"You're selling ghosts, Savannah."
The voice didn't come from the auctioneer. It didn't echo from the marbled walls of the Delacroix estate. It came from inside her sharp, cold, bitter. She stood near the edge of the hallway, chin lifted, spine taut, as strangers walked through what used to be her world.
The grand staircase creaked as an elderly woman in pearls and too-bright lipstick admired the railing. "Original finish," she told her companion. "It could be repurposed. Maybe a wine bar?"
Savannah's jaw ached from clenching.
The auctioneer called out a number, something about an antique fireplace poker. Applause followed. It was a celebration for them. For her, it was the burial of everything that ever mattered.
A letter burned in her purse. Eviction. Foreclosure. The final nails.
She turned on her heels, stilettos clicking against polished marble that hadn't been cleaned in weeks. She walked through the hallway where she once played violin under her mother's watchful eye, past the gallery wall now bare, past the faint ghost of her father's laughter.
She paused at the front door when it groaned open.
A courier stood there, unimpressed and rain-soaked. "Delacroix?" he asked.
She nodded. He handed her a small black envelope no return address.
Inside, a card. Matte. Minimal. The name was embossed in silver: Rhett Callahan.
Nothing else.
No message. No number. Just the name.
Savannah stared at it for too long. Rhett Callahan didn't send invitations. He sent summons.
You'll know when to use it, a voice whispered in her mind. But it wasn't hers.
It was his.
Weeks earlier, the Maddox Foundation gala lit up the city. Velvet ropes. Crystal chandeliers. A room full of sharks in diamonds and tailored silk.
Savannah stood alone at the balcony doors, wrapped in crimson satin that cost more than her car. Her curls were pinned to one side, makeup pristine, smile hollow.
"She's wearing borrowed pearls," someone whispered.
"She's selling Charleston," another replied.
"She'll marry rich or disappear."
She sipped water from a champagne flute. Her fingers barely trembled.
That's when Blair Montrose descended.
"Savannah," Blair purred, wineglass in hand, eyes gleaming like razors. "Still pretending to be someone?"
Savannah turned slowly. "Still pretending to be relevant?"
Blair laughed, hand resting on her hip. "You really should learn when to quit. Stubbornness doesn't look good on the desperate."
"And cruelty doesn't make you interesting. Just predictable."
A few heads turned.
Blair lifted her glass in mock salute. "To Savannah Delacroix. May the ashes of her name make rich soil for someone new."
The room laughed.
Savannah walked away.
Outside, the air was brutal. Honest.
She leaned against the iron railing, swallowing the ache in her throat.
"You don't belong in there," a voice said.
She turned.
Rhett Callahan was taller than she remembered. Dark suit. Darker eyes. A man who looked like he owned silence and preferred it.
"I'm sorry do I know you?"
He stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "Not yet."
"Then I suggest you leave the dramatics for someone more interested."
His smile was faint. "I saw what Blair did. That wasn't dramatic?"
Savannah's gaze narrowed. "Are you here to judge or spectate?"
"Neither." He paused. "I'm here to offer something."
She raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. A pity proposal? A merger disguised as charity?"
"No," he said quietly. "A transaction."
She almost laughed. "You want to buy me?"
He tilted his head. "I want to save your legacy."
Savannah blinked.
"I know about the foreclosure," he added.
Her breath hitched.
"And the trust that's frozen. The debts. The missing offshore account your father never disclosed."
"You've done your homework."
"I always do."
She folded her arms. "Why me?"
"You'll understand soon enough."
He stepped closer. Too close. She could smell the faintest hint of cedar and something darker.
Rhett reached into his jacket. Produced a card. Slipped it into her clutch.
"You'll know when to use it."
Then he turned and vanished into the night.
The day she used it, her hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From rage.
Everything she'd ever been taught to smile, to endure, to behave collapsed under the weight of that card.
She called the number etched into the silence of her past.
Rhett answered on the second ring.
"I'm ready," she said.
There was a pause.
"Meet me tomorrow. Ten o'clock. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
Ten o'clock came. Rhett's office was colder than it had any right to be. All glass and steel, high above the city, untouched by emotion.
Savannah stood in a black dress, posture straight, heart steady.
He didn't rise from his chair. "Miss Delacroix."
"Mr. Callahan."
He gestured to the seat across from him. "Let's begin."
She sat, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. "What is it you want?"
"A wife."
She stared at him.
"A marriage. Public. Strategic. You'll get your estate back. Your reputation. I'll get the board off my back and the press redirected."
She blinked. "You're serious."
"I'm never not."
"And love?"
His eyes didn't flicker. "Not part of the arrangement."
"Affection?"
"Optional."
She exhaled through her nose. "Sex?"
His gaze met hers. "If required."
Savannah stood. "You're insane."
"Possibly."
"I'm not desperate."
"Yet."
She turned to leave.
"Savannah," he said, voice low.
She stopped.
"You're out of time. You know it. I'm the last offer you'll get before the banks take everything."
She didn't answer.
Rhett stood and walked to the window. "You'll have full access to the estate. Staff. Private car. Appearance schedule. You'll be compensated."
She turned back slowly. "How much?"
"Enough to rebuild your family name. If you follow the rules."
"And if I don't?"
His smile was cruel. "Then I'll bury what's left of it."
The silence stretched.
Finally, she stepped forward.
"Send the contract."
That night, Savannah sat at her father's desk, pen in hand. The contract was thick. Sterile. Loveless.
Clause 14: No emotional entanglements.
Clause 17: Public image must remain intact.
Clause 21: No children.
She signed.
And as the ink dried, she whispered to the empty room, "This isn't marriage. It's war."
And she intended to win.