jeopardize your engagement to Thaddeus, I will pull you out of that program so fast your head will spin. Do you understand me?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"And Savannah?" He returns to his desk, picking up his pen as if the conversation is already over. "Don't make me regret this. I'm giving you an opportunity. Don't throw it away on foolish notions of independence."
I left his study feeling like I'd won and lost something at the same time. Two years of freedom in exchange for a lifetime of captivity. It seemed like a fair trade then, standing in that suffocating house with my father's expectations pressing down on me from all sides. Exactly one week after that conversation, I accepted Thaddeus’s proposal in front of family and friends and my father’s business associates, a brilliant smile pasted on my face as he slid the three-carat, yellow-gold solitaire with a pavé band onto my finger.
I told myself, as he kissed me chastely and beamed at the crowd, that it was worth it.
That I would be able to accept my fate so long as I had these two years.
Now, lying in my new bed in my new city, I'm not so sure.
—
The next morning, Vivian and I walk to campus together for the graduate student orientation.
It's a beautiful day, a late-summer morning that makes New York feel almost magical—clear blue sky, a breeze that cuts through the humidity, the city alive and buzzing, more so than Charleston ever has been.
We stop at a coffee shop on the way, and I order an iced latte that costs more than I've ever paid for coffee in my life.
Vivian laughs at my expression when I see the price, which is shocking, despite the unlimited credit card that my father sent me with.
"Welcome to New York," she says, clinking her cup against mine. "Everything costs twice what it should, but somehow it's worth it."
The orientation is held in a lecture hall in the Silver Center, and it's packed with graduate students from various programs. I spot a few people who must be in Classical Archaeology based on their conversations about ancient pottery and excavation techniques.
Vivian introduces me to some of her friends from the Art History program, and they're all friendly and welcoming.
After the orientation, Vivian has to run to a meeting with her advisor, so I decide to explore the campus on my own.
I wander through Washington Square Park, watching street performers and chess players and students sprawled on the grass with books.
I find the library and spend an hour getting lost in the stacks, running my fingers along the spines of books about ancient Greece and Rome and Egypt.
I locate the building where most of my classes will be held, memorizing the route from my dorm.
By the time I head back, the sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I'm exhausted but happy, more content than I've been in months.
My first seminar is on Thursday afternoon—Aegean Archaeology, focusing on Bronze Age civilizations.
I arrive fifteen minutes early, too nervous to risk being late, and claim a seat in the third row—close enough to be involved without the focus being directly on me all of the time.
The classroom slowly fills with other students, and I recognize a few faces from the orientation.
The professor, Dr. Helena Kouris, is an intimidating, tiny woman with steel-gray hair and sharp eyes.
She launches into the syllabus without preamble, her voice carrying easily through the room as she outlines the semester's topics: Minoan Crete, Mycenaean Greece, and the collapse of the Bronze Age.
I'm so absorbed in taking notes that I don't notice the late arrival until Dr. Kouris pauses mid-sentence.
"Nice of you to join us," she says dryly.
I glance up and feel my breath catch.
The man standing in the doorway is tall—over six feet—with dark hair and sharp, angular features that would be almost too severe if not for the slight curl to his hair that softens them.
He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal T-shirt that looks expensive, soft-looking, and fitting his lean frame perfectly.
But it's his eyes that make my stomach flip. They’re dark, almost black, and so intense that I feel pinned in place when his gaze sweeps across the room and stops on me.
For a moment, everything else fades away. The professor's voice becomes background noise. The other students disappear. There's just him, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. It turns into a smirk that makes heat crawl up my neck.
Then he looks away, murmuring an apology to Dr. Kouris as he makes his way to an empty seat in the back row. I force myself to look down at my notes, my heart pounding for no good reason.
Get it together, I tell myself firmly. You're engaged. You're here to study, not to get flustered by some random guy in your seminar.
But I can feel his eyes on me for the rest of the class. Every time I glance back, he's watching me with that same intense focus, like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. It should make me uncomfortable. It should make me want to leave.
Instead, it makes something low in my stomach tighten with an awareness I've never felt before.
When class ends, I pack up my things quickly, determined to leave before I do something stupid like trying to talk to him. But as I'm heading for the door, I hear Dr. Kouris call out.
"Mr. Ciresa, a word?"
I glance back despite myself and see him standing at the professor's desk, his posture relaxed but edged with a barely coiled tension underneath it. Dr. Kouris is saying something about the reading list, and he's nodding, but his eyes flick to me as I slip out the door.
I don't look back.
That night, I'm in my room trying to focus on the assigned reading when my phone buzzes. I know before I look that it's going to be Thaddeus. My father's text from earlier this week has been hanging over me like a storm cloud, and I've been dreading this moment.
The text is brief and to the point, so typical of Thaddeus that I can practically hear his voice: Dinner Friday at 7. I've made reservations at Le Bernardin. Wear that navy dress I like. I'll pick you up at 6:45.
No "How are you?" No "I miss you." Just instructions, like he’s in a hurry and needs to impart them quickly.
I stare at the message for a long moment, my earlier happiness draining away.
I'd hoped—foolishly, I realize now—that Thaddeus would give me space while I was in New York.
That he'd be too busy with work to visit often, and I'd have these two years to myself before I had to face the reality of our engagement.
But of course, that was naive. My father wouldn't have agreed to let me come to New York if he thought I'd be truly free. And Thaddeus has never been the type to let something that belongs to him out of his sight for long.
Something that belongs to him. The thought makes my skin crawl, but I push it away. This is the deal I made. Two years of graduate school in exchange for marrying Thaddeus Whitmore. I knew what I was agreeing to.
I type back: Okay. See you then.
Three dots appear immediately, and I brace myself.
Thad: Good girl. I'm looking forward to seeing you. It's been too long.
The words should be sweet. Affectionate. Instead, they feel like a collar tightening around my neck.
I set my phone down and try to return to my reading, but the words blur on the page. All I can think about is Friday night, about putting on the dress Thaddeus requested and smiling through dinner while he talks about his work and makes decisions about our future without asking for my opinion.
Two years, I remind myself. You have two years before you have to give up everything. Make them count.