Tangled Vows | PART 1 |

| Part 1| Ch 03: The First Thread Unravels

Chapter Three

Savannah

She needed air.

The murmurs of the crowd still rang in her ears—the congratulations, the forced smiles, the weight of it all pressing down like hands on her chest. She slipped away from the ballroom, away from Trevor's concerned gaze and Atticus's unreadable one, heels clicking against marble as she stepped out onto the balcony.

The night air wrapped around her like silk—cool and crisp. Somewhere in the distance, music played like a memory fading too fast.

This wasn't supposed to be real.

She gripped the railing, knuckles whitening. It was supposed to be a nightmare she'd eventually wake up from, drenched in sweat but free. Instead, it was a vow sealed with gold bands and empty glances. A deal her father made—and she paid for.

This is your life now, she told herself. Living with him. Pretending to be his. Dressing up for parties. Holding his arm. Smiling. Until the due was paid. Her father's mistakes now wore her name.

They left in silence.

The car was sleek and black, like everything about Atticus—expensive and cold. Savannah slid in, careful not to let her gown wrinkle. Atticus followed, jaw set like stone. The only sound was the gentle clearing of a throat.

"Congratulations, sir. Ma'am," said the driver—a gentle-eyed man in his late fifties, with silver at his temples and warmth in his voice.

Atticus actually smiled. "Mr. Libone."

Savannah blinked. She hadn't seen that softness before. Not once. Mr. Libone glanced at her through the rearview mirror with a knowing look.

"He's better than he lets on," the man said quietly after Atticus stepped out to take a call mid-drive. "Just... give it time. He's been like this since he was a boy. Always guarding something."

She didn't answer. But something about those words clung to her ribs.

The mansion was a cathedral of silence.

Savannah's new room looked like a luxury hotel suite with no soul. She tossed her heels into the corner, tore the pins from her hair, and stood in front of the mirror until her reflection felt like a stranger's.

She didn't cry. Not yet.

But sleep didn't come either.

So she wandered.

Down the hallway. Past closed doors and portraits that didn't smile. The house was too quiet, like it held its breath. She found him in the lounge—tie undone, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass of something dark in his hand.

He looked up when she entered. Didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. Just nodded once—an invitation, or maybe a challenge.

She sat down across from him. Neither of them spoke.

Atticus poured her a drink without asking, the amber liquid catching the light between them.

They drank in silence.

For a moment, something hung in the air. Something just shy of peace. Maybe even understanding.

She caught herself watching him. Noticing the curve of his mouth when he wasn't trying to hide it, the weight in his shoulders, the way he looked tired in a way that no sleep could fix.

"You always drink like this after weddings?" she asked, her voice softer than she meant.

"Only the ones that trap me in lifelong contracts."

She raised her glass in mock toast. "To contracts, then."

His eyes met hers. "To pretty girls who slap their husbands in public."

She couldn't help it—she laughed. A real one. The first in days. "So... slapping is my thing now, huh?"

He shrugged. "You do it well."

A beat passed. Their eyes lingered too long. The air shifted. Her skin warmed. It would be so easy to fall for a moment like this.

But then reality slammed back into her chest like a door shutting.

This wasn't real. This was a performance. A transaction wrapped in tulle and lies.

She set the glass down.

"Good night, Mr. Frensby."

He didn't respond. Just watched her leave.

Atticus

He wasn't used to noise in his head.

But Savannah Amble wasn't just noise—she was an echo that lingered, vibrating through the quiet corners of him.

The slap had caught him off guard back in Miami. The second one, today, amused him more than it should have. Slapping is your thing, huh? he had muttered when they were alone after the ceremony, dry humor masking the sting.

But when he saw her walk down the aisle—something in him halted.

Not attraction. Not awe. Just... a sudden, frustrating pull. Like gravity had chosen sides, and it wasn't his.

Now, watching her curled on the other end of the couch in his living room, barefoot, hair falling loosely, the wedding dress exchanged for soft cotton—he hated how normal it felt. How dangerously intimate.

She wasn't supposed to get under his skin.

She was supposed to play the role, smile for the press, and vanish after the deal was done. He hadn't signed up for whatever this was—curiosity, softness, hunger.

"You always wander around like this after fake weddings?" he asked dryly, taking another sip.

She smirked. "Only when the groom looks like he might drink the walls down."

Silence again.

But now, it wasn't cold.

It was charged. Heavy. Two storms waiting to crash.

He looked at her profile, at the way her fingers gripped the glass like she was anchoring herself to reality. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he kissed her.

Then he remembered.

This wasn't love.

This was business.

And she hated him.

Good. Hate was safe.

But even as he poured another drink, he couldn't shake the thought:

What if this girl he was supposed to use for convenience... slowly started to undo him instead?