Chapter 27 - Savannah’s Choice
Savannah called six months later.
This time, she wasn’t afraid.
She was angry.
“I need advice.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
She laughed.
“I deserved that.”
“What happened?”
“Michael’s daycare posted a picture of him online.”
I waited.
“Someone recognized him.”
“Recognized him as Grant’s son?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
A gossip site had discovered Savannah’s location.
Within twenty-four hours, reporters gathered outside her workplace.
HEADLINE: KILLER BILLIONAIRE’S SECRET LOVE CHILD LIVING IN INDIANA.
The wording was disgusting.
Michael was a toddler.
He had committed no crime.
Savannah wanted to disappear again.
“I can move.”
“You can.”
“Maybe change our names.”
“You can.”
“But?”
“But you’re asking me because you don’t want to.”
She went quiet.
“I’m tired of running from things I helped create.”
That answer showed how much she had changed.
The next day, she appeared on a local television interview.
No national network.
No paid exclusive.
Just a journalist she trusted.
Savannah spoke plainly.
“Yes, I had an affair with Grant Sterling.”
“Yes, I made selfish choices.”
“Yes, I benefited from stolen money.”
Then she looked into the camera.
“My son did not.”
The interviewer asked whether Grant had parental rights.
“No.”
Grant’s rights had been legally terminated after his convictions.
“Will Michael know who his father is?”
“When he is old enough to understand, I will tell him the truth.”
“Are you ashamed?”
“Of my choices? Yes.”
“Of your son?”
“Never.”
The interview went viral.
Not because Savannah cried.
She didn’t.
Not because she attacked me.
She didn’t.
It went viral because she refused to turn herself into a victim.
Messages poured in.
Many cruel.
Many supportive.
Then a national morning show offered her money for an exclusive.
She declined.
A publisher offered a book contract.
She declined.
A streaming producer offered a documentary.
She declined.
Instead, Savannah called the foundation.
“I want to volunteer.”
“Doing what?”
“Financial abuse outreach.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“You hated me for forcing you to return stolen jewelry.”
“I know.”
“You called me a heartless witch.”
“I know.”
“You told security I would die alone.”
She groaned.
“Are you going to list everything forever?”
“I’m considering it.”
We both laughed.
Savannah began speaking privately at shelters about how financial dependency could distort judgment.
She never presented herself as an expert.
She told the women exactly who she had been.
A receptionist seduced by status.
A mistress who ignored warning signs.
A young mother who discovered too late that luxury was not love.
Her story reached people mine could not.
One evening after a foundation workshop, Savannah and I sat outside with coffee.
Michael played nearby with Jordan Mills, who had somehow become unofficial family to everyone.
Savannah watched them.
“I used to picture my child growing up in the Hamptons.”
“What do you picture now?”
“Soccer. Public school. Maybe a house with a yard.”
“That sounds terrible.”
She laughed.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
She became serious.
“I found something else.”
My stomach dropped.
She raised both hands.
“Nothing criminal.”
“Thank God.”
“A letter.”
“From Grant?”
“No. From your father.”
I stared at her.
She reached into her bag.
“When I was packing before the FBI raid, I took a book from Walter’s library. I know. I shouldn’t have.”
“What book?”
“The Great Gatsby.”
I smiled.
“Dad hated that book.”
“Seriously?”
“He said everyone misunderstood it.”
“That sounds like him.”
Savannah handed me an envelope found inside.
It was addressed simply:
FOR ROSALIND, WHEN SHE STOPS BEING AFRAID TO LIVE.
My eyes burned.
Savannah stood.
“You should read that alone.”
That night, I opened it at the Hamptons estate.
Rosie,
If you found this, then either I became sentimental enough to give it to you, or someone else found it first.
You have always carried responsibility as though joy must be earned after every duty is complete.
That is a dangerous habit because duty never ends.
Build the company.
Help people.
Protect what matters.
But please, sweetheart, do not turn surviving into your entire identity.
You are allowed to live.
You are allowed to love again.
You are allowed to have a life that is not an apology to the dead.
Dad.
I sat alone for a very long time.
Then I cried.
Not from grief.
From recognition.
I had defeated Grant.
Malcolm.
Scandal.
Prison.
Betrayal.
But somewhere along the way, I had begun treating peace like another responsibility.
My father’s final lesson was simpler.
May you like
Stop surviving.
Start living.
