Chapter 8
Savannah adjusted her gown with trembling fingers backstage.
A pale dove-gray silk dress clung to her slender frame, chosen by someone far more concerned with optics than comfort.
Her hair was pinned into soft waves with the crescent moon clip Sawyer had given her.
Every part of her had been polished for tonight’s audience.
She peeked out from behind the curtain. The Théatre des Champs-élysées stretched out before her like a dream from another life.
It was one of the largest venues she’d ever performed in, but it was perhaps the most dignified.
There was a quiet, reverent kind of luxury to it.
With subtle gold leaf accents, soft ivory walls framed by classical columns, and a ceiling that held more stories than sound.
From her vantage point, she could see the elegant slope of the auditorium’s orchestra seating, and the three curving balconies rising like delicate tiers of a wedding cake.
The hall was full. Rows upon rows of dignitaries and politicians sat under the glow of chandeliers.
Finely dressed ambassadors, cultural ministers, and a famous French composer she’d idolized as a girl were present.
She noticed the French president’s wife, a striking figure in a simple black gown, seated beside the mayor of Paris, who was gesticulating animatedly. Their expressions were unreadable.
Warm stage lights cast a golden glow across the polished wood floors, and for a moment, the entire room looked like it had been dipped in candlelight.
She swallowed, her throat dry.
A close, breathy voice startled her, making her whirl around to see who had spoken. “You look beautiful.”
With a hand placed firmly over her wildly beating heart, she tried to calm the organ as it pounded against her ribs.
Recognizing the man, she let out a breath and said, “Oh, Brian,” her voice soft.
Brian Hammerstein was her piano technician.
He followed her to all her performances and made sure the pianos were tuned and in perfect order.
“How are you? Did you have any troubles working on the piano?”
His smile showed a crooked canine tooth that was quite noticeable. “Everything went perfectly.”
At nearly her own height, Brian stood there, his hands nervously fidgeting with the middle button on his shirt.
The man was unremarkable in every aspect except for his unparalleled genius when it came to his work with pianos.
Typically, most concert pianists didn’t travel with their own personal tuners, nevertheless, Savannah maintained the unwavering conviction that Brian was an indispensable member of her touring team and that she couldn’t possibly perform at her peak without him.
She returned his smile. “Good. That’s great. What would I ever do without you?”
Brian blushed more than any man Savannah had ever seen, a reaction that she found endearing. He continued twisting the already strained shirt button, causing her to fear its imminent detachment before he replied, “You never have to find out.”
Laying a hand over his fidgeting fingers, she gently stopped his nervous fiddling and softly said, “Thank you, Brian. Really.”
His eyes widened, his body rigid, and every inch of him stilled as his blush deepened, a tide of crimson rose in his neck and face. “You never have to thank me, you know that. I’m happy to help.”
She dropped her hand before replying. “I know. But I just wanted you to know I appreciate you.”
Embarrassed, his chin fell, and he instinctively reached for the button, but hesitated, stopping himself before he could play with it again. “Well, I’ll leave you alone to prepare for your performance. Break a leg.”
He walked away, and she turned her attention back to the activity on the stage.
The cavernous space was filled with the discordant sounds of the Orchestre National de France tuning their instruments as they prepared to accompany her.
This wasn’t just a concert. It was diplomacy wrapped in a melody.
A performance attended by foreign ministers, diplomats, press, and world leaders.
She was expected to be more than a pianist tonight. She was a symbol. A bridge.
And she’d always hated being a symbol.
The truth was, she didn’t belong in a gilded theater under international scrutiny. She belonged in the quiet of practice rooms, in echoing rehearsal halls, in her home with her windows cracked open and sheet music scattered across the floor.
A place where the music was just . . . music.
But that wasn’t tonight.
“You all right?” Sawyer’s voice drifted from behind her, low and steady.
She turned slightly, just enough to glance over her shoulder and nod. He was close—close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence. His gaze scanned the theater, always alert, always reading the room like a chessboard.
“I just . . .” She hesitated, letting her eyes sweep the grandeur again. “It’s beautiful. But it doesn’t feel like it’s mine.”
Sawyer’s brow lifted. “You’re about to make it yours.”
Her chest tightened with emotion, an ache too familiar to name.
The orchestra quieted, and the concertmaster stepped out onto the stage with her violin clutched in one hand.
With the precise tuning complete, the conductor emerged to a round of applause.
Then it was her turn. With one last breath, she stepped onto the stage, her heels echoing faintly against the wood.
The soft rustle of an audience settling into velvet seats reached her ears as the house lights dimmed.
Behind her, the curtain swayed gently.
Ahead, the golden hush of the Théatre des Champs-élysées waited, ready to hold her every note.
Savannah lifted her chin and walked to the gleaming black grand piano, ready to play.
The first note silenced the room. She poured herself into the music, clinging to every crescendo, every swell of emotion.
The concert unfolded like a dreamscape, her fingers on the ivory keys painting stories of grief, love, unity.
For a little while, she forgot everything—the expectations, the cameras, the Senator’s demands.
When the last note faded into reverent silence, applause erupted like thunder.
She rose, bowed. Smiled. And began to count the steps until she could breathe again, because now the real performance began.
The reception glittered beneath gold trim and wine glasses.
Crystal chandeliers glittered above the grand hall like a thousand watching eyes.
Waiters moved gracefully with silver trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
Kandy gushed beside a French film producer.
Henry charmed his way through the room, his smile dazzling each woman he encountered.
Savannah stood off to the side, smiling politely, glass in hand, but never partaking. Just another prop in the play that was her life.
Everyone wanted to shake her hand. Everyone wanted a quote. A photograph. A comment on her “courageous” musical mission. She smiled. Nodded. Gave polite, vague answers.
But inside, she was spiraling.
The desperate need for a quiet corner left her feeling on edge, jittery, every sound amplifying her anxiety. She caught Sawyer’s eye as he stood on the periphery, watching over her.
He made his way to her, the crowd parting for him like he commanded it.
Savannah admired the way the tuxedo hugged his form, highlighting his physique; he looked devastatingly handsome.
She noticed the admiring glances of several women as he walked by, their eyes lingering on him. But his eyes never wavered from her.
His steady gaze ground her, softening the frenzy building inside.
“I need the restroom,” she said, her voice more fragile than she intended.
He gave a slight nod, then escorted her out of the room. He stopped at the entrance to the dimly lit hallway leading to the bathrooms, and said, “I’ll wait here.”
She nodded. “I’ll be quick.”
He didn’t argue, just watched her retreat, something unreadable in his eyes.
Savannah slipped into the woman’s restroom, heels whispering over marble. The bathroom was elegant, with ornate gold trim, pristine fixtures, and a full-length mirror that showed her reflection with too much honesty. But more importantly, it was quiet.
She stepped into a stall and, with an audible exhale, locked the door behind her.
The silence was a balm.
Having finally managed the somewhat awkward task of using the facilities in her long evening gown, she stepped toward the counter, smoothing down her dress.
After washing up, she pressed her hands to the cool marble counter surrounding the porcelain sinks, trying to remember how to breathe properly. In for four. Hold. Out for four.
You’re okay. You’re just overwhelmed. It’s fine.
She closed her eyes, willing the nausea and dizziness to pass. Her mind fluttered with too many memories: the Senator’s forced smiles, the weight of his hand on her shoulder when cameras were near, the subtle pressure of his expectations.
The lights flickered.
Savannah opened her eyes.
Then everything went black.
Total, suffocating darkness.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. A chill licked down her spine. She blinked, disoriented, but there was nothing. No sound. No light from the hallway. Just—
The dark.
Her breath hitched. A memory surged up from the depths, uninvited.
That day when she was fourteen, crying inside the closet. The Senator’s angry voice behind the door. The sharp click of the lock turning. Her mother’s silence.
“Think about your attitude, Savannah.”
She stumbled toward where she thought the door might be and, finding it, she clawed at the doorknob, panic rising like a tide. Locked. From the outside.
A gown meant to pockets. Which meant no phone. Sure, the gown was beautiful but suffocating, and had nowhere to hide anything.
“Come on,” she whispered, jiggling the knob. “Come on, open . . .”
The darkness pressed tighter. Her chest heaved. Her thoughts spiraled. But somewhere through the fear, one name broke through the chaos.
Sawyer.
He’d come. If she took too long, his worry would grow, and he’d come looking for her.
Minutes that seemed like hours passed. Too long. Her breathing was too shallow. Too frantic. She backed into a corner, wrapping her arms around herself, willing the shaking to stop.
Then—a voice.
A firm knock.
“Savannah?” Sawyer. His voice, low, urgent. “It’s me. Are you in there?” She tried to answer, but the words caught in her throat, strangled by the memories.
“Stand back from the door. I’m breaking it down.”
A loud crack. Then another. The door splintered open with a final shudder of wood and light flooded in, harsh, fluorescent, and blinding.
Sawyer moved fast, his silhouette rushing through the jagged doorway. She didn’t even think.
She collapsed into his arms.
He caught her, strong and steady, holding her like the world couldn’t touch her anymore. Her hands fisted into the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. Her face buried against his chest, breathing him in. Clean soap, wood, and something warm that always made her feel safe.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
She didn’t answer. Just held on like he was the only solid thing left.
Because in that moment, he was.