From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 97

**Chapter 63: Just… Speak**

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The words escape my lips in a rush, sharper than I intended, and I instinctively turn my gaze toward the window. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes, which feel like they can see right through me.

“Sav.” His voice is unwavering, calm, almost soothing. He crosses one leg over the other, a picture of serene authority that sends my heart racing. “Maybe you don’t fully grasp what’s at stake here.”

Suddenly, I feel like I’m on trial for a crime I didn’t commit. He’s the judge, and my fate hangs in the balance of his decision.

He intertwines his fingers and rests them on his knee, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that feels almost suffocating. “Your father has laid some significant accusations at your feet today. And honestly…” He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I don’t buy it. I’m here to hear your side. What happened with the Kingstons?”

The name strikes me like a physical blow. Kingston. My chest constricts, and the air around me feels thin and stifling. The mention of it drags me back through time to a night I thought I had buried deep, to whispers I’ve trained myself to forget.

I freeze. My body is here, perched on the edge of the bed, but my heartbeat has transported me somewhere else entirely… Back to the sound of a locked office door, the scent of chalk dust mingling with paper and cologne.

I cling to my own skin, terrified that if I let go, I’ll unravel completely.

Desperately, I grip my knees, digging my nails into the fabric, seeking some form of grounding.

“…” My mouth feels parched. I am ensnared, pinned to the bed as if invisible hands are holding me down. It’s as if I’m being pulled back into that night all over again. My heart thunders so loudly that I fear it might shatter my ribs. Chloe and Dean are just in the next room, and for a fleeting moment, I’m terrified they can hear the storm raging within me.

“Savannah?” His voice softens, cutting through the turmoil.

I force myself to lift my eyes to his, only to drop them again almost immediately. My lips move before I can rein them in. “What did he tell you?”

He shrugs casually, a nonchalant gesture that belies the weight of the conversation. “His own version. But that’s not the one I want to hear. I need to know your truth.”

The floor beneath me seems to tilt dangerously. His words are steady, but mine scatter like leaves caught in a tempest. A wave of shame washes over me.

“I don’t know how to begin,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

“You don’t have to start from anywhere specific,” he reassures me, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’re talking to your best friend, Sav. Just… speak.”

I dig my nails into my thighs through the fabric, desperate for something to hold onto. The crescents my nails leave behind serve as a reminder of my anxiety as I take a jagged breath. “I was young.” The words scrape against my throat, raw and unpolished. “Really young. And foolish. And reckless. And wild.”

The list spills out too quickly, rehearsed like lines from a play I’ve performed far too many times. My chest heaves, but I push through. “And he… he was handsome, charming, and he smiled a lot. Too much.”

My mouth twists as I struggle to articulate the memories, but my shoulders betray me, curling inward as if bracing for an impending blow.

I steal a glance at Roman. His expression remains unreadable, his posture elegant and composed, untouched by the storm of emotions I’m laying bare. It feels as if I’m airing my dirty laundry in front of him.

“Go on, Sav. I’m here, and I’m listening.”

I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat feels like a stone. My jaw locks tightly, and I can feel the ache radiating through my teeth, a migraine threatening to take hold.

“His name was Asher Kingston,” I finally manage to say, my voice low and fragile. The sound of his name feels like fire. “He was my professor in college.”

My stomach twists painfully. My palms are clammy, and I find myself fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve, pulling at the loose threads as if they could somehow offer me comfort.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify