Chapter 2: The Lion's Den

She shot Harper a sugary look, like she was handing out party favors. I recognized the move—one sister’s pain was always the other’s golden ticket.

I glanced at Harper, my voice all wide-eyed innocence: “Wouldn’t that be unfair to you?”

I let my eyes go big, my voice laced with fake concern. I played the part like I’d been born for it, pretending to care about her feelings when we both knew better.

Harper’s whole vibe changed on a dime. She plopped down next to me, all fake sisterly affection: “We’re sisters, right? What’s unfair about it? Don’t stress, Sav. If I marry Harrison, you’ll be off the hook.”

She patted my hand, her tone bright as a Target ad. But I saw the calculation in her eyes—she wanted the Whitmore name more than she wanted to breathe.

Oh.

I gave her a faint, grateful smile. “Well then—thanks so much.”

Inside, I laughed. Let her think she was winning. The chessboard was set, and I was happy to let her think she was the queen for now.

The dinner with the Whitmore family was at the exclusive Peninsula Club.

The valet took our keys, and the doorman greeted us by name. The air buzzed with old money and even older secrets. I walked in, feeling the stares of Charlotte’s elite, each person measuring me by my dress and my last name.

I wore a blush-pink vintage dress, my long hair swept up to reveal my neck, a pearl hairpin tucked in at a perfect angle.

The silk caught the glow of the chandeliers, the color making my skin look softer. My shoes were low-heeled Ferragamos, the kind my grandma swore by. I felt her with me, a silent blessing as I walked into the lion’s den.

Harper shot my outfit a look of pure venom.

She fussed with her own Ralph Lauren gown, lips pursed tight. Her jealousy was almost a living thing, simmering just under the surface.

She made a big show of asking if I wanted to borrow her spare Tory Burch dress.

Her voice was honey, but her eyes never left my dress, like she was willing it to fall apart. I smiled politely, declining, and watched her shoulders drop just a little.

I shook my head gently. “I’m not used to those.”

My voice was soft but firm. I knew who I was—and who I wasn’t.

When we arrived, the old man in the center of the room looked at me, his eyes sharp but a little cloudy, emotion flickering behind them.

He wore a navy Brooks Brothers blazer, posture still proud despite his age. His gaze lingered, searching for something—maybe a memory, maybe a ghost.

“…Charlotte.”

His voice cracked, the name heavy with longing. For a heartbeat, time folded in on itself—past and present colliding in his eyes.

“Dad,” the gentle, middle-aged man beside him whispered, “she’s not Aunt Linda.”

He placed a reassuring hand on the old man’s shoulder, his own face kind but tired. The weight of family history pressed in from every direction.

My father, standing by, tried to smooth things over. “This is my eldest daughter, Savannah Callahan. She doesn’t look like me or her mother, but she takes after her grandmother.”

He tried to keep it light, but his voice wobbled. I caught a ghost of a smile from the old man, like he approved of my resemblance to someone he loved long ago.

He introduced the Whitmore patriarch and Mr. Whitmore.

The introductions were stiff, each name carrying generations of expectation. I nodded, feeling every gaze weigh and measure me.