Chapter 8 Romeo #3
"Then learn." Luca's expression softens slightly. "Romeo, you're one of the smartest people I know. You can plan a complex operation, you can read people like books, you can manipulate situations to your advantage. Surely you can figure out how to romance a girl."
"This is different."
"Why? Because you actually care about the outcome?"
I don't answer, but he knows he's right.
"Think about what she likes," Luca says. "What makes her happy. What would make her feel seen, appreciated, valued. And then do those things. Not because you're trying to manipulate her, but because you genuinely want to make her happy."
It's such a foreign concept that I almost laugh. I've never done anything without an ulterior motive. I've never given a gift without expecting something in return. I've never cared about making someone happy just for the sake of their happiness.
But for Savannah—
For Savannah, I think I could learn.
The next morning, I'm at the coffee shop again. But this time, I don't sit and wait for her. Instead, I leave her coffee at the counter with a note: For Savannah. Enjoy your day. —R
I watch from across the street as she arrives and the barista hands her the cup and the note. I watch her read it, and I see the conflict play across her face.
She looks around, searching for me, but I'm already gone.
The next day, I leave a book in her library carrel. It's a first edition of a text on Minoan archaeology that I know she's been trying to find. The note inside reads: Thought you might find this useful for your research. —R
The day after, I send her an article I found about new excavations on Crete. The email is brief: Saw this and thought of you. Might be relevant to your thesis. —R
I make sure there are flowers waiting at her building's front desk when she comes home from class.
Nothing ostentatious—just a simple bouquet of daisies and yellow roses that remind me of the sundress she was wearing that first day I saw her, with a card that says: Because you deserve beautiful things. —R
I don't approach her. I don't try to talk to her. I don't show up at her usual spots. Instead, I let the gifts speak for themselves. I let her see that I'm thinking about her, that I notice what she likes, that I care about her happiness.
And slowly, I see her start to soften.
The day after the flowers, she texts me, Thank you for the book. It's perfect.
It's the first time she's initiated contact in over a week, and the relief I feel is almost overwhelming.
You're welcome, I text back. I'm glad you like it.
A pause. Then: And the flowers were beautiful.
Romeo: Not as beautiful as you.
I send it before I can second-guess myself, and then I wait, my heart pounding in a way that's completely unfamiliar.
Her response takes several minutes. Romeo…
Romeo: I know. I'm sorry. Too much.
Savannah: No. It's just—this is complicated.
Romeo: I know. But that doesn't make it less true.
Another long pause. Then: We should talk. About the project. We still need to finish the presentation.
It's not an invitation to anything more than academic collaboration. But it's something. It's a crack in the wall she's been building between us.
Romeo: Library tomorrow? 2 p.m.?
Savannah: Okay. See you then.
I stare at my phone for a long moment after she stops responding, and I realize something that terrifies me.
I’m not just obsessed with her. I’m treating her like any normal man would treat a girl that he’s obsessed with, and the strangest part is—it doesn't feel like an act anymore. The gifts and the gestures started as strategy, as a way to win her over, to show her I could be what she needed.
But somewhere along the way, they became real. I actually want to make her happy. I actually care about her smile, her comfort, her joy. I actually want to be the kind of man who deserves her.
It's terrifying. It's unfamiliar, and it's completely outside my experience.
But for the first time in my life, I think I might be capable of something other than darkness.
For Savannah, I think I might be capable of being… maybe not good, but better than I was before.
—
She's already at the library when I arrive. She's set up at a table in the main reading room instead of her usual hidden carrel—a public space, safe, with plenty of witnesses. She doesn't trust me yet. Or maybe she doesn't trust herself.
"Hi," I say, sitting down across from her.
"Hi." She's nervous, I can tell. Her hands are fidgeting with her pen, and she won't quite meet my eyes. "I brought my notes on the presentation. I thought we could outline the structure, divide up the sections—"
"Savannah." I wait until she looks at me. "I’m glad we could do this in person again.”
She swallows hard and looks away again. "It's just a project. We're classmates. It's not—”
“Not what?” Fuck. I’m pushing again, but it’s so fucking hard not to. I told myself I was going to stay cool once I got here, but with her so close—that lemony scent of her perfume wafting toward me, her sundress creeping up above her tanned knees…
I feel like a fucking animal on a leash, yanking at it to get closer.
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "What do you want from me, Romeo?"
I answer before I can think it through, which is probably a mistake. "I want you to be happy. I want you to have the life you deserve. I want—" I stop, choosing my words carefully. "I want you to know that you have choices. That you don't have to settle for a life that makes you miserable."
"I'm not miserable,” she says defensively, and for a moment I think she’s going to get up and leave. I should have left this line of conversation well enough alone… I don’t know why I couldn’t.
"Aren't you?"
She looks away, her jaw tightening. "It doesn't matter. I made a commitment. I'm engaged. I'm going to marry Thad, and that's—that's what's supposed to happen."
"But is it what you want?"
"What I want doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
She looks at me then, and I can see the war happening behind her eyes—the desire to believe me fighting against everything she's been taught, everything she's supposed to be.
"I can't do this," she whispers. "I can't want this. I can't want you."
"Why not?"
"Because you're—" She stops, and I can see her searching for the right words. "Because you're dangerous. Because there's something about you that scares me. Because I don't know who you really are."
The words should hurt. They should make me angry, defensive. But instead, I feel something like relief. Because she's right. She should be scared. She should be cautious. The fact that she's drawn to me anyway gives me hope.
"You're right," I say quietly. "I am dangerous. There are things about me, about my life, that you don't know. Things that would probably terrify you if you did."
Savannah blanches. "Then why—"
"Because despite all of that, I would never hurt you. I would never control you or dismiss you or make you feel small. I would never treat you the way he does."
She presses her lips together again. "You don't know how he treats me."
"I know he makes you unhappy. I know he doesn't value your work, your dreams, or your intelligence. I know he sees you as property, not as a partner."
"And what do you see me as?"
The question catches me off guard. I'm silent for a moment, trying to find words for something I've never felt before.
"I see you as someone extraordinary," I say finally. "Someone brilliant and passionate and brave. Someone who deserves to be cherished, not controlled. Someone who—" I stop, because I almost said someone I could love. Words that have never come out of my mouth before. I’m not sure I’ve ever told Giulia I love her. I think I do… but I can’t be sure. I don’t know what love feels like.
I’ve never had it modeled to me, and I’ve never felt emotions like this before.
Savannah is tense now, and I know I’ve blown it. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not? Because it's true?"
"Because I'm engaged. I'm supposed to marry someone else. This—whatever this is—it can't happen."
"Can't? Or shouldn't?"
She doesn't answer. She just gathers her things with shaking hands. I know I've pushed too far, too fast.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have—"
"I need to go."
"Savannah—"
"Please." She looks at me, and there's so much pain in her eyes it makes my chest ache. "Please just—leave me alone.”
I stand, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to follow her, to not let her leave, to make her understand. But I force myself to stay still. “I’ll try,” I say quietly, but even as the words come out, I know they’re the closest thing to a lie I’ve ever told her.
I could try.
But I know I won’t succeed.
I’ve just made it back to my penthouse, berating myself for taking things too fast with Savannah, when Luca calls.
"Dante wants to see you," he says without preamble. "Tomorrow. His office."
I blow out a sharp breath. "What about?"
"He didn't say. But Romeo—he knows something. I don't know what, but he's suspicious. You need to be careful."
"I'm always careful."
"No, you're not. Not lately. Not when it comes to her."
He's right, but I don't admit it. "I'll handle Dante."
"Will you? Because if he asks you directly about Savannah, about the Beauregard connection, if he’s figured anything about this out—what are you going to tell him?"
"The truth. That she's a classmate and we're working on a project together. There's nothing for him to worry about."
"And if he doesn't believe you?"
“I’ll convince him.”
Luca is quiet for a moment. "You're in too deep, aren't you? With her. You're in so deep you can't see straight anymore."
My jaw tightens. "I don't care, Luca. I don't care what Dante thinks. I don't care about the family politics or the Beauregard connection or any of it. All I care about is keeping her safe, making sure she's happy, and being there when she finally realizes she deserves better than Whitmore."
"And what if she never realizes that? What if she chooses him?"
I feel my teeth grit together. "She won't."
"But what if she does?"
I'm silent at that. I don't have an answer. But the thought of Savannah choosing Whitmore, of losing her forever—
It's unbearable.
"She won't," I say again, sharper this time.
"I hope you're right," Luca says quietly. "Because if you're wrong—if you've risked everything for someone who's going to choose someone else—"
“She won’t.” I sound like a broken fucking record, and I’m sick of it.
I hang up, driving into the garage, and I sit in my car for a long few minutes after killing the engine.
I think about Savannah. About the way she looked at me in the library, the conflict in her eyes.
She's close to breaking, to admitting what we both know is true—that she doesn't love Whitmore, that she doesn't want the life he's offering, that she wants something different.
That she wants me.
I just need to be patient. To give her time. To keep showing her that I can be what she needs.
And in the meantime, I'll make sure Whitmore doesn't hurt her.
I'll have him followed, documented, watched.
I'll build a case against him so thorough that when the time comes—when Savannah is ready to leave him—she'll have all the ammunition she needs.
I'll protect her, even if she doesn't know she needs protecting.
Because for the first time in my life, I've found something worth fighting for—something worth being better for. And I'm not giving that up. Not for Dante. Not for the family. Not for anyone.
Savannah Beauregard is mine, whether she knows it yet or not.