Savannah froze so abruptly that the bouquet in her hands trembled.
For a second, she thought she had heard him wrong. The late-morning sun blazed over the circular driveway, musicians were setting up near the white chapel, and staff moved across the estate lawn with the frantic precision of people preparing for a wedding no one could afford to let fail. It was her wedding day. In less than an hour, she was supposed to walk down the aisle in silk and lace, smile for the cameras, and marry the man everyone in Charleston insisted was perfect for her.
And yet there stood Daniel, her family’s driver for nearly a decade, holding open the trunk of the black town car, panic written all over a face she had only ever known to be composed.
“Daniel…” she whispered, tightening her grip on the ivory roses. “What are you talking about?”
His voice broke. “If you go into that church the way he expects—smiling, dressed like a bride, trusting him—you’ll be walking straight into a trap. Please, ma’am. You’ve trusted me for ten years. Trust me one more time.”