Twisted Devotion

Chapter One

Savannah

The August heat hits me the moment I step out of the taxi, thick and oppressive in a different way from Charleston. It’s not that Southern humidity, but a baking, oven-like heat that makes me feel as if I might catch fire just standing outside for too long. 

New York City smells different too—exhaust and hot pavement and a sort of crowded, lived-in smell that makes my stomach flutter with equal parts excitement and terror. I’m standing on the sidewalk outside the NYU graduate housing building, my two suitcases at my feet, and for the first time in my twenty-two years, I'm completely alone.

No father watching my every move. No household staff reporting back to him. No Thaddeus hovering at my elbow, his hand possessive on the small of my back.

Just me.

The thought should be liberating. It is liberating. But there's a tightness in my chest that won't quite release, a voice in the back of my mind that sounds suspiciously like my father reminding me that this freedom has a price. That I've already agreed to pay it.

Don't think about that now, I tell myself firmly, grabbing the handle of my larger suitcase. You have two years. Two whole years before you have to go back for anything more than the occasional visit and holidays.

The building's lobby is mercifully air-conditioned, and I take a moment to catch my breath while a student worker checks me in. He's much less friendly than what I’m used to back home, all efficiency and no small talk, handing me my keys and a packet of information about move-in procedures. I quickly discover that my dorm is on the fourth floor, and the elevator is out of order, apparently. 

By the time I've hauled both suitcases up the stairs, I'm sweating through my linen blouse despite the building's AC, and my carefully styled hair is starting to frizz at my temples. So much for making a good first impression on my roommate. I pause outside my dorm, smoothing down my hair and taking a deep breath before I knock.

The door flies open before my knuckles can make contact.

"Oh my God, you must be Savannah!" The girl standing in the doorway is tall and curvy, with dark curls pulled into a messy bun and a casual, effortless style I've always envied but would be grounded in an instant if I ever tried to put it into practice. She’s wearing ripped jeans, an oversized band T-shirt, has multiple ear piercings and a nose piercing, and a smile so genuine it immediately puts me at ease. "I'm Vivian. Vivian Davis. I’m your roommate! Come in, come in! Let me help you with those."

She grabs my smaller suitcase before I can protest, chattering the entire time as she leads me into the dorm. It's small but bright, with two bedrooms off a shared living space that has already been decorated with colorful throw pillows and string lights. Through the window, I can see a sliver of the city skyline.

"I got here yesterday, so I already claimed the room on the left—I hope that's okay? They're basically identical anyway. I'm in the Art History program, first year. What about you?"

"Classical Archaeology," I manage, following her to the empty bedroom. "First year."

"Oh, that's so cool! Like Indiana Jones stuff?" Vivian sets my suitcase down and turns to face me, her eyes bright with interest. "Wait, you're from the South, right? I can hear it in your voice. Where?"

"Charleston." I set my other suitcase down, suddenly self-conscious about my accent. I've tried to soften it over the years, but it always comes through stronger when I'm nervous. "South Carolina."

"I love Charleston! I went there for spring break once. So beautiful." Vivian leans against the doorframe, studying me with open curiosity. "So what brings you all the way up to New York? Besides the program, I mean."

The question is innocent and friendly, but it makes something twist in my stomach. What brings you to New York? Freedom. Escape. A desperate bargain with my father that I'm still not sure was worth the cost.

"I wanted a change," I say instead, which is true enough. "And NYU has one of the best classical archaeology programs in the country."

"Well, you're going to love it here. The professors are amazing, the city is incredible, and the dating scene—" Vivian grins wickedly. "Let's just say there are a lot more options than in Charleston, I'm guessing. On and off campus."

I force a smile, thinking of the engagement ring currently locked in my jewelry box, the one I'm supposed to be wearing but plan to only put on if need be, if Thaddeus is coming to visit. Not that I’m planning on doing anything… untoward. I just don’t want the constant reminder or the questions that would come from having that rock on my finger. 

The ring that represents the end of all those options Vivian is so excited about. Not that I ever really had all that many options to begin with. Just the illusion of them. 

“The guys are going to go nuts over you,” she continues in a burst of excited chatter. “Your hair, that accent, man, you’re going to be the hottest commodity on campus—”

"I'm actually engaged," I hear myself say, and immediately regret it. I don't know why I told her. Maybe because keeping secrets feels exhausting already, and I've only been here for twenty minutes.

Vivian's eyes widen. "Oh!” She sounds startled, changing tone immediately. “Congratulations! When's the wedding?"

"After I graduate." The words taste bitter. "In two years."

"That's a long engagement." There's something in Vivian's tone that I can't quite read, but she doesn't push. Instead, she straightens up and claps her hands together. "Well, we should get you unpacked! And then I can show you around campus. Classes don't start until next week, but there's an orientation thing tomorrow for new grad students. We should go together."

I nod, grateful for the change of subject, and Vivian leaves me to unpack. The room is small, especially compared to the near-palatial bedroom I left at home, in my father’s grand Southern mansion. But it feels special. It feels like it’s really mine… no one can tell me how to decorate here, or demand I be downstairs at a certain time for dinner, or judge how long I stay in here reading or watching television. I’m on my own, this is my space—and for the first time, I feel more like an adult than I ever have before.

I hang my dresses in the closet, fold up my jeans and blouses and underwear in the narrow dresser, arrange my books on the built-in shelves, and set my laptop on the desk. I'm putting away the last of my clothes when my phone buzzes with a text. My stomach drops before I even look at the screen, knowing somehow that it's going to ruin this fragile sense of peace I've been building, no matter who it’s from.

It's from my father.

Dad: Arrived safely?

I type back quickly: Yes. Just finished unpacking.

His response is immediate: Good. Thaddeus will be visiting this weekend. Friday evening. He'll make dinner reservations. Wear something appropriate.

My fingers tighten around my phone. I want to throw it across the room and watch it shatter against the wall. Instead, I take a slow breath and type: Okay.

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally: Remember our agreement, Savannah. Two years of graduate school in exchange for your cooperation. Don't make me regret giving you this opportunity.

I don't respond. There's nothing to say that won't make things worse.

When I emerge from my room, Vivian is in the kitchen making tea. She takes one look at my face and frowns. "You okay?"

"Fine." I paste on the smile I've perfected over years of Charleston society events. "Just my father checking in."

Vivian doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. "Tea? I have, like, fifteen different kinds. I'm kind of obsessed."

"That sounds perfect."

We spend the rest of the afternoon talking, and I find myself relaxing despite the lingering weight of my father's text. Vivian is easy to be around, funny, warm, and refreshingly honest. She tells me about her family in San Francisco, her obsession with Renaissance art, and her terrible ex-boyfriend, whom she finally dumped last semester of university before coming here. She asks about Charleston, my undergraduate years at USC, and what drew me to archaeology.

I tell her about the one time I went to Europe, when my parents took me on a tour of London, Paris, Greece, and Rome as part of my “finishing” education. My mother wanted to shop endlessly, and my father was tied up with business most of the time, but I spent as much time as I could in the museums. I loved the art, but the history exhibits took up most of my attention, especially the ones about archaeology and all of the things that have been found that way.  I went home and devoured every book I could find about ancient civilizations, taking Greek and Latin classes as part of my curriculum, even though my parents thought that was as useless as the rest of my education. 

After all, history and ancient languages don’t offer much toward becoming the perfect future society wife. But I don’t tell Vivian any of that. I don’t want my baggage following me here, and I’d rather she see me as the person I’ll get to be for two years than the one that I’ve been for all the ones that came before. 

"That's amazing," Vivian says when I finish. "You're going to do incredible things here, Savannah. I can tell."

I want to believe her. I want to believe that these two years will be enough, that I can pack a lifetime of dreams into twenty-four months before I have to give it all up and become Mrs. Thaddeus Whitmore.

But I don't say that. Instead, I smile and change the subject, and we talk until the sun sets over the city.

—

As tired as I am from the trip and settling in, I end up lying awake in bed that night, unable to sleep despite my exhaustion. I keep replaying the conversation I had three months ago, in my father's study in Charleston, the air conditioning fighting a losing battle against the June heat. I’d just gotten my acceptance letter to NYU—I’d sent off the application in secret, thinking that maybe it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. It wasn’t as fruitful a strategy as I’d hoped.

"Absolutely not." My father didn’t even look up from the papers on his desk when he said it. "We've discussed this, Savannah. You have your degree. That's more than sufficient."

"It's a master's program, Daddy." I hate how my voice sounds—pleading, desperate. I'm twenty-two years old, and I'm begging like a child. "At NYU. One of the best programs in the country for classical archaeology. I've already been accepted."

"And I'm very proud of you for that." He sets down his pen and finally looks at me, his expression the same one he uses in business negotiations—calm and immovable. "But what you should be thinking about is your future… about being a wife. That’s what your mother and I have raised you to be, someone who contributes to this family, who marries well and carries on the work that I’ve done here through the connections you can make—”

"This is my future." The words come out sharper than I intend, and I see my father's jaw tighten. I force myself to soften my tone, to be the obedient daughter he expects. "Please. Just two years. I'll come home every holiday, I'll—"

"Savannah." He stands, walking around the desk to face me. He's not an exceptionally tall man, but he's always seemed larger than life to me, filling every room he enters with his presence. "I understand that you're disappointed. But you're a Beauregard. You have responsibilities. Obligations."

"To whom?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "To you? To Thaddeus? What about my obligations to myself?" Just saying Thaddeus’s name makes me cringe. I know my father wants me to marry his protégé. To be a wife to the man who has filled a role that my father has never been able to satisfy any other way—that of a son and heir. It’s the last thing I want.

Thaddeus is charming and handsome and the picture of a wealthy Southern gentleman, but to me, something has always felt… wrong about him. I don’t want to be with him at all, much less marry him. Nothing about him is attractive or desirable to me. But none of that matters to my father. 

His expression hardens. "Don't be selfish. This marriage is important. Thaddeus is going to take over significant portions of the business when I retire. He needs a wife who can support him, who understands her role. Not someone gallivanting around New York playing archaeologist."

The dismissal in his voice makes my chest tight. Playing archaeologist. As if my degree, my passion, my dreams are nothing more than a child's game.

My father turns away, and I know the conversation is over… unless I say something that will catch his attention. Something that will make him listen to me, understand how important this is to me. 

"I'll marry him." The words feel like they're being torn out of me, edged with the desperation that they’re entirely born of. "After I finish the program. I'll come home and marry Thaddeus and be whatever kind of wife you want me to be. But please. Please give me these two years."

My father studies me for a long moment, and I can see him calculating, weighing the costs and benefits as he would in any business deal. Finally, he nods slowly, and I stare at him, hardly able to believe it actually worked.

"Two years," he says. "You can attend NYU for your master's degree. But the moment you graduate, you will come home and marry Thaddeus. No delays, no excuses. And while you're in New York, you'll maintain regular contact with him. He'll visit you. You'll visit him. You'll remember that you're engaged and conduct yourself accordingly."

Relief floods through me so intensely that I feel dizzy. "Yes. Of course. Thank you, Daddy, I—"

"I'm not finished." His voice cuts through my gratitude like a knife. "If you embarrass this family in any way, if you do anything to jeopardize your engagement to Thaddeus, I will pull you out of that program so fast your head will spin. Do you understand me?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"And Savannah?" He returns to his desk, picking up his pen as if the conversation is already over. "Don't make me regret this. I'm giving you an opportunity. Don't throw it away on foolish notions of independence."

I left his study feeling like I'd won and lost something at the same time. Two years of freedom in exchange for a lifetime of captivity. It seemed like a fair trade then, standing in that suffocating house with my father's expectations pressing down on me from all sides. Exactly one week after that conversation, I accepted Thaddeus’s proposal in front of family and friends and my father’s business associates, a brilliant smile pasted on my face as he slid the three-carat, yellow-gold solitaire with a pavé band onto my finger. I told myself, as he kissed me chastely and beamed at the crowd, that it was worth it. That I would be able to accept my fate so long as I had these two years.

Now, lying in my new bed in my new city, I'm not so sure.

—

The next morning, Vivian and I walk to campus together for the graduate student orientation. It's a beautiful day, a late-summer morning that makes New York feel almost magical—clear blue sky, a breeze that cuts through the humidity, the city alive and buzzing, more so than Charleston ever has been. We stop at a coffee shop on the way, and I order an iced latte that costs more than I've ever paid for coffee in my life. Vivian laughs at my expression when I see the price, which is shocking, despite the unlimited credit card that my father sent me with.

"Welcome to New York," she says, clinking her cup against mine. "Everything costs twice what it should, but somehow it's worth it."

The orientation is held in a lecture hall in the Silver Center, and it's packed with graduate students from various programs. I spot a few people who must be in Classical Archaeology based on their conversations about ancient pottery and excavation techniques. Vivian introduces me to some of her friends from the Art History program, and they're all friendly and welcoming.

After the orientation, Vivian has to run to a meeting with her advisor, so I decide to explore the campus on my own. I wander through Washington Square Park, watching street performers and chess players and students sprawled on the grass with books. I find the library and spend an hour getting lost in the stacks, running my fingers along the spines of books about ancient Greece and Rome and Egypt. I locate the building where most of my classes will be held, memorizing the route from my dorm.

By the time I head back, the sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I'm exhausted but happy, more content than I've been in months. 

My first seminar is on Thursday afternoon—Aegean Archaeology, focusing on Bronze Age civilizations. I arrive fifteen minutes early, too nervous to risk being late, and claim a seat in the third row—close enough to be involved without the focus being directly on me all of the time. The classroom slowly fills with other students, and I recognize a few faces from the orientation.

The professor, Dr. Helena Kouris, is an intimidating, tiny woman with steel-gray hair and sharp eyes. She launches into the syllabus without preamble, her voice carrying easily through the room as she outlines the semester's topics: Minoan Crete, Mycenaean Greece, and the collapse of the Bronze Age. I'm so absorbed in taking notes that I don't notice the late arrival until Dr. Kouris pauses mid-sentence.

"Nice of you to join us," she says dryly.

I glance up and feel my breath catch.

The man standing in the doorway is tall—over six feet—with dark hair and sharp, angular features that would be almost too severe if not for the slight curl to his hair that softens them. He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal T-shirt that looks expensive, soft-looking, and fitting his lean frame perfectly. But it's his eyes that make my stomach flip. They’re dark, almost black, and so intense that I feel pinned in place when his gaze sweeps across the room and stops on me.

For a moment, everything else fades away. The professor's voice becomes background noise. The other students disappear. There's just him, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. It turns into a smirk that makes heat crawl up my neck.

Then he looks away, murmuring an apology to Dr. Kouris as he makes his way to an empty seat in the back row. I force myself to look down at my notes, my heart pounding for no good reason.

Get it together, I tell myself firmly. You're engaged. You're here to study, not to get flustered by some random guy in your seminar.

But I can feel his eyes on me for the rest of the class. Every time I glance back, he's watching me with that same intense focus, like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. It should make me uncomfortable. It should make me want to leave.

Instead, it makes something low in my stomach tighten with an awareness I've never felt before.

When class ends, I pack up my things quickly, determined to leave before I do something stupid like trying to talk to him. But as I'm heading for the door, I hear Dr. Kouris call out.

"Mr. Ciresa, a word?"

I glance back despite myself and see him standing at the professor's desk, his posture relaxed but edged with a barely coiled tension underneath it. Dr. Kouris is saying something about the reading list, and he's nodding, but his eyes flick to me as I slip out the door.

I don't look back.

That night, I'm in my room trying to focus on the assigned reading when my phone buzzes. I know before I look that it's going to be Thaddeus. My father's text from earlier this week has been hanging over me like a storm cloud, and I've been dreading this moment.

The text is brief and to the point, so typical of Thaddeus that I can practically hear his voice: Dinner Friday at 7. I've made reservations at Le Bernardin. Wear that navy dress I like. I'll pick you up at 6:45.

No "How are you?" No "I miss you." Just instructions, like he’s in a hurry and needs to impart them quickly. 

I stare at the message for a long moment, my earlier happiness draining away. I'd hoped—foolishly, I realize now—that Thaddeus would give me space while I was in New York. That he'd be too busy with work to visit often, and I'd have these two years to myself before I had to face the reality of our engagement.

But of course, that was naive. My father wouldn't have agreed to let me come to New York if he thought I'd be truly free. And Thaddeus has never been the type to let something that belongs to him out of his sight for long.

Something that belongs to him. The thought makes my skin crawl, but I push it away. This is the deal I made. Two years of graduate school in exchange for marrying Thaddeus Whitmore. I knew what I was agreeing to.

I type back: Okay. See you then.

Three dots appear immediately, and I brace myself.

Thad: Good girl. I'm looking forward to seeing you. It's been too long.

The words should be sweet. Affectionate. Instead, they feel like a collar tightening around my neck.

I set my phone down and try to return to my reading, but the words blur on the page. All I can think about is Friday night, about putting on the dress Thaddeus requested and smiling through dinner while he talks about his work and makes decisions about our future without asking for my opinion. 

Two years, I remind myself. You have two years before you have to give up everything. Make them count.