From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 189

**Dreams Folding Into Broken Time**
**Chapter 189**

I stood there, paralyzed, as if the very ground beneath my feet had transformed into a thick, sticky substance that held me captive. My mind raced, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, but my body betrayed me, refusing to budge.

“Savannah,” he breathed, urgency lacing his tone as he hurried toward me, his footsteps echoing in the silence that enveloped us.

I instinctively took a step back, retreating three paces as if the distance could shield me from the storm brewing within.

He didn’t seem to notice my retreat—or perhaps he did, but chose to overlook it. Before I could gather my thoughts, his arms enveloped me, pulling me into a tight embrace that felt almost desperate, as if he were trying to anchor himself to me amidst the chaos.

My entire being stiffened at his touch. This hug was unwelcome, a suffocating cage of arms that I had not asked for.

“Savannah,” he murmured again, his voice cracking at the edges, revealing the raw vulnerability beneath. “I waited for you at your place yesterday. You didn’t show up. I had to come here after waiting.” His words spilled out rapidly, each one tumbling over the other, rehearsed yet frantic.

I pushed against his chest, gently but firmly, creating a gap between us that felt necessary. My heart raced, pounding in my ears. The way he looked at the distance I had placed between us—like it was an undeniable sign that he had lost me forever—twisted something deep inside me that I was reluctant to acknowledge.

“Why would you come to my house, Dean?” I asked, my voice sharp and slicing through the tense atmosphere. “What on earth are you doing here?”

He tugged at his hair, the roughness of his movements betraying the frayed edges of his composure.

Oh God. He looked terrible.

Dark shadows hung beneath his eyes, heavy like weights dragging him down. His hair was tousled, and his shirt bore the wrinkles of neglect. A scruffy beard clung to his jawline—more a sign of desperation than a fashion choice. This was not the polished, put-together Dean I knew. This version of him felt wrong, like a distorted reflection in a cracked mirror.

“Chloe’s still missing,” he finally uttered, the words dropping between us like a stone cast into still water. The weight of them hung heavy in the air.

Of course. Chloe. Again.

“And?” I forced the word out, crossing my arms defiantly, unwilling to let the gravity of the situation pull me under.

His eyes burned with a fierce intensity. “The police are involved now. They found her car abandoned by the roadside. Her belongings too. There was blood, Savannah. Chloe’s blood. They found one of her shoes but…that’s it. She’s still missing. And all eyes are on me now. Everyone thinks I did it.”

The world around me tilted, the room spinning as if caught in a whirlwind.

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