Chapter 11
SAVANNAH
I’ve barely slept since that night at the library.
Every night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my body still humming with remembered sensations, my mind racing through what happened. What I let happen. What I wanted to happen.
What almost happened.
I can still feel Romeo's hands on me. His mouth. The way he made me come apart. The way I begged him for more. The way I would have let him take everything if fear hadn't finally broken through the haze of desire.
I’m horrified with myself, with how much I still want it. I’m engaged. I’m promised to another man. I’m supposed to be planning a wedding and honoring the commitments my family has made.
Instead, I let Romeo touch me in a library. I let him make me come. I would have let him take my virginity against a bookshelf if I hadn't panicked at the last second.
What kind of person does that make me?
I swear I felt him in the library tonight, even though I didn’t see him anywhere. It smells like another rainstorm tonight, the scent of ozone seeping through my cracked-open window, and I let my hand drift down between my thighs as I close my eyes tightly shut.
I told Romeo that I didn’t think of anything when I touched myself before. It was true. I never knew what to imagine; who to think of. I just let sensation take over and chased what my body was craving without really knowing what it was.
Now I know what to imagine, who to think of.
And I know it’s wrong… but I can’t help myself.
My thoughts are full of him as my fingers glide over my clit, sliding through all the wetness that’s already there, just remembering what he did to me.
I picture him in the library, the flashes of him in the lightning, the feeling of him hard against my hip.
I remember the sounds he made, the gasps and groans of pleasure, when he wasn’t even being touched.
I wonder if he went home and did this, too, remembering me.
Just that thought is enough to spill me over the edge, a hair-trigger of pleasure that makes me bury my face in the pillow to keep Vivian from hearing me across the hall.
I clench my thighs around my hand, riding the waves as I pretend it’s his fingers carrying me through it, and when it’s over, I feel that wave of shame again.
It was a mistake. It has to have been a mistake.
I'm just confused. Overwhelmed by the stress of graduate school, by the pressure from my father and Thad's expectations.
Romeo is attractive and attentive, and he makes me feel things I've never felt before, but that doesn't mean anything.
It's just physical. Just chemistry. Just—
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it automatically, then freeze when I see Romeo's name.
Romeo: Are you okay?
I stare at the message, my heart pounding. I should delete it. I should block his number. But I can't stop looking at those three words.
Are you okay?
When has Thad ever asked me that? When has he ever checked in to see how I'm feeling, what I need, whether I'm alright?
I put the phone face down on the nightstand without responding.
It buzzes again a few minutes later.
Then again.
I don't look. I can't look. Because if I look, if I read whatever he's saying, I'll respond. And if I respond, I'll be pulled back into his orbit, back into that dangerous space where I forget who I'm supposed to be.
I lie awake until dawn, trying to convince myself that what happened was a mistake. That I can go back to my normal life. That I can marry Thad and forget about Romeo, and everything will be fine.
But I know I'm lying to myself.
Because my body remembers, and my traitorous, foolish heart remembers too.
—
The next few days are torture. Romeo keeps trying to reach me—texts, calls, even an email about our project that's clearly just an excuse to make contact. Each attempt makes my resolve weaken a little more.
I want to hear from him. That's the problem. I want to see his name on my phone. I want to know what he's thinking, what he's feeling, whether he's as consumed by this as I am.
But I can't. I have to stay strong. I have to figure this out on my own.
Thad, meanwhile, seems to sense that something has shifted. He calls more frequently, texts constantly, wants to know where I am and what I'm doing at all times.
Thad: Where are you?
Thad: Who are you with?
Thad: When will you be home?
Thad: Send me a picture of what you're wearing.
That last one comes on Tuesday morning as I'm getting dressed for class. I stare at it, feeling something cold settle in my stomach. Why? I text back.
Thad: Because I want to see you. Is that a crime?
I take a selfie in my jeans and a sweater and send it without comment.
His response is immediate. Is that what you're wearing to class?
Savannah: Yes. Why?
Thad: It's very casual. Don't you have anything more professional? You're representing the Beauregard name now.
I look down at my outfit. It's perfectly appropriate for a graduate seminar—comfortable, practical, nothing revealing or inappropriate.
Savannah: It's fine, Thad.
Thad: If you say so. Just remember that people are always watching. You never know who might see you and form an opinion about our family.
I don't respond. I just grab my bag and head to campus, feeling like I'm suffocating.
The pattern continues throughout the week. Thad calls during my study sessions, interrupting my work to ask trivial questions. He texts during class, expecting immediate responses. He makes plans for us without consulting me, then gets irritated when I mention I might have other commitments.
"I thought we could have dinner on Friday," he says during one of his calls. "I've made reservations at that place you like. I’ll be in town."
He didn’t bother telling me he was going to be in town until right this second, which irritates me even more. "I have the department gala Friday night," I remind him. "I told you about it last week."
"Oh, right. Then I'll come to that instead. It'll be good for networking anyway. Edgar mentioned some potential donors might be there."
"Thad, it's an academic event. It's not really about business—"
"Everything is about business, Savannah. You'll learn that eventually." His tone is patient, like he's explaining something obvious to a child. "Besides, it'll be good for you to be seen with me. Reminds people that you're spoken for."
The phrase makes my skin crawl. Spoken for. Like I'm property, something to be claimed and displayed.
"I have to go," I say. "I'm meeting with my advisor."
"Alright. But Savannah?" His voice drops, becomes more serious. "I've been thinking. About us. About our timeline."
My stomach clenches. "What about it?"
"I think we should move up the wedding. Get married while you're still in school."
"What? Thad, we talked about this. I want to finish my degree first—"
"You can finish it while we're married. There's no reason to wait. Unless—" He pauses, and I can hear the suspicion in his voice. "Unless you're having second thoughts?"
"No, I just—"
"Because if you're not seeing anyone else, if you're committed to this relationship, then there's no reason to delay. Especially since you keep insisting on this prudish sense of chastity when we’re together.
We can get married at Christmas, enjoy our relationship to the fullest when I visit you, and you can continue your studies. It's practical."
I ignore the part where he wants to get married in a couple of months, which would give my mother an aneurysm.
No wedding like the kind of wedding my family—and his—expects can be planned in that amount of time, but he wouldn’t know that, and I don’t care about that part.
"My studies aren't a hobby, Thad. They're my career—"
"Of course they are. For now. But let's be realistic, Savannah.
Once we're married, once we start a family, you'll have other priorities.
This archaeology thing is interesting, but it's not exactly practical for a wife and mother.
My mother had interests too, but she understood that family comes first."
"I have to go," I say again, my voice tight.
"Think about what I said. About Christmas. I really think it's the right move for us."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I stand there in the hallway where I was when he called, students flowing around me, feeling like I can't breathe.
Christmas. If he somehow convinces my family and his that a proper wedding can be pulled off in that amount of time, that's less than three months away.
Three months until I'm married to a man who thinks my life's work is a hobby.
Three months until I'm trapped in a life I never chose.
My phone buzzes. Another text from Romeo. I miss arguing with you about Minoan trade routes.
I delete the message without responding. But I can't delete the feeling it creates—the warmth, the longing. The sense that someone sees me in a way Thad never has.
—
Friday arrives too quickly.
The department gala is an event I normally would enjoy.
I can admit that the dressing-up part of the cotillion balls and society events my family insisted I be a part of was something I enjoyed—and still do—and this is an opportunity to do that within a setting that I also enjoy.
But knowing Thad will be there and knowing Romeo might also be there, I feel nothing but dread.
The dress I chose looked simple and elegant when I picked it out, but now all I can think about is the fact that Thad is going to see it and probably have something to say.
It’s a sapphire blue evening gown with clean lines and a basic cut, strapless with a sweetheart neckline.
I know Thad is going to have something to say about that…
I’ve never worn strapless to any event before, and he’s going to say it’s too revealing.
He’ll probably have something to say about the slit in the side too, even though it stops just above my knee.