The air in the grand ballroom of Bellweather House smelled of imported white roses, melted butter, and the quiet, crushing weight of public humiliation.

Three weeks later, the warm coastal breeze of Savannah carried the scent of salt water, blooming jasmine, and damp cobblestones.

I sat on a wrought-iron bench in Forsyth Park, watching children chase pigeons across the emerald grass while an elderly street musician played a slow, soulful blues melody on a weathered saxophone.

My phone remained completely silent on airplane mode, resting safely at the bottom of my handbag.

I didn't know what was happening back in Richmond. I didn't know if Ethan had managed to negotiate a payment plan with Marzano Hospitality, or if Marissa had finally packed her bags and filed for that midnight annulment she screamed about in the parlor.

And honestly? For the first time in thirty years, I didn't care.

A shadow fell across the park bench.

I looked up to see a tall, distinguished-looking man with silver hair and warm brown eyes standing holding two paper cups of steaming local chicory coffee.

“Excuse me,” he said, offering a polite, charming smile. “Is this seat taken?”

I looked at the empty wrought-iron bench beside me, then back up at him.

“Not at all,” I said, patting the green metal slats. “Please.”

He sat down, handed me one of the coffee cups, and extended his hand.

“I’m Robert,” he said.

“Eleanor,” I replied, shaking his warm, firm hand.

“Visiting from out of town, Eleanor?” he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine interest.

“Yes,” I said, taking a sip of the rich, aromatic coffee and watching the late afternoon sun turn the Spanish moss hanging from the live oaks into shimmering threads of gold. “Just moved here, in a manner of speaking.”

Robert smiled, leaning back against the bench. “Well, Savannah is a wonderful place to start over. The city has a way of forgiving the past and letting you write whatever chapter you want next.”