Part I: Arrival in Savannah
The sun bled gold over the moss-laced oaks of Savannah, Georgia, slow, Southern, and sinful. Even the breeze felt like a tease, slipping over Aiden Wolf's neck like the ghost of a lover who never really left. His Bentley purred down a gravel road leading to a colonial estate that looked like it hadn't aged a day since the Confederacy fell.
And still, it felt like it was waiting for him.
Aiden slid his sunglasses on top of his head as he stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath his Italian leather shoes. He was overdressed in black-on-black Versace, even in the sweltering Southern heat, but that was the point. His presence was a performance. He didn't sweat; he made other people sweat.
A voice cut through the thick air like silk over steel.
"You're late, Mr. Wolf."
She stood barefoot on the porch of the crumbling estate, a pale floral dress hugging her curves, one shoulder slipping low as if by accident. Her hair, wild auburn waves caught in the heat, was tied in a loose braid, strands clinging to her collarbone. Juliet Hawthorne.
She was the kind of woman you didn't meet, you collided with her. She didn't flirt; she disarmed.
"And you're barefoot," Aiden replied, glancing at the cracked marble steps beneath her. "You planning to charm me Southern-style?"
"I don't need charm, sugar," she said, descending the steps. "This house has teeth. If it wants you, it'll take you."
He smiled faintly. "And if I want it?"
She stopped just in front of him, too close, her scent catching him off-guard, rosewater, tobacco, and something feral.
"Then we've got a problem," she said. "Because it's not for sale to cowards. Or men who think money fixes everything."
"What about men who've already been broken?"
Her expression twitched. A flicker of something, pity? Recognition? No. She wasn't the type. She just turned and walked up the steps.
"Come in, Wolf. Let's see if you're worth the trouble."
Part II: The Estate Tour
The inside of the estate was part mansion, part mausoleum. The walls were lined with aging oil portraits, dusty chandeliers, and the smell of rotting magnolias. Juliet moved through it like a ghost in heels.
"Built in 1852," she said, fingers grazing the banister. "My great-great-granddaddy died on those stairs. Bullet to the chest over a poker game. His blood's still in the wood if you know where to look."
Aiden raised a brow. "You always lead with the haunted parts?"
"It's better than lies."
He followed her up the staircase, watching the subtle sway of her hips beneath the light cotton fabric. She didn't try to hide it, and he didn't try to look away. That was the game.
"So," she said, turning suddenly, catching him off guard. "What do billionaires do when they're not ruining beautiful things?"
"We find broken things to ruin instead."
Juliet blinked. Then, unexpectedly, laughed.
"At least you're honest. That'll get you far down here. Honest men don't survive, but they get remembered."
They entered a sunlit room at the top of the house, dusty light streaming in through torn lace curtains. An old piano sat in the corner, untouched for decades.
"Play?" she asked, gesturing.
"Do I look like a man who plays piano?"
"You look like a man who hides in expensive suits so no one hears him scream."
That one hit harder than he expected.
Aiden stepped forward, touched one of the ivory keys, and pressed down. The note rang hollow, like a confession whispered too late.
"You should sell this place," he said quietly. "It's not haunted. It's grieving."
She tilted her head.
"And you'd know grief if it kissed you?"
"I'd know it if it fucked me," he muttered.
Their eyes locked.
And just like that—the tone shifted.
Part III: The First Seduction
Night came like a velvet shroud. Savannah didn't get cold in June, but the humidity softened into something sensual, wrapping itself around the skin.
Aiden returned that evening, bottle of Macallan in hand. Juliet answered the door in the same dress, only now barefoot and holding a lit cigarette. She took the bottle without a word and walked inside.
They drank in silence at first on the porch, beneath a half-broken fan that squeaked with every rotation. Crickets screamed from the trees.
"Why'd you really come here, Wolf?" she asked finally. "You could've sent a lawyer."
"Maybe I needed to disappear."
"Or maybe you needed someone who didn't know your sins."
He looked at her, and for once, didn't dodge the truth.
"I came here to see if something still feels real."
She leaned in. Her lips were red-stained from the whiskey. "Does this feel real?"
He didn't answer.
He kissed her instead.
Hard. Desperate. The kind of kiss that comes from silence, not lust. A kiss that screams.
She pulled him inside.
Part IV: The Morning After
The morning sun spilled across the floorboards like guilt.
Aiden woke in a tangle of sheets that smelled like roses, sweat, and Southern whiskey. Juliet lay beside him, a tangle of wild red hair over his chest, one leg draped across his waist. Her fingers, even in sleep, rested on the scar just below his ribs the one he never let anyone touch.
It wasn't from war. Or a mugging. Or anything so heroic.
It was from himself. A shard of glass in a hotel bathroom in Prague after the worst night of his life. A night he never told anyone about.
Except Elena.
He shut his eyes.
"You're tense," Juliet murmured without opening hers.
"I'm always tense."
"Because you never rest," she said softly. "Even in sleep, you're running."
She lifted her head and kissed the scar gently, like a promise not to ask what it meant. That made it worse.
"Don't fall for me, Juliet."
"Darlin'," she drawled, standing up, stretching naked in the light, "falling for you would be like dancing on broken glass."
She slipped into the hallway, leaving him staring at the ceiling.
And for the first time in a long time, Aiden wished he'd never come.
Part V: Trouble Arrives
They were having coffee on the back porch when it happened.
The door slammed open.
Juliet froze mid-sentence. The color drained from her face before she even turned. Aiden stood up, instinct prickling across his shoulders.
"Who the fuck is this?" the man growled from the doorway.
Tall. Muscled. Tattoos creeping up a thick neck. His eyes were dead, but burning. Nico.
"Juliet," Aiden said slowly, "do I need to kill him now or after he touches you?"
"No one's killin' anyone," Juliet snapped, stepping between them.
Nico stepped forward.
"That your new trick, Jules? Another rich prick who thinks he can fuck the ghosts out of you?"
Aiden didn't move. But his voice dropped into something colder than the Georgia air ever got.
"Say one more word about her and I'll show you what billionaires buy when they can't buy peace."
Juliet pushed Nico back hard.
"You're trespassin', Nico. You know the court order."
"Court orders don't scare me."
Aiden stepped forward.
"Good. Neither do broken ribs."
Nico lunged.
The fight was dirty and fast Nico threw the first punch. Aiden ducked, landed a hook to the jaw. They crashed into the porch railing. Blood sprayed onto the wood.
Juliet screamed. The sound was sharp and gutting.
"STOP!"
Aiden froze, his fist drawn back, Nico coughing blood beneath him.
Juliet ran to Aiden, grabbing his arm.
"He's not worth it," she whispered. "Please."
Aiden looked down at his knuckles, split and trembling.
And he realized: he wasn't angry at Nico.
He was angry at himself.
Part VI: Elena's Echo
The hotel room smelled like disinfectant and shame.
Aiden washed the blood off his hands in the sink, the water turning pink. His knuckles throbbed, but not as much as the ache under his sternum. The one that had nothing to do with bones.
His phone buzzed.
Elena.
He stared at the screen.
Elena: "I saw the news. Another fight? Another arrest?"
Elena: "Aiden, when will you stop bleeding just to feel something?"
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He typed:
"When I bleed for you."
Then deleted it.
Typed again:
"I'm sorry."
Deleted.
Typed:
"Do you still think of that night in Oslo?"
Backspaced.
Instead, he sent nothing.
Just stared at the screen like it was the only place she still existed.
He remembered her voice so soft, fractured. That night in a hotel bathtub when he thought he'd die from withdrawal and regret, and she just sat behind him, holding his shaking body like she could wring the poison out of him with her touch.
"You don't have to be good," she'd whispered. "You just have to be honest."
He hadn't been honest since.
Part VII: Leaving Savannah
He returned to the estate one last time, just after dawn.
Juliet stood on the porch again, barefoot, arms crossed over her chest. The bruise on her lip was faint now, almost gone. But something in her eyes had shattered permanently.
"So that's it?" she asked. "You fuck me, fight my ghost, and vanish?"
"That wasn't the plan."
"You rich boys never have plans. Just impulses."
"You're not just a girl I fucked, Juliet."
"No," she said, stepping down, her voice breaking, "I'm the one who didn't save you. That's what we all are, aren't we?"
Aiden didn't respond. He stepped close, touched her cheek.
"I wanted to stay."
"Then why are you leaving?"
He exhaled. "Because I'll ruin you. And I think… you actually care."
She leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
"I could've loved you, Aiden Wolf."
"That's why I have to go."
He kissed her. Not like a billionaire. Not like a beast. Like a man.
And then he turned and walked away.
Behind him, Juliet whispered to the wind.
"Another ghost for the house."
[End of Episode 3: Whiskey & Wild Roses]