She stared at him. Daniel was not a man who dramatized anything. He was steady, respectful, the kind of person who never spoke unless necessary and never crossed a line that wasn’t his to cross. In all the years he had driven her, he had never interfered in her life. Never raised his voice. Never looked afraid.
But now his hands were shaking.
“Your fiancé is coming,” he said. “If he sees you out here, it’s over.”
A cold wave slid through Savannah so fast it felt physical.
“But this is my wedding day,” she said, her voice unsteady. “You want me to climb into the trunk of my own car?”
Daniel glanced toward the gates, then back at her. “Sometimes the thing that feels absurd for one minute saves you from regretting the rest of your life. Please.”
And for one strange second, Savannah heard her grandmother Eleanor’s voice in her head:
Sometimes the person pushing you into the ditch is the one keeping you from getting hit.
She looked at the black interior of the trunk, then back at Daniel’s face. Something in his eyes made her stop asking questions.
She lifted the train of her gown, swallowed her pride, and climbed inside.