Of course, I knew it was coming.
My dad had made his expectations painfully clear the day we lowered Jason into the ground. I was too young to stay single, too valuable a pawn to leave off the board. But I never thought he'd move this fast. And I definitely didn't expect my new husband to be Grayson Cole—The Boss.
Jason's funeral had only been nine months ago. Nine. Barely enough time to crawl out from the crushing weight of grief—let alone be shoved back into another engagement. And not just any engagement—this one tied to the most feared man in the city.
Grayson Cole wasn't just powerful. He was untouchable.
But that didn't seem to matter to my mother. Ever the tactician, she was already brushing my hair with the kind of focused ferocity she usually reserved for Sunday brunch gossip or political charity galas.
"You should feel honored, Savannah," she said, voice sharp as crystal but polished to perfection. "Do you know how many young women would kill for this chance? Grayson could've picked anyone. Yet here you are."
I met her eyes in the mirror. My thick, dark brown hair spilled past my shoulders in loose, calculated waves—curled just the way she liked. Her hands didn't pause as she pinned back a strand, her mouth pressed tight in silent disapproval.
"It's not a compliment, Mom. It's a transaction," I muttered, my voice low and taut, like a wire stretched too thin.
She clicked her tongue. "Don't be dramatic. You'll be the wife of the most powerful man in Georgia. Maybe even the country, if you play your cards right. This is bigger than love."
"I didn't ask for love," I snapped, pulling away from her touch. "But maybe a little time to breathe would've been nice.
Maybe... I don't know... a choice?"
"You had your chance with Jason," she said, not unkindly. Not kindly either.
I stepped away and moved toward the closet, needing the physical distance—needing air. "You talk like Jason was
some high school crush I outgrew. He was my husband."
"And now he's gone." Her tone softened, but there was a finality to it—a door she'd closed and locked behind her.
My chest pulled tight. Jason and I had never had a fairytale marriage—not in the way most people imagined. But there was understanding between us. A kind of quiet loyalty. Muted secrets. Shared silences. That counted for something.
And now, I was expected to stand in front of Grayson Cole—a man who could smell lies like a bloodhound smells fear—and pretend I wasn't drowning in things I couldn't say.
"You should be thankful Grayson even considered you," Mom continued, as though we were discussing an Ivy League acceptance letter. "After all, you're a widow. That usually disqualifies women in our world. Men like Grayson don't want someone else's... leftovers."
My jaw clenched. "Leftovers? Seriously?"
"I'm just being honest. He's a king, Savannah. You should act like you know what that means."
I slipped into a cream pencil skirt, buttoned up a plum blouse—clothes carefully selected to impress without offending, tailored elegance without threat. Not too provocative, not too plain. Just enough to play the part.
Black heels waited near the bed, modest but pointed—like everything in this house. My mother had fretted over the heels earlier, worried I'd tower over Grayson. At five-eight, I stood taller than most women in our circles. But Grayson?
He was six-foot-three, easily. And he carried himself like every inch had been forged in iron and stitched with command.
We'd only met a few times—once at the Whitmore Gala, again at Lauren's wedding. We'd shared a brief, stiff dance.
Made brittle small talk. There'd been no spark. No lingering glance. If anything, he'd seemed bored.
Or maybe he just hid his cards better than the rest of us.
"Has he... dated anyone since his wife died?" I asked.
My mother glanced at me in the mirror, one brow raised in amusement. "Not that anyone knows. Some say he still talks to her picture."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
She shrugged. "He loved her. But it's been three years. And now, as the new Boss, he has to move on. He needs a wife. An heir. A legacy."
I swallowed hard. "And that's supposed to be me?"
She moved behind me, her manicured hands landing on my shoulders like well-placed chess pieces. "It's going to be you. You're the perfect candidate. Smart. Beautiful. Obedient when it counts. You just have to make him forget
she ever existed."
My stomach twisted. "You really don't hear how awful that sounds, do you?"
"Savannah!"
Dad's voice echoed up the stairs, deep and commanding. "Grayson's here!"
My mother's eyes lit up like stage lights. "Showtime," she whispered, straightening the hem of my blouse like she was adjusting curtains before the act.
I followed her down the stairs, each step dragging behind the other. My pulse thudded in my ears. My skin buzzed with dread.
I didn't want this. Not the ring. Not the spotlight. Not the man.
Especially not this man.
Dad opened the door with a smile I hadn't seen in years—too wide, too polished, too desperate. He never answered
the door himself. Not unless it was someone powerful. I felt like livestock at the county fair—scrubbed clean, dolled
up, and on display.
Then I saw him.
Grayson Cole stepped into the foyer like he already owned it. Snow clung to his blond hair, giving him an almost
ethereal glow—like an avenging angel, if angels wore black trench coats and thousand-dollar shoes.
His eyes—ice blue, unreadable—landed on me.
As tradition dictated, he greeted my mother first. Bowed with military precision. Brushed his lips over her hand like it
was part of a contract.
"Mrs. Whitaker," he said smoothly, his voice smooth and empty, like polished marble.
Mother returned a courteous smile, her gaze scanning him with subtle calculation.
Then he turned to me.
His expression didn't change—not a flicker of warmth, not a twitch of emotion. He kissed my hand with the grace of
obligation, not affection.
"Savannah."
That voice always made my spine straighten, even when it was just a memory. Cold. Precise. Too measured to trust.
I couldn't deny that Grayson Cole was attractive—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit so sharp it could
cut glass. His blond hair swept back like even the wind respected him. And that tie—pale blue silk—made the cold in his eyes look colder still.
But no matter how well he dressed, everyone whispered the same thing:
He was a heartless son of a bitch.
And I believed them.
"It's wonderful to see you again," I said, tilting my head, trying to mask the tremble in my voice with poise.
Grayson released my hand. "Indeed."
He glanced toward my father. "I'd like to speak with Savannah alone."
No greeting. No softening. Just a command, clean and absolute.
"Of course," Papà said quickly, already ushering my mother out of the room with rehearsed obedience.
Once upon a time, they never would've left me alone with a man. But I was a widow now. My virtue no longer a family asset.
They didn't know that Jason and I had never even touched each other like husband and wife.
And I couldn't tell them.
I couldn't tell anyone.
Especially not Grayson.