Chapter 16: Awake Together

How could someone as weak as me bear so much hate?

I wondered if she realized how little her rage meant to me now. I was untouchable.

But she’s my sister. All I could do was keep quiet and comfort her gently.

I knelt beside her, offering a tissue. My voice was soft, soothing, the perfect sister act.

“You did this! On purpose! You want to ruin me! You can’t stand me fighting you for Harrison!” Harper screamed.

She lunged, nails bared. I stepped back, letting her fury burn itself out.

I sighed, looking at her like she was a tantruming child.

Her meltdown was almost sad. I patted her hand, my expression gentle.

In the middle of her rant, I asked, all innocence: “Isn’t one guy enough? What’s it like juggling three at once?”

My tone was sweet, but the barb was sharp. The room went silent, all eyes on Harper.

“Bitch! I’ll kill you!” Harper lost it.

She lunged again, but the staff held her back. I didn’t flinch.

Good news moves slow, but bad news travels at light speed.

Within hours, the story was everywhere—texts, Instagram, whispered at every club and charity lunch.

The yacht scandal was blown up and circulated through high society.

The details got wilder with every retelling. By morning, I was either villain or victim, depending who you asked.

The Callahan name was toast.

Our reputation was mud, the business teetering. I watched Dad’s face go pale as the calls poured in.

At this point, the Whitmores proposed breaking off the engagement, citing “reputation concerns,” alluding to the scandal, not wanting to be associated with us.

Their lawyers were fast, their language polite but ice-cold. The message: we were no longer worthy.

Charles Callahan went to the Whitmores again and again, swallowing his pride.

He begged, pleaded, offered deals. I watched him grovel, feeling nothing but cold satisfaction.

Finally, the Whitmore patriarch made a demand:

He wanted Charles to return the shares he held in my name—shares that were rightfully mine.

The room went dead silent, tension thick as smoke. I kept my face blank, hiding my triumph.

Charles’s face twisted: “Savannah doesn’t know business. It’s not smart to give her the shares, is it?”

He looked at me, desperation naked in his eyes. I met his gaze, steady.

“The Callahan Group was founded by Charlotte. Before she died, she left a will—her shares were to go not to Linda, but to Savannah.”

The Whitmore patriarch’s voice was firm, brooking no argument. I felt a surge of gratitude for my grandmother, her foresight my shield.

The ‘Charlotte’ he referred to was my grandmother. Linda was my mother.