Chapter 2: Midnight Returns and Bitter Truths

In the middle of the night, Savannah came home. She hadn't shown up in two months. Missed our anniversary, too.

It was raining. That steady, muffled kind of drizzle that makes the city feel far away. I'd left a lamp on in the living room, hoping maybe she'd see the light and remember what home looked like. When I heard the key in the lock, my heart did a weird little jump—half hope, half dread.

I was half-asleep. Suddenly, I felt a chill on my backside.

A sharp scent of cologne hit my nose—bold, intense. Not mine.

Just like Savannah herself.

That scent clung to the sheets. To my memory. It didn't belong to me. It didn't belong in our bed. Still, I lay there, eyes shut, pretending I was somewhere else—anywhere but here.

I struggled to open my eyes. Saw a face—flawless, not a single bad angle.

Her neck—long, graceful. Swan-like. Her waist, slender, twisting like it was nothing.

Her eyes burned—like she wanted to set me on fire.

No wonder the tabloids called her the most beautiful model five years running.

She looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine—curves, confidence, the whole package. Sometimes I wondered if she even knew how to be ordinary. There was a hunger in her gaze, but it wasn't for me. It was for something wild and untamed, something I'd never be able to give.

When she saw my face, Savannah paused. Her eyes cleared a little. The excitement faded, just like that.

But she didn't stop.

Where our bodies met, it felt like I'd been shoved under a spotlight. Goosebumps. I wanted to bolt.

I called her 'baby' twice, my voice awkward and forced.

"Baby, how come you're home early?" My voice sounded thin, almost whiny. I hated how it sounded, but couldn't stop myself.

"I missed you so much I couldn't even eat dinner." Deadpan. Maybe even a little sarcastic.

That killed whatever mood Savannah had left.

She stopped. Climbed out of bed. Reached for the cigarettes in the nightstand.

She said, "What are you, three years old? Can't feed yourself?"

Her voice was flat, but there was a curl of annoyance. She flicked the lighter, flame catching her face for a split second.

I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks, wishing I could disappear into one of them. God, if only.

I breathed a sigh of relief. That excuse? Ridiculous. But it worked.

Normally, a woman like Savannah—she's played so many men—should've seen right through me.

But I always played the lovesick fool.

I chased her for three years. Watched her swap boyfriends like shoes. Still didn't give up.

Savannah once said I was the most persistent doormat she'd ever met.

I drifted back to sleep.

Savannah slipped out to the balcony. Cigarette time.

She called someone. Her voice drifted in.

"Savvy, you haven't come out to play in ages—are you saving yourself for that nerdy husband of yours?"

Savannah snorted. "A guy that plain, making that little money—what right does he have to expect me to settle down?"

"Honestly, the first time, I almost couldn't even kiss him."

The person on the other end burst out laughing.

Savannah snapped, "It's the middle of the night—keep it down, people are sleeping." Her voice had that edge. But I could tell she was smiling.

I rolled over. Pulled the blanket tight. Tried to block out her laughter—and her words.

I was almost asleep by the time Savannah finished her cigarette and came back in.

She left a small box by my pillow.

Fighting sleep, I glanced at it.

Inside was a tie.

She had good taste.

It looked sharp.

If I hadn't seen another suit from the same line—one that cost a fortune—I wouldn't have known this tie was just a freebie.

But I wasn't even mad—if anything, I felt a strange sense of anticipation. Weird, right?