28. Savion

TWENTY-EIGHT

SAVION

The shrill alarm cuts through the stillness at 6 AM, dragging me from the fragile grasp of sleep. My body protests as I reach out, slamming the snooze button like it's some kind of lifeline. Just five more minutes, I promise myself, sinking back into the mattress. But I know it's a lie. Even as I close my eyes, the weight of the day presses down on me, heavy and unavoidable.

At 6:15, the second alarm blares, louder and more insistent. There's no avoiding it now. I haul myself upright, my muscles aching from yesterday's work. The bathroom feels like it's miles away, but I stumble toward it, shedding the blanket of fatigue as I go. The hot water is the only thing keeping me functional. I stand under the spray, letting the heat ease the tension in my shoulders, but it can't touch the knots winding tighter in my chest.

One week at the new site, and I've upgraded from a tent to a hotel. It's closer to the dig and gives me at least a few small luxuries—a hot shower after hours of scraping away at the earth, reliable internet and cell service. Still, no amount of luxury can fix what's really wrong.

Dressing is automatic. Cargo pants, worn boots, the sun-bleached hat that's been through several digs with me. The same routine, just a different location.

Coffee helps, but only a little. I'm two cups in and still feel like a zombie. My phone buzzes, a mix of notifications—emails, work updates, a reminder from the university about an overdue library book. I swipe them all away. They don't matter right now. Nothing does except for today's work, uncovering the past piece by piece.

The terrain is merciless, jagged rocks jutting from the earth like ancient wounds. Our team of twelve fans out across the site, working in unison as the sun beats down with unrelenting heat. The landscape is desolate, save for the distant baa of sheep, an odd reminder of life amidst all this barrenness.

I lose myself in the rhythm of the dig, the simple focus of hands in the soil, each movement precise and deliberate. Hours pass unnoticed. The relentless heat, the dry wind, the strain in my back and legs—it's all part of the work. There's a strange satisfaction in the exhaustion, a sense of purpose. Out here, I don't have to think about anything except what's buried beneath my hands.

My notebook fills with precise entries, my fingers cramping from scrawling notes, but I don't stop.

This is why I do it. This is why I became a paleontologist. To uncover the hidden stories time has buried, to bring the forgotten back into the light.

But even as I unearth ancient bones, I can't help but feel the weight of something else pressing down on me.

Declan.

His name hovers at the edges of my thoughts, never fully leaving. I promised him we'd talk when I got back to LA, but I plan to call him as soon as I return to the hotel. A week away from him, not seeing or speaking to him, is way too long. I'll ask him to forgive me for giving up on us, for coming here without making sure we were back on track. Hell, I'll grovel if I have to.

By the time I finally leave the site, my body is a symphony of aches and exhaustion. Back at the hotel, I sit heavily on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen. Declan's name hovers in my contacts, the silence between us stretching into an unspoken question.

We promised to talk, to work on things when I got back to LA. But what if it's too late? What if I've already missed my chance?

I force myself to breathe, thumb hovering over the call button when my phone vibrates. It's not Declan.

It's Mr. Roberts, my lawyer.

My pulse stutters. The last time we spoke… Jesus, it was while I was in Joshua Tree with Declan. That night we had many first times, but Brock's shadow had stretched over everything the morning after like a storm cloud.

Hearing from Mr. Roberts now… can't be good.

I don't take the call here, not in this confined space where everything feels too close, too suffocating. I need air, room to breathe.

On legs that feel like they're made of lead, I stumble out of the room and into the balcony overlooking the parking lot. The early evening breeze brushes against my skin, but it does nothing to ease the tension that's wrapped itself around my chest.

I answer the call, my voice tight. "Mr. Roberts."

"Mr. Hayes," he says, his tone as clipped and professional as always. "I have news."

I stand, crossing to the balcony, needing air. The narrow space offers little relief, but at least the evening breeze gives me something to focus on as I brace myself. "What is it?"

There's a pause, just long enough to make my stomach twist. "Brock's been granted a retrial. The court sent the notice this morning."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. A wave of nausea rises in my throat as my grip tightens on the railing. For a moment, I can't speak. My brain feels sluggish, like it's fighting to make sense of what he just said.

A retrial? After all this time?

"What… what do I do now?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper, the sound of it almost foreign to my ears.

"We have to stay focused, Savion," Robert says, reverting to my first name. Though his tone is carefully neutral, I can hear the undercurrent of urgency. "I know how hard this is, but we can't afford to lose our heads. Brock's planning to go public, doing the rounds with the media, trying to paint himself in a better light."

Brock—the man who destroyed my life, the man I thought I'd finally escaped—was back, and now he was going to rewrite the past.

"He's doing damage control?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

"Seems like it."

I can barely hear him over the sudden rush of blood in my ears. My knees feel weak. I grip the railing harder, fingers digging into the cold metal, trying to anchor myself as my legs threaten to give out beneath me. "Doesn't that sound like he knows how this retrial is going to play out already?" I'm barely keeping the panic at bay.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," my lawyer says, but I can tell he's trying to stop me from spiraling.

"We'll fight it, Savion. We'll make sure the truth comes out."

But what is the truth anymore? Four years—four fucking years. Courtrooms and therapy sessions. Sleepless nights and my mind racing with "what ifs." The shame and guilt. The constant feeling of looking over my shoulder and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Living with the weight of Brock's actions, And feeling like there's no winning.

But I had a sliver of a thought… a hope… that I could move on. I thought I could build something real with Declan. But now, just as I'm trying to move forward, Brock's dragging me back into the nightmare.

Every time I get a taste of happiness, of normalcy, the rug gets yanked out from under me. Every. Damn. Time.

The sound of my lawyer clearing his throat pulls me back to the present.

"Savion," he says softly. "Don't give up. We'll get through this."

I want to believe him. I do. But the exhaustion—physical, mental, emotional—feels too heavy to shake. It's like I'm trapped in quicksand, sinking deeper with every breath. I end the call with a curt, "Thanks."

I don't even realize I've ended the call until the screen goes black. My body feels numb, too heavy to move, but I leave the balcony and get back inside.

I glance at my phone again, at Declan's name still waiting for me in my contacts. My chest tightens. I was supposed to call him. I was supposed to fix things. But how can I, when I'm still so broken?

I drop my phone onto the bed and bury my face in my hands. I can't deal with Brock. Not again.

My chest heaves with a shaky breath as the weight of everything presses down harder. Being with Declan was the first time in years I felt like I could actually breathe, like I could be myself again.

But now, just when I thought I could finally have something real… Brock's dragging me back into the nightmare I thought I'd escaped.

It takes over an hour to pull myself together. By then, dinner with the team has long since passed. I missed it, opting to order food to my room instead. A hot bath and a quiet meal sound like the only things I'm capable of right now anyway.

The bath is hot, soothing. For a moment, I let myself sink into the water, reveling in the warmth that seeps into my bones. It's temporary, but it helps.

When I finally step out, my phone lights up—more missed calls from a private number. I ignore them. Whoever it is can wait. I'm not in the mood for more bad news.

There's a knock at the door, the food I ordered right on time. Tying my robe securely, I shuffle to the door and reach for the handle.

But when I open it, I don't see the hotel staff. Instead, I'm met with a pair of deep blue eyes, staring right into mine.