Chapter 2 #2
The name triggers something in my memory, some fragment of family history. I dig deeper, pulling up business records and news articles and society page mentions, until I finally find the rest of what jogged my memory.
Twenty years ago, my father and Edgar Beauregard—Savannah's father—were involved in a business deal.
A real estate development in Charleston, perfectly legitimate on the surface, but with certain financial arrangements that were less than legal.
The deal went bad. Money disappeared. Accusations flew.
The partnership dissolved acrimoniously, and both families walked away convinced the other had betrayed them.
The Ciresas and the Beauregards have been enemies ever since, in a sort of cold war.
There hasn’t been bloodshed or violence, and it seems like there’s an agreement that there won’t be, so long as the families stay away from each other’s territories and businesses.
As long as there’s no interaction, there will be no further problems. Just bad blood.
I should care about this. The bad blood between our families should matter to me. My father would be furious if he knew I was even thinking about a Beauregard, let alone obsessing over one.
But I don't care.
I spend every day until the semester officially starts learning everything I can about Savannah Beauregard.
I hack her email—easy enough with the right tools.
I access her academic records, her class schedule, and her financial aid information.
I follow her social media accounts with a ghost profile, though she posts rarely.
There are only a couple of pictures on her Instagram—breezy, summery shots of her by the water or on a boardwalk in sundresses, but just looking at them is enough to make me feel that visceral thrill again.
Just looking at her makes me hard. But fuck, it feels different.
I’m no stranger to physical desire and the pleasure of sex…
just because I don’t feel emotion doesn’t mean I don’t like getting off.
But this feels like more than just my dick getting hard.
There’s an ache, a fucking longing that seems to throb through me along with the pulse in my cock, and for the first time in my life, I ignore my stubborn erection.
I don’t just want to jerk off to a picture of her long legs in a sundress.
I want those legs wrapped around me while I mark her pretty, smooth skin with my cum, while she moans my name and begs me for more.
That line of thought is entirely antithetical to what I learn next… which is that she’s engaged.
My jaw clenches as I read through the society announcements.
She’s engaged to marry Thaddeus Whitmore III, heir to a banking fortune.
He’s Edgar Beauregard’s pride and joy, apparently, his protégé and heir apparent.
The engagement was announced a few months ago, and the wedding is planned for two years from now, after Savannah completes her master's degree.
There are plenty of pictures of them together, at charity galas and society events, carefully staged photos that appear in the social pages.
He's handsome in that bland, patrician way that old money produces.
Tall, fair-haired, with an ease and a smile that suggest he's never had to work for anything in his life.
In every photo, his hand is possessive on her waist, her shoulder, the small of her back, even before his ring was on her finger.
She never looks happy about any of it. She looks perfect—her smile is beautiful, her posture impeccable. But there's something missing in her eyes, some spark that I saw when she was reading under that tree completely alone and unobserved.
I hate him—Thaddeus Whitmore III, with his banking fortune and his proprietary hand. I hate him with an intensity that surprises me, because hate is an emotion, and before now, I’ve almost never felt anything at all.
But now the rush of feeling is so intense it’s almost painful.
It supersedes the need to ease my desire for her, arousal taking a backseat to the overflow of emotion that seems to have rushed in to fill all the empty spaces in me.
It’s not like a dam has been broken… I wasn’t restraining these emotions before.
It’s like a deluge when I’ve been barren of them my whole life.
I feel compulsive. Obsessed. Things I’ve never felt before. I don’t know how to manage or handle it, and there’s no one I can talk to. Certainly not my cold and violent father, or my sweet and innocent sister. All I can do is feel, and it’s making me slightly insane.
It must be, because the day before classes start, I enroll in the same archaeology courses she’s in.
It's the stupidest thing I could do. I'm supposed to be focusing on my MBA, on business management and corporate finance, and all the practical skills I need to run the legitimate side of the family’s operations.
Archaeology has nothing to do with any of that.
It's a complete deviation from the plan and everything my father expects of me.
Once again, I don't care.
I access the university's registration system and look at Savannah's schedule.
She's taking four courses this semester: Archaeological Theory and Method, Ancient Mediterranean Civilizations, Archaeological Field Methods, and a seminar on Minoan Crete.
I add all four to my own schedule, dropping electives and rearranging my MBA courses to make room.
The system flags several conflicts—I'm now overloaded, taking more credits than are typically allowed. I override the flags using administrative credentials I shouldn't have. By the time I'm done, my schedule is a disaster from an academic planning perspective, but it perfectly mirrors Savannah's.
I'll be in every one of her classes. I'll see her four times a week, minimum. I'll have legitimate reasons to talk to her, to work with her, to be near her.
It feels strange. I thought I would feel satisfied—victorious, even—that I figured it out. I manipulated my way into being near the object of my obsession so that I could pull her into my orbit, take what I wanted, and be satisfied.
But all I feel is hungry. Like I can’t even wait the less-than-twenty-four hours to see her.
My father calls a few hours later, and I know immediately that something is wrong. His voice has that edge it gets when he's trying to control his temper.
"Romeo. My office. Now."
I drive to the estate where I grew up, and let myself in with my key. I find him standing by the window of his office, his back to me.
"You changed your academic schedule," he says without turning around.
Of course, he knows. Nothing happens that affects the family without him knowing about it.
"I added some courses," I say carefully. "Archaeology. I've always been interested in ancient civilizations."
Now he turns, and his face is dark with anger.
"Archaeology. You've never mentioned any interest in archaeology in your entire life.
You're supposed to be focusing on your MBA, on preparing to take over the legitimate operations.
Instead, you're filling your schedule with useless electives that have nothing to do with business management. "
"I can handle both," I say, keeping my voice level. "The MBA courses are still there. I'm just adding—"
"You're overloaded. You're taking more credits than any reasonable person would attempt. And for what? Some sudden fascination with ancient pottery?"
I meet his eyes, and I know he's searching for something in my expression, some clue to what's really happening. I give him nothing. My face is calm, slightly puzzled, as if I don't understand why he's so upset.
"It's an intellectual interest," I say. "I'll be spending two years in graduate school. I thought I might as well study something I find genuinely engaging, in addition to the business courses."
For the first time in my life, I see my father look utterly confounded. He knows me, knows that I don't do anything without calculation and purpose. A sudden interest in archaeology is out of character, which means there must be a reason.
"I'm not derailing anything. I'm adding four courses. I'll still complete the MBA on schedule. This doesn't change our plans."
My father stares at me, and I can see him trying to understand what's happening, trying to reconcile this behavior with everything he knows about me. I'm not impulsive.
Except now. I’m becoming someone even I don’t recognize, so of course, he won’t. There’s something oddly gratifying about seeing him so thrown off.
I could tell him the truth. I could explain that for the first time in my life, I feel something real, something beyond the careful performance I've maintained for twenty-six years.
I could describe the way my chest tightened when I saw Savannah under that tree, the way I can't stop thinking about her, the way I need to be near her with an intensity that borders on madness.
But that would require admitting that I’ve developed a vulnerability.
It would require opening up to my father, which is an even more insane thought than the fact that I’ve felt something for a woman for the first time in my life.
I would have to admit, too, that the woman I have feelings for is a Beauregard.
Saying anything about this is impossible. I don’t want to say it out loud. I barely believe it myself. I feel like I’ve developed some kind of fever, a sickness that there’s only one cure for.
It feels too personal, too special to share with anyone other than the object of my obsession.