Chapter 5 - The Unexpected Ally
It took Frankie three hours to track down Savannah’s address: a cramped, third-floor walk-up in a gritty neighborhood of Astoria, Queens.
When I pulled up in front of the brick apartment building in the back of my armored Maybach, the rain was pouring down again, turning the gutters into rushing streams. I told Frankie to wait in the car and climbed the creaking wooden stairs alone, my tailored designer suit looking absurdly out of place among the peeling paint and flickering hallway bulbs.
I raised my fist and knocked on Apartment 3B.
After a long moment, the deadbolt clicked. The door opened an inch, held back by a brass security chain. Savannah’s face appeared in the gap, her eyes narrowing when she recognized me.
“Mr. Vance? What on earth are you doing here?”
“May I come in?” I asked, keeping my voice low and steady.
“My apartment isn't a penthouse. There’s no room for billionaires.”
“I’m not here as a billionaire, Ms. Reeves,” I said, looking straight into her tired hazel eyes. “I’m here as a terrified father.”
Savannah stared at me through the gap, searching my face for arrogance or manipulation. Finally, with a sigh, she slid the chain off and pulled the door open.
The apartment was tiny, smelling of chamomile tea and old paper. Books stacked in neat piles lined every wall. On the mantelpiece sat a framed photograph of a young boy with bright, laughing eyes—her late brother, Leo’s invisible shadow.
Before I could speak, a muffled crash came from the back bedroom, followed by a high-pitched, desperate wail.
Savannah didn't hesitate. She brushed past me, hurrying down the narrow hallway.
I followed her cautiously. Inside the small bedroom, my son Leo was curled into a tight ball on a narrow cot, screaming at the top of his lungs, his hands clawing at his ears while lightning flashed outside the window. A team of high-priced private nurses I had left at the hotel had panicked and fled, but Leo wasn't reacting to them—he was reacting to the violent thunderstorm rolling over the city.
“He hates the thunder,” Savannah said calmly, dropping to her knees beside the bed. “It sounds like glass breaking to him.”
“What do we do?” I asked, stepping forward, feeling utterly helpless. “Should I call Dr. Alistair? Should we sedate him?”
“No!” Savannah snapped, turning her head to glare at me. “Stop trying to drug him into silence, Mr. Vance! He doesn't need a doctor. He needs safety.”
Without asking for permission, Savannah reached into her pocket, pulled out a clean white handkerchief, and began folding it with the exact same rhythmic, hypnotic precision I had witnessed in the hotel suite.
Corner. Fold. Twist. Smooth.
Within seconds, another tiny cloth rabbit took shape in her hands.
She didn't speak. She didn't crowd him. She simply placed the cloth rabbit on the edge of the mattress and began humming a low, wordless melody—a gentle, rolling folk tune that sounded like rain falling on dry earth.
Leo’s screams stuttered. His hands slowly uncurled from his ears.
He blinked through his tears, turned his head, and saw the cloth rabbit. With a shaky, exhausted sob, he reached out, grabbed the fabric, and dragged it against his cheek. Then, blindly, he rolled off the cot and buried his face directly into Savannah’s lap.
Savannah wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his dark curls.
May you like
She looked up at me over the boy’s head, her eyes shining with quiet defiance and unshed tears.
“You can’t buy this, Julian,” she whispered, using my first name for the first time. “And you can’t control it. But if you want to save your son... you’re going to have to learn how to let go.”
