Chapter 5 - THE CITY OF OAKS
The morning air in Savannah smelled of sweet jasmine, old oak trees, and the warm salt air of the Atlantic.
Four weeks had passed since the night of the gala.
In the historic district of downtown Savannah, standing at the corner of Bull Street and Monterey Square, sat the carriage house. It was a beautiful, two-story brick building built in 1840, featuring high arched windows, a private courtyard surrounded by wrought-iron gates, and a massive live oak tree whose branches draped soft grey Spanish moss over the stone balcony.
Inside, the house was alive with the sound of music and warmth.
I stood at a long oak drafting table in my second-floor studio, wearing jeans, a soft white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled to my elbows, and a pair of comfortable leather flats. My long dark hair was tied back in a loose clip.
The bruises on my left cheek had entirely faded, leaving behind smooth, glowing skin.
Across the room, Ronin sat at his tiny custom wooden desk, intensely focused on painting a ceramic dinosaur with green and blue acrylic paints, his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.
"Mommy, look!" Ronin called out, holding up his blue-spotted dinosaur. "He's guarding the castle!"
"He looks very brave, my love," I smiled, stepping over to wipe a spot of blue paint from his nose. "Just like you."
A warm knock sounded at the open courtyard door below.
"Clara? Are you decent?"
Evander Cole walked up the wooden spiral staircase carrying a wide rolled blueprint in one hand and a basket of fresh peach pastries from the local bakery in the other.
"We are always decent, Evander," I laughed, setting down my drafting pencil. "Unless Ronin decides to paint the walls again."
"I painted the dinosaur, not the walls!" Ronin defended himself proudly, giggling as Evander walked over and gave him a high-five.
Evander set the pastry basket on the counter and unrolled the blueprint across my central drafting table.
"The Savannah Heritage Board just approved our phase-one plans for the Armstrong Estate," Evander announced, his eyes glowing with professional pride. "Unanimous vote. The chief preservation officer called your redesign of the east wing atrium 'the most elegant balance of historic brickwork and modern light architecture the city has seen in twenty years.'"
I stared at the approved stamp on the document. A quiet, deep sense of fulfillment settled into my chest.
For five years, I had believed that my hands were only good for holding tea cups, adjusting Vance's bowties, and quietly editing his corporate presentations in the dark. Now, seeing my own name—Clara Gómez, Lead Historical Architect—stamped on a twenty-two-million-dollar civic project, I felt a surge of pride that money could never buy.
"We break ground on Monday," Evander said, stepping closer to me. His height was comforting, his presence steady and grounded. "And the city wants you to give the opening keynote at the Municipal Arts Gala next month."
I looked at him, slightly startled. "Me? Evander, I haven't given a public speech since my Parsons thesis."
"You are the mind behind the project, Clara," Evander said, his voice dropping into a soft, intimate tone. "It's time the world saw the brilliant woman who built the beauty, instead of the man who tried to hide her."
I looked into his hazel eyes, feeling a soft, warm fluttering in my heart—a feeling I hadn't felt in so long I had forgotten what it was called.
Before I could answer, my desk phone buzzed with an incoming call from a New York area code.
I frowned, stepping over to look at the screen.
It wasn't Vance. It was the private office of Cordelia Sterling.
I tapped the screen, raising the phone to my ear. "Hello, Cordelia."
"Clara, my dear," Cordelia’s voice came through the line, clear, calm, and resonant. "I hope Savannah is treating you and my sweet grandson well."
"We are very happy here, Cordelia," I answered honestly. "Ronin loves his new school, and the project is moving forward."
"Good," Cordelia said. Then her voice shifted, taking on a sharp, satisfied edge. "I am calling to give you an update on our little mutual project in Manhattan."
I leaned against the drafting table. "What happened?"
"Vance tried to sell his private stock options yesterday to pay off Kissa’s creditors, who were threatening to seize his sports cars," Cordelia revealed with a cold chuckle. "The board blocked the transfer. He has officially been served with three civil suits for corporate negligence."
I remained silent, feeling neither joy nor sorrow at the news. Vance's collapse felt distant, like a story about a stranger I had read in an old book.
"He found out you were in Savannah two hours ago, Clara," Cordelia added, her tone turning cautious. "He hired a private investigator to track Evander Cole's flight logs. He bought a ticket on the four o'clock flight out of LaGuardia. He is coming to find you."
May you like
I looked over at Ronin, who was happily humming a song while painting his dinosaur, then at Evander, who was watching me with a steady, protective gaze.
"Let him come, Cordelia," I said quietly, my voice devoid of all fear. "He thinks he's coming to collect a debt. He doesn't realize he's coming to sign his final surrender."
