Savannah Delacroix never imagined her father's downfall would lead her into a cold-blooded contract with Rhett Callahan, Alabama's most elusive billionaire. Haunted by betrayal and obsessed with control, Rhett offers Savannah a lifeline a one-year marriage in exchange for financial salvation. What begins as a calculated deal soon spirals into a war of hearts as secrets unravel, sparks ignite, and their icy facades begin to melt. But with enemies circling and emotions growing too powerful to deny, Savannah must decide if risking her heart is worth losing her freedom or gaining something she never thought she'd deserve.
Chapter 1 The Auctioned Legacy
She inhaled slowly, her breath sharp and tired. The air still smelled like aged wood and forgotten perfume. This was her home. Her father's legacy. The place where deals were once sealed over champagne and politics disguised as dinner parties. Now, it was just merchandise. Picked apart. Priced.
The auctioneer, a stout man in suspenders and a slicked-back comb-over, raised his voice from the living room, announcing the next lot. Savannah barely heard him. Her eyes were fixed on the fireplace mantel where the family crest used to hang. It had been removed the previous day, sold to some historian who had no clue what the crest had meant to the Delacroix lineage.
A woman in pearls and red lipstick whispered too loudly to her husband, "This place could make a fine boutique hotel. It just needs to be gutted."
Savannah's fingers twitched.
She turned sharply, her stilettos clicking against the dusty marble floor. Each step was intentional. Controlled. Until she reached the hallway where she used to play violin at ten, where her mother once kissed her forehead before galas, where her father had stood smiling in a tuxedo, declaring, "This house will always be yours."
Lies, as it turned out, were also inherited.
A creaking door broke her trance. From the side entrance, an envelope was pushed through the slit at the bottom, sliding across the floor like it had purpose. She stared at it. Even before she picked it up, her heart knew the weight of its contents.
She crouched and opened it with trembling fingers. The seal broke with a soft crack. The letterhead bore the logo of First Horizon Bank. Savannah unfolded the pages slowly, her breath thinning with every word.
Final Notice. Foreclosure Effective Immediately. Eviction Scheduled.
She didn't blink. She didn't cry.
But her grip tightened until the paper creased sharply in her palm.
The ballroom shimmered with chandeliers and insincerity.
Months before the foreclosure, Savannah stood at the center of a gala, dressed in silk the color of red wine, her dark curls coiled over one bare shoulder. At a glance, she was every bit the Southern aristocrat the heiress with the poise of a queen and the smile of a woman untouched by consequence.
But even then, the foundation was cracking.
It began in whispers.
"I heard her father's accounts were frozen." "She's trying to sell their Charleston house, poor thing." "Maybe she'll marry well."
Savannah smiled through it all. That's what she'd been taught. Don't flinch. Don't blink. Don't bleed in front of sharks.
The gala was for the Maddox Foundation old money playing charity for better tax write-offs. Everyone who mattered in St. Louis society was present. Men in tailored suits, women in gowns stitched by hands paid more than doctors. Wine flowed like water, but Savannah didn't drink. She needed her senses sharp, her poise intact.
Her fingers clutched a champagne flute, untouched. She stood alone near the balcony doors, her back straight, her spine screaming from hours of performance.
And then came the voice. Sweet as venom.
"Darling Savannah," Blair Montrose drawled, appearing from the crowd with a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Still attending galas without a sponsor? Bold."
Blair was everything Savannah once feared she'd become entitled, cruel, and adored. Her blonde hair swept into an effortless updo, diamond earrings grazing her jaw, lips painted like rose petals hiding thorns.
"Blair," Savannah greeted with a neutral tone, eyes flicking over her rival's designer dress. "I didn't realize leeches were on the guest list."
A few heads turned. Blair's smile thinned.
"Oh, honey," she said, stepping closer, lowering her voice. "We all know what's coming. The whispers. The debts. You're just the ghost haunting your family's name."
Savannah took a breath, shoulders squared. "And you're the roach living off others' legacies."
It should have ended there.
But Blair reached for the microphone. The pianist paused. The room quieted.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Blair said sweetly, eyes glinting. "A toast to our lovely Savannah Delacroix. May the ashes of her name make rich soil for someone new."
The crowd laughed.
Savannah didn't.
She placed her flute on a nearby table, turned without a word, and walked through the heavy doors to the balcony. The night air bit her skin, but she welcomed the cold. It was honest.
The balcony smelled like jasmine and storm.
Savannah leaned against the wrought iron rail, arms folded, lips pressed tightly together. She hated the weakness in her chest the throb of embarrassment, the humiliation stuck in her throat.
She'd almost missed the soft click of approaching footsteps.
"You don't belong in there," a voice said.
Deep. Steady. Male.
Savannah turned.
He stood tall, dressed in obsidian black, his posture relaxed but watchful. Rhett Callahan. The man headlines called cold-blooded brilliance. The youngest corporate empire builder in the Southwest. Rumor had it he'd broken off an engagement with a single text message.
His eyes, pale like scotch over ice, flicked to her bare shoulders. Then to the nearly-shut ballroom doors.
"Let me guess," he said. "Blair."
Savannah raised an eyebrow. "What gave it away? The bleeding ego or the aftertaste of poison?"
A flicker of a smile tugged at his lips. "You're sharper than they said."
She tilted her chin. "And you're not what I expected."
He took a step closer, hands in his pockets. "What did you expect?"
"Someone with a soul made of ledgers."
He chuckled, low and quiet. "You're not far off."
The silence stretched between them. The sounds of the gala faded behind the doors replaced by thunder in the sky.
Savannah's gaze lingered on him. His features were too sculpted to be soft, his suit tailored with predatory precision. He didn't wear his wealth like others did. He wielded it.
"You're bleeding," he said suddenly.
She blinked. Looked down. Her palm had a small cut from the sharp edge of her clutch.
Rhett reached into his inner jacket and pulled out a handkerchief. He handed it to her without comment.
Their fingers brushed.
Heat. Static. Something unsettling.
She took it, wrapping it around her hand. "Thanks."
He studied her a beat longer. Then without warning, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a slim black business card.
He didn't hand it to her. He tucked it lightly into the side of her purse, still open beside her hip.
"You'll know when to use it."
And then, as quickly as he'd arrived, he turned and disappeared through the side garden gate.
Savannah exhaled slowly.
Later, when she looked inside her purse, the card was there.
Matte black. No email. No website. Just a name embossed in silver:
Rhett Callahan
Other books by Emerald Reginald
More