Chapter 4
Savannah’s cheeks ached from holding the same smile for far too long.
She adjusted her posture under the weight of the clicking camera lenses, their flashes slicing the air in timed bursts. The press line buzzed with questions, laughter, and the occasional shouted name, but it all blurred together, a dizzying hum that barely touched her.
The Senator’s arm tightened like a vise around her waist, a suffocating reminder of her role, and she despised it.
A tremor ran through her, threatening to send her to her knees, but with fierce determination, she battled against the weakening in her legs and arms, refusing to succumb.
Although she desperately wanted to flee, her smile remained fixed in place, betraying none of her inner turmoil.
Beside her, Kandy sparkled. Literally. The subtle sequins in her outfit caught every glint of light and flung it back. She posed with practiced ease, tossing her too tight dark ponytail over her shoulder, answering questions like they were old friends.
Savannah stood frozen in her perfectly tailored navy slacks and pink satin blouse, hands clasped in front of her like a disciplined student. The buttons on her cuffs dug into her wrists, sharp little reminders of the faux stage she was standing on. A stage she’d never asked for.
The cameras loved her when she played. Behind a grand piano, she could lose herself in Rachmaninoff, drown out the noise of expectations. But this posing, smiling, and pretending . . . this wasn’t music. This was a performance of a different kind, one that hollowed her out the longer it lasted.
She smiled. Because that’s what was expected.
Her fingers, so used to dancing over piano keys, itched at her sides.
As she always did when she needed solace, she reached into her pocket, her fingers finding the familiar smoothness of the pendant, and derived comfort from its presence there.
Despite the dazzling lights and rapid-fire questions, the designer top felt constricting and foreign against her skin, its smooth satin offering no comfort.
The neckline was higher than Kandy’s and somehow, that made her feel even more exposed.
Her smile, though rehearsed, started to crack beneath the weight of questions and cameras.
“How does it feel to be representing classical music in a world dominated by pop culture?”
“Will Senator McNabney be joining the tour at any point?”
“Savannah, will you be only performing solo pieces, or can we expect a collaboration between you and Kandy? Or you and Henry Patrick.” Henry was one of the other singers participating in the tour. A man who gave Savannah the heebie-jeebies with just one word.
She nodded, murmured her lines. Said what she was supposed to say. But her gaze kept drifting past the reporters, past the flashing cameras, toward the edge of the hangar where she knew Sawyer was waiting. Leaning in the shadows like a silent wall between her and everything fake about this moment.
He stood a few feet from the wall and tucked his sunglasses into his collar as her mother approached.
As they spoke, he crossed his arms over his chest like he was daring trouble to come his way.
He hadn’t smiled much, but somehow, his presence alone was the first steady note in a cacophony she hadn’t learned how to silence.
She wanted to be near him. Just breathe the same air without feeling like she had to impress anyone.
Savannah took a step back, just an inch, and the weight of the cameras shifted. The Senator’s hand tightened on her side, fingers pressing just under the cover of her billowy sleeve. To the press, it looked like a loving touch between a father and a daughter. To her, it felt like a warning.
He leaned in, voice low and cool through clenched teeth. “Eyes forward. Smile wider. You’re slipping, Savannah. Act like you’re thrilled to be here.” Then louder, for the cameras, “She’s just a little shy in the spotlight, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
Savannah’s stomach twisted. She nodded, trying to salvage the moment with a polite laugh, but her throat felt tight.
Kandy tossed her head with a laugh at some reporter’s joke, the crowd eating it up.
Savannah gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
A headache started to form, and her eye twitched involuntarily, a tell-tale sign of the migraine’s approach.
With the overseas flight looming, she really didn’t want to be dealing with the added misery.
She knew the nausea and light sensitivity of a migraine would make the cramped conditions and long hours of the flight a living hell.
She tried to ignore the growing discomfort as they were peppered with a rapid-fire volley of questions, coming at them one after the other so fast they could barely keep up.
“Savannah?” a journalist called out. “How do you respond to critics who say this tour is political theater dressed in designer clothes?”
“Senator McNabney, is this tour intended to boost diplomatic relations or your reelection campaign?”
The reporter in front of her leaned in. “Savannah, how does it feel to be representing classical music alongside Kandy’s pop appeal? Are you excited to show a different side of culture to the world?”
She hesitated. Her real answer sat on the tip of her tongue—I don’t belong up here—but the Senator’s hand pressed slightly harder.
Smile. Speak.
“I’m . . . honored,” she said finally. “I hope to remind people that music, no matter the genre, speaks the same language.”
The Senator, a smirk playing on his lips, stepped in with a chuckle, the sound grating on Savannah’s nerves as much as his self-importance. “Savannah has always believed in the power of music to unite. This tour is about cultural connection—and yes, a little fun, too.”
The press laughed.
Savannah didn’t.
Her gaze pulled back toward Sawyer. He was watching her. Not the media, not the Senator. Her. And there was a furrow in his brow, like he could see exactly how badly she wanted to run. His eyes on her felt like a touch, comforting, quiet, and attentive. Not demanding. Not disappointed.
Just there.
And it struck her then with a sudden, breath-stealing certainty that while the world expected her to be the good girl, the Senator’s daughter, the pianist who smiled on cue, the only person who saw her—really saw her—was standing in the shadows.
And she wanted nothing more than to go to him. As Savannah took a step to do just that, a sharp crack echoed through the hangar. It wasn’t loud enough to be a gunshot, but it wasn’t far off.
The reporters went quiet in a wave, heads turning, cameras lowering mid-click.
Sawyer was already moving.
Savannah’s heart jolted. He was cutting across the space with purpose, his hand instinctively brushing the holster at his back. His eyes swept the perimeter like a predator scenting blood.
“Stay here,” the Senator barked to her under his breath, suddenly all steel behind the politician’s mask. Secret Service agents stepped forward, shielding the Senator and the VIPs.
Savannah’s pulse pounded in her ears.
“What was that?” Kandy whispered, eyes wide behind her false lashes. “OMG. A crazy fanatic is coming after me. I need protection,” she yelled. “Now!” Savannah fought the urge to roll her eyes at the diva’s dramatics.
From the far corner of the hangar, near the loading bay, a figure stumbled out from behind a stack of equipment cases the crew had been diligently loading as the press conference occurred.
A disheveled and wild-eyed man, definitely not one of the tour staff, was yelling something incoherent, his voice rising above the returning chaos.
“I know what you’re up to. You won’t get away with it.”
The press surged forward again like sharks, cameras back up, feeding off the sudden shift in energy.
“Who is that? What is he talking about?” someone shouted.
Sawyer reached the man first, pinning him against a support beam with a forearm to the chest. “You’ve got ten seconds to explain yourself or you’re going facedown on the concrete.”
“I tried to warn them,” the man wheezed. “She’s not safe. She’s not safe! He’s using her.”
He was looking straight at Savannah.
Not Kandy. Not the Senator. Her.
Harlan stepped in front of her before she could move, motioning to the agents who swarmed toward Sawyer and the man.
“Get him out of here,” the Senator snapped to the agents, his voice suddenly tight.
“Wait,” Sawyer shouted. “I have more questions.”
“He’ll be questioned thoroughly, sir,” one agent replied sharply, the metallic clang of handcuffs echoing in the tense silence as he pulled the man away from Sawyer, whose eyes blazed with barely suppressed fury.
Savannah stared as the man was dragged away, still shouting, his words growing more frantic.
“I know what I know! You have to be stopped!”
Then he was gone.
The hangar rang with stunned silence. The press didn’t know whether to call it a security scare or a public relations nightmare.
Savannah’s insides twisted in a way that told her this wasn’t random. His wild eyes spoke of desperation. Desperate for her to hear.
Her gaze found Sawyer. He was watching her now, chest heaving slightly, expression unreadable.
In that moment, the weight of the cameras, the Senator, the press tour, all of it faded.
Because for the first time, Savannah wasn’t just uncomfortable.
She was afraid.
The press was still buzzing behind them, voices rising like a hive in full panic mode, but Savannah had already slipped away from the Senator with Sawyer close behind her.
She stopped in a dim corner lined with storage crates and spun to face him. “What the hell was that?” she hissed, arms crossing over her chest, more to hold herself together than anything else.
Sawyer didn’t answer right away. His hand ran through the too long strands of his dark hair, jaw tight as he scanned the area like someone expecting an ambush.
“Sawyer.” She hated the tremble in her voice as she spoke his name, the sound of it a desperate plea escaping her lips.
His gaze snapped back to hers. “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out.”
“You don’t know?” Her voice was louder than she meant, brittle and sharp.
She felt just as brittle as her voice. Like she could snap at any moment.
The migraine was building in intensity, and she rubbed her temple with one hand.
“That man . . . He looked at me like . . .like he knew something about me. Something I don’t. And he said I’m not safe.”
“At this point in time, you are safe,” he said flatly.
That stopped her cold. At this point in time . . . what did that mean? She stared at him. “Excuse me?”
He stepped closer, voice low and deadly calm. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You can trust me in that. My team and I will find out what’s going on.”
“What’s there to find out?” she asked, denial thick in her throat. If only she could live there permanently. But as the departure date approached, a growing unease, like a tightening knot in her stomach, had unsettled her. She couldn’t ignore it anymore.
“We are working to unravel new intel. By the time we reach Paris, my team should have some more answers,” he assured.
With a sudden, irrelevant outburst, she blurted, “Wait . . . I thought you were a SEAL. When did you become a bodyguard?”
His lips twitched as he fought a smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced her abrupt subject tangents.
He’d frequently complained about the strangeness of her mind when they were kids.
“I left the SEALs a few years ago. My commander started his security company and asked me to join him. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. ”
“Wow. Okay. I mean . . . I’m happy for you. From what little I’ve seen so far, you appear to be good at your job.” Way to go, Savannah. Could you sound more like an idiot?
His eyes, dark and intense, fixed on her. “I am. Which is why I can promise I’ll keep you safe.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She wanted to give her own head a good, hard smack for saying something so ridiculously foolish. Thank you. What was she thinking? Exhaustion suddenly made her limbs feel like heavy weights. She rubbed her temple again as the pain behind her eyes intensified.
Sawyer’s voice softened. “You shouldn’t push yourself too hard. If you want to back out, now’s the time.”
“You think I’m going to just walk away now? After diplomats from a dozen countries are expecting me? After all the ticket sales for the performances? Too many people are counting on this tour going smoothly. Counting on me,” she stated, her voice rising.
“I think we should be asking who’s really benefiting from this tour,” he shot back. “Because it sure as hell isn’t you.”
Silence dropped between them like a curtain.
She looked away, anger fading into a hollow ache she didn’t know what to do with. “I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted to play music. To feel like I mattered in something bigger than myself.”
“You do matter,” he said, stepping in close again. “You always did. Savi. I’m gonna convince you of that someday.”
Her eyes snapped to his, and for a moment, all the tension drained from her shoulders. Because when he called her that—Savi―walls slipped, and she was ten again, playing in the creek behind their houses.
But they weren’t kids anymore.
They were standing in the shadows of something that was starting to feel dangerous, and the only person she could trust was the one she believed knew her better than anyone else, even though he hadn’t seen her in twenty years.