Page 57 of Fallen Heir

I should’ve been networking—shaking hands, smiling for cameras, pretending to care about small talk and silent auctions. This charity event was a who’s who of Manhattan: socialites, CEOs, senators, old-money royalty clinking champagne like they still ran the world.

But none of it mattered.

Because Savannah Rose Sinclair had just walked in.

Ben walked a half-step behind her, stone-faced as always, but even he couldn’t dull the way she lit up the room. Her presence pulled every ounce of oxygen from the air, like the night had shifted around her the moment she stepped through the door.

And God help me—I couldn’t breathe.

That black velvet dress clung to her like a whispered promise. It draped low in the front, just enough to tease, to tempt, to torture me with the reminder of what it felt like to trace every inch of skin. Every slow, deliberate movement she made only deepened the ache building in my chest.

But it was the sleeves that caught me. Long. Fitted. Deliberate.

It was a warm night—too warm for velvet that clung to her wrists like armor. Every other woman in the room wore strapless gowns and satin slips with backs that barely counted as fabric.

But Savannah? She wrapped herself in black like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

And I hated that she had to.

Not because it ruined the view—hell, nothing could dim the fire she carried.

But because I knew what it meant.

I’d seen her body. Every scar. Every curve. Every mark someone else tried to erase her with. And still—she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

Not in spite of those scars.

Because of them.

Because she was still standing. Still breathing. Still walking into a room like this one and commanding it. Making men forget their own damn names.

The velvet wasn’t hiding her. It was holding her together.

She looked like a queen in mourning. A flame hidden under black silk and steel.

And she sent me that text?

Careful, Mr. Westbrook… Compliments like that might make me skip the dress altogether.

That wasn’t just a flirt.

That was a crack in the walls she’d spent years building.

A glimpse of the woman still buried beneath all the damage—fierce, clever, untouchable in a way that didn’t need armor.

And tonight?

She wasn’t hiding. Not from me.

I’d already seen what she tried so hard to conceal. The jagged lines. The ghost of every moment someone tried to break her. And I still couldn’t stop wanting her—still couldn’t get her taste off my tongue or the sound of her moans out of my head.

If she could show me that version of herself now—unguarded, unashamed—I couldn’t help but wonder who she might become…In a week. In a year. Forever.

Because my world had narrowed to one woman in velvet and a mouth I hadn’t stopped thinking about since the night she finally let me in.

Even if this thing between us started as pretend, there was nothing fake about the way I craved her.

I didn’t hesitate. I crossed the room, every instinct zeroed in on her like a goddamn homing beacon.