Chapter 23 Savannah
SAVANNAH
Ispend the morning after Thad's failed attempt at "protective custody" doing something I should have done weeks ago—I start digging into his past. Not through Romeo's connections, but on my own.
Because as much as I believe Romeo is going to fight for us, I'm done waiting for men to fight my battles while I hide in the background hoping everything works out.
And a small part of me believes that if I can find something that will get through to my father, if I could find something… anything to bolster Romeo’s case against Thad, he won’t have to kill him. This won’t have to end in bloodshed.
Romeo is in the shower when I open my laptop and start searching.
I look for gaps in Thad's carefully curated public image, stories that don't quite add up, women who came before me and disappeared from his life without explanation.
He's always been so careful about his reputation, so meticulous about controlling the narrative.
But no one is that perfect. No one has a past that clean.
It takes me three hours and more decaf coffee than is probably healthy, but I finally find what I'm looking for buried in an old college newspaper archive.
A brief mention of a Rebecca Cowell, who dated Thaddeus Whitmore during their junior year at Yale.
The article is about a charity gala, and there's a photo of them together—Thad in a tuxedo looking exactly like he always does, and Rebecca in a blue dress, smiling but with a tight expression around her eyes that I recognize now.
I search for her on social media and find nothing.
No Facebook, no Instagram, no LinkedIn. It's like she vanished after graduation.
But then I try variations—Rebecca C., Becca Cowell, R.
Cowell—and finally I find a profile for a Rebecca Caldwell in Portland, Oregon.
The profile picture is blurry, taken from a distance, but the bone structure is the same. She changed her name.
People don't change their names without a reason, unless they get married. And there’s nothing that I can find anywhere that suggests she did.
I send her a message before I can talk myself out of it: My name is Savannah Beauregard. I'm engaged to Thaddeus Whitmore. I think you knew him in college. I need to talk to you. Please.
I don't expect a response. Why would she want to dredge up whatever happened between them? Why would she risk getting involved with Thad again? But twenty minutes later, my laptop chimes with a notification, and my heart starts racing before I even open it.
Rebecca: How did you find me?
I type back quickly: College newspaper archive. A photo from a gala. I'm sorry to contact you like this, but I need to know what happened between you and Thad. I think I'm in danger.
The response takes longer this time. I'm starting to think she's not going to answer when the message finally comes through: I can't talk about this online. If you're serious, meet me tomorrow. 2 p.m. Powell's Books in Portland. Main entrance. Come alone.
Portland. I’ll have to catch a flight from New York. But I don't hesitate before typing: I'll be there.
—
Romeo finds me booking the flight, and his expression shifts from confusion to concern, then to something harder when I explain what I'm doing.
"You're flying to Portland to meet one of Whitmore's ex-girlfriends." His voice is careful, but I can hear the tension underneath. "Alone."
"She won't talk to me if I bring anyone else. She's terrified, Romeo. She changed her name. That means something happened."
"It means Whitmore did something to her that made her run." He's pacing now, and I can see him calculating the risks. "She might not be stable. She might—"
"She might be the key to stopping him." I close my laptop and stand up, moving into his path so he has to stop and look at me. "I'm not asking for permission. I'm telling you what I'm doing. You can either support me or you can try to stop me, but I'm going either way."
The silence that follows is tense, charged with all the things we're both trying not to say. Finally, he reaches out and cups my face, and his touch is gentle despite the violence I can see simmering in his eyes. "I'm not trying to control you," he says quietly. "I'm trying to keep you safe."
"I know. But I need to do this. I need to—" I struggle to find the words. "I need to stop being the thing that's fought over. I need to be the one fighting."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I can see the instinct to protect me warring with the understanding that I'm asking him to trust me, to let me have agency even when it scares him. Finally, he nods.
"Luca goes with you. He’ll stay outside the bookstore. He won’t come in unless you signal him. But I'm not letting you fly across the country without backup."
It's a compromise, and we both know it. "Okay."
"And Savannah?" His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. "If she tells you something that makes you think Whitmore is more dangerous than we already know, you tell me immediately. No trying to handle it yourself. No trying to protect me from the truth."
"I promise."
He kisses me. It's soft and fierce at the same time, and I can feel everything he's not saying in the way he holds me—his fear and the desperate need to keep me safe while still letting me be myself.
But he’s letting me go. And that’s a step in the right direction.
—
Powell's Books is exactly the kind of place I would have loved under different circumstances—a massive bookstore with room after room of floor-to-ceiling shelves.
But I'm too nervous to appreciate it as I walk through the main entrance at exactly 2 p.m., scanning the crowd for a woman who might be Rebecca.
She finds me first. "Savannah?"
I turn and see her standing near the poetry section. She has dark hair cut short, and she’s wearing jeans, a cashmere sweater, and a leather jacket. She's pretty in an understated way, like someone who's learned to make herself less noticeable.
"Rebecca." I move toward her, and she takes a step back instinctively before catching herself. "Thank you for meeting me."
"I almost didn't come." Her voice is soft. "I spent years trying to forget Thad Whitmore existed. And then you show up asking questions, and suddenly I'm right back there."
"I'm sorry. I wouldn't have contacted you if I had any other choice."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her taking in the exhaustion in my face and the desperation I can’t quite hide. Finally, she gestures toward a quiet corner near the back of the store.
"Let's sit. This isn't a conversation I want to have standing up."
We find two chairs tucked away from the main flow of customers, and Rebecca sits with her back to the wall, her eyes constantly scanning the space like she's expecting Thad to materialize out of nowhere. The fear in her body language makes my stomach turn.
"How long were you together?" I ask.
"Two years. Junior and senior year at Yale." She's gripping her coffee cup so tightly her knuckles are white. "It started out perfect. He was charming, attentive, and everything I thought I wanted. My parents loved him. My friends thought I was lucky."
"When did it change?"
"Gradually. So gradually I didn't notice at first." She takes a shaky breath.
"He started suggesting I spend less time with my friends.
Said they were a bad influence, that they didn't understand our relationship.
Then it was my family—he'd pick fights before family dinners, make me feel guilty for choosing them over him.
By senior year, I barely talked to anyone except Thad. "
I feel my stomach clench. "He isolated you."
She nods. "Completely. He wanted to know where I was all the time.
Who I was with. What I was doing. He'd show up places I didn't tell him I'd be, claim it was a coincidence.
He put tracking software on my phone." Her voice is getting tighter, more strained.
"I thought it meant he loved me. That he was just protective. "
She's quiet for a long moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"When I tried to break up with him the first time—we'd been fighting about something stupid—I told him I needed space.
He grabbed my arm so hard he left bruises.
Told me I wasn't allowed to leave him. That I belonged to him. "
The words make my blood run cold. I can hear Thad saying them, can imagine the expression on his face—the cold fury, the absolute certainty that he has the right to control another person's life. I feel my arm ache where my own bruises are.
"I should have left then," Rebecca continues. "But he apologized. Cried. Said he'd never do it again. And I believed him because I wanted to believe him. Leaving meant admitting I'd wasted two years."
"But you did leave eventually."
"After graduation. I got a job offer in Boston, and I took it without telling him.
Just packed my things and left while he was at work.
" She's shaking now, and I want to reach out and touch her hand, offer some kind of comfort, but I'm afraid any sudden movement will make her bolt.
"He found me three days later. Showed up at my apartment.
And when I told him it was over, that I wasn't coming back—"
She stops, and the silence stretches out between us, heavy with everything she's not saying. Then she swallows hard, and continues.
“He beat me badly enough that my neighbor called 911. I spent two days in the hospital. I had broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, and internal bleeding." She pulls out her phone with shaking hands and opens the Photos app. "I kept pictures. The police told me to document everything."