Tangled Vows | PART 1 |

| Part 1 |Ch 02: Miami, Weeks Before the Wedding

Chapter Two 

Savannah

She hated Miami. The heat stuck to her skin like an unwanted second layer, and the air smelled like sea salt and regret. But here she was anyway—perched at the edge of a luxury resort's bar, fingers wrapped around a diluted mojito, wearing a dress too tight for comfort and a name tag she wanted to rip off.

Her father had insisted. "Just smile, Savannah. Make the family proud."

As if that was all she was good for.

This wasn't networking. This was camouflage. A means to escape the endless wedding calls, the invasive dress fittings, the rehearsals for a ceremony she hadn't dreamed of but had been promised into like a peace treaty. A contract signed in silence and pressure.

The ballroom reeked of over-polished shoes and generational wealth. Arrogant heirs. Dripping diamonds. And beneath it all, a desperation no one dared to name.

She slipped out through the glass doors, heels clicking across marble until she reached the veranda that overlooked the beach. Her chest rose like it wanted to scream.

That's when she heard it.

A voice. Low. Controlled. Brutal.

"Don't tell me what he meant. The man built an empire on manipulation. I don't owe him anything."

Her breath caught.

It wasn't just the words. It was the tone —the kind that sent shivers down her spine. Cold. Dismissive. Arrogant. Everything she'd grown up around. Everything she hated.

She turned the corner, saw him there. Tall, broad-shouldered, a drink in one hand, phone in the other. Sharp suit, sharper jawline. He looked like every man who had ever looked through her. Every man who spoke of power like it was a birthright and not something taken.

"Excuse me?" she asked, the words tight.

He turned slightly, annoyed, not expecting interruption.

"You think it's impressive to tear someone down behind their back?"

He arched his brow. "I think you're eavesdropping."

"You were loud."

"And you were uninvited."

Her jaw locked. "You were talking about my father, weren't you?"

"I don't know your father," he replied flatly. "But if he built his empire on favors and spineless alliances, maybe."

That was it.

The rage she had buried beneath wedding lace and obedient nods snapped.

Crack.

The slap echoed, her hand trembling the second after it landed.

He turned fully.

Grey eyes. Strong jaw. Dark, artfully disheveled hair.

And completely unfamiliar.

Her chest tightened.

"I—" she started, voice dry. "That wasn't about you."

He tilted his head slightly, lips twitching. "It was definitely at me, though."

Atticus

He didn't see the slap coming.

One second, he was telling his assistant that his father could rot in hell, and the next—

Pain. Sharp. Suddenly.

He turned, brows lifted, more startled than angry. The woman in front of him was a storm in heels—wide eyes, clenched jaw, and fire running under her skin.

"Slapping strangers, your thing?" he asked, rubbing his jaw, amused despite himself.

"I thought you were someone else," she muttered. Then quickly added, "Or maybe I just needed someone."

"Someone to take the hit?"

Her silence was enough.

He gave her a crooked smile. "That's new. Usually, people recognize me before they hit me."

She blinked. Recognition dawning like a spotlight.

"You're... Atticus Frensby."

"In the flesh."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes." He smirked, letting the silence settle just long enough. "Name?"

"Savannah."

He let her name echo between them, soft but deliberate.

"Well, Savannah... you slap like a New Yorker."

She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath.

"What was that?" he teased.

"Nothing."

He watched her turn, chin lifted despite the blush threatening to stain her cheeks.

"See you around, sunshine," he said.

She didn't look back.

But her steps faltered just once. And it was enough.

He stood there, rubbing the phantom sting from his cheek, oddly exhilarated.

There was something about her.

Not just the fire—but the restraint behind it. The kind of woman who felt everything and showed nothing. Until she did.

He didn't know then that her name would soon be tangled in contracts, headlines, and vows.

Didn't know that the girl who slapped him in Miami would be the woman he'd marry in less than two weeks, bound by a contract neither of them fully understood.

But fate, like legacy, was rarely gentle.
And

He was already burning.

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