5. Hannah
— ? —
Hannah
Her silver hair is twisted into an elegant chignon that probably took her stylist an hour to perfect. Her dress is some kind of structured silk thing that costs more than my first car. Her expression is already set to disappointed.
“Griffin, darling!” She air-kisses his cheeks, leaving no actual contact, then turns to me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Hannah. You look… tired.”
“Mom.” Griffin’s warning tone is mild, barely a reprimand. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice.” She settles into her chair with the air of a queen taking her throne, scanning the menu with obvious disdain. “I’m simply observing. A mother worries when her daughter-in-law looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.”
“I’ve been working a lot,” I say, keeping my voice even. “The launch is coming up.”
“Ah, yes. The launch.” She says it like I’ve announced I’m planning to juggle flaming torches. “Still doing that, are we?”
The waiter appears, and Rhonda orders a glass of wine without looking at him, her attention already fixed on Griffin.
She asks about the company, about his health, about his plans for expansion.
She listens to his answers with rapt attention, nodding and smiling and making encouraging sounds like he’s reciting poetry instead of quarterly projections.
Then she turns to me.
“And how is your little hobby going, Hannah? Still playing at being a businesswoman?”
“It’s not a hobby,” I say. “I run operations for the entire company.”
“Of course you do, dear.” She pats my hand in a way that manages to be both condescending and dismissive. “It’s so nice that Griffin lets you help out.”
Griffin shifts in his seat but doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t tell her that I don’t help out, that I built half this company from the ground up. That I’m the one who keeps everything running while he takes meetings and charms investors.
He just takes a sip of his water and changes the subject.
The next hour is exhausting.
Rhonda criticizes the bread. “Too chewy. I specifically asked for something from an artisan bakery. This tastes mass-produced.”
She criticizes the wine. “Too tannic. I asked for something from the Burgundy region, not this cheap substitute. Do they even have a proper sommelier here?”
She criticizes the server. “Too slow. And did you see how she looked at Griffin? Probably hoping for a big tip. Or something else entirely. You’d think they’d train their staff better at a restaurant of this caliber.”
She asks Griffin about the company and listens with the intensity of a devotee receiving wisdom from a prophet. She hangs on his every word, asks follow-up questions, offers praise and encouragement.
She asks me about my hobbies.
“You know, Hannah,” she says, dabbing her lips with a napkin, “I read an article recently about the importance of wives supporting their husbands’ careers. Not competing with them. It was in one of those business magazines. I’ll have to send you the link.”
“I’m not competing with Griffin.”
“Of course not, dear. But appearances matter. People talk.” She leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“I’ve heard some of Griffin’s colleagues think you’re a bit…
much. Always in meetings, always offering opinions.
A man needs space to lead, don’t you think?
Room to shine without his wife hovering over his shoulder. ”
“Hannah’s an integral part of the company, Mom.” Griffin’s defense is halfhearted at best.
“I’m sure she is, darling. But it’s sweet that you include her.” Rhonda turns back to me. “Have you thought about scaling back? Taking on a more… traditional role? You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
The shift is so abrupt it gives me whiplash. “Excuse me?”
“Well.” She sets down her wine glass with a delicate click.
“Considering your age and the fact that you still haven’t gotten pregnant, it’s probably good for you to have something to do.
To keep busy.” She pauses, letting the words land like perfectly aimed arrows.
“Some women just aren’t meant for motherhood, of course.
But one would hope you’d at least be trying. ”
I feel the words in my chest.
My eyes fly to Griffin, silently begging him to say something. To defend me. To tell his mother that I’ve been asking for years, that it’s not my fault, that he’s the one who keeps putting it off with promises of after this project and when things calm down.
Griffin shifts in his seat. His jaw tightens.
And then he says, “Mom, have you tried the scallops? They’re excellent.”
He changes the subject.
He doesn’t correct her. He doesn’t defend me. He doesn’t explain that the reason we don’t have children is because every time I bring it up, he tells me it’s not the right time yet. He just… pivots. Like my pain is an inconvenience to be navigated around.
Rhonda smiles triumphantly, and I want to throw my water in her face. I want to stand up and walk out. I want to scream at both of them until my throat is raw.
Instead, I sit there. I smile. I nod in the right places and laugh when I’m supposed to laugh and play the role of dutiful daughter-in-law so well that even I almost believe it.
But inside, something is crumbling.
When Rhonda finally leaves, air-kissing Griffin and offering me a limp handshake that feels more like a dismissal than a farewell, I feel like I’ve run a marathon with no finish line.
The car ride home is silent.
Griffin reaches for my hand. I pull it away.
“Hannah…”
“Don’t.”
“She’s just set in her ways. You know how she is.”
“I know exactly how she is.” My voice is flat, drained of all emotion because if I let myself feel anything right now I’ll break. “I also know that you sat there and let her imply I’m barren and career-obsessed and not good enough for your family. Again.”
“That’s not…”
“What did she mean, considering your age? I’m twenty-seven, Griffin. Twenty-seven. And I haven’t ‘gotten pregnant’ because you keep telling me it’s not the right time.”
He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. The city slides past outside the windows, streetlights strobing across his face.
“I know,” he finally says. “You’re right. I should have said something.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “She raised me alone, Hannah. She worked three jobs. She sacrificed everything to give me a good life. I can’t just…”
“You can’t just defend your wife? The woman you supposedly love? The woman who has given you seven years of her life?”
“That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair.” I turn to look out the window so he can’t see the tears threatening to spill. “None of it.”
We pull into the driveway. I’m out of the car before he can say anything else.
Inside, the house feels too big. Too empty. I walk to the kitchen and stand at the island, gripping the marble counter until my knuckles go white.
Griffin follows. “Hannah. Please. Talk to me.”
“What’s there to talk about?” I turn to face him. “Your mother thinks I’m not good enough for you. She thinks I’m too old and too barren and too career-oriented to give her grandchildren. And you just sat there.”
“I’m sorry.” He moves closer. “I’m so sorry. I know I fucked up. I should have defended you. I should have told her she was out of line.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” He’s close now, close enough that I can smell his cologne, see the guilt in his eyes. “I didn’t. And I hate myself for it.”
His hands come up to cup my face. His eyes are dark, pleading.
“Let me make it up to you,” he whispers. “Please. Let me try.”
I should push him away. I should hold onto my anger, use it as armor. But I’m so tired. I’m so fucking tired of fighting, of being strong, of holding everything together while it all falls apart around me.
“You can’t just fuck away every problem, Griffin.”
“I know.” His forehead comes down to rest against mine. “I know I can’t. But let me try anyway. Let me show you how sorry I am.”
When he kisses me, I don’t kiss back. Not at first. I stand rigid in his arms, my hands at my sides, my jaw tight.
He doesn’t push. He just keeps kissing me, soft, gentle, apologetic kisses against my lips, my cheeks, the corner of my mouth. His hands stay on my face, cradling me like I’m made of glass.
“I love you,” he murmurs against my skin. “I love you so much, Hannah. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
He kisses down my neck, his lips warm and soft, and despite everything, I feel my body responding. My shoulders drop. My hands unclench. When he finds that spot beneath my ear that always makes me shiver, a small sound escapes my throat.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “Let me take care of you. Let me make it better.”
“You can’t make it better with sex.”
“Maybe not.” He pulls back to look at me, his eyes earnest. “But I can remind you how much I love you. How much I want you. How much you mean to me.”
I should say no. I should walk away and make him deal with the consequences of his silence. But his hands are sliding down my arms, his fingers interlacing with mine, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only woman in the world.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
He exhales like I’ve given him a gift. Then he lifts me onto the counter, stepping between my thighs, and his mouth finds mine again.
This kiss is different. Hungrier. His tongue slides against mine and his hands grip my hips, pulling me to the edge of the counter so I can feel how hard he is against me.
“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he says against my lips. “I’m going to make you forget everything except my name.”
He unzips my dress slowly, trailing kisses down my neck as he exposes my skin inch by inch. When the fabric pools at my waist, he pulls back to look at me, my breasts still in their lace bra, my chest heaving with each breath.
“Beautiful,” he says. “So fucking beautiful.”
He reaches behind me to unclasp my bra, and when it falls away, he groans. He cups my breasts in his hands, thumbing my nipples until they peak, then lowers his head to take one into his mouth.
I gasp, my hands flying to his hair. He sucks and licks and teases, moving from one breast to the other while his hands work at my dress, pushing it down over my hips. When I’m sitting on his kitchen counter in nothing but my panties, he drops to his knees.
“Griffin…”
“Shh.” He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and drags them down my legs. “Let me.”
He spreads my thighs wide and just looks at me for a moment, his breath hot against my skin. Then he leans in and licks a slow stripe up my center, and I moan so loud it echoes off the kitchen walls.
He eats me out like an apology he actually means. His tongue works my clit in tight circles while his fingers slide inside me, curling against my g-spot with practiced precision. He knows exactly what I like, exactly how to touch me to make me fall apart.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my flesh. “That’s it, baby. Let go.”
The orgasm builds slowly, inexorably, until I’m trembling on the edge. He adds a third finger, stretching me, and sucks my clit into his mouth, and I shatter with a scream.
He doesn’t stop. He works me through the aftershocks, his tongue gentling but never stopping, until I’m whimpering and pushing at his head.
“One more,” he says, looking up at me with dark eyes. “Give me one more.”
“I can’t…”
“You can.” He stands, unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other keeps stroking me, keeping me on the edge. “You can and you will.”
He shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock, then lines himself up and slides inside me in one long thrust.
I cry out, my head falling back, my hands gripping his shoulders. He’s so deep like this, the angle letting him hit places that make me see stars.
“Look at me,” he demands. “Hannah. Look at me.”
I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine, his jaw tight with restraint, his eyes burning with intensity.
“I love you,” he says, and starts to move. “I love you more than anything. More than the company. More than my own fucking life.”
He fucks me hard and fast, one hand braced on the counter, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. The sound of skin against skin fills the kitchen, mixed with my moans and his groans and the desperate words he keeps murmuring against my neck.
“So tight. So perfect. Mine. You’re mine, Hannah. Always.”
The second orgasm hits me without warning, ripping through me with enough force to make me scream his name. He follows a moment later, burying himself deep and spilling inside me with a groan that sounds like surrender.
Neither of us moves for a while. We stay tangled together on the kitchen counter, breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin.
His lips brush my temple.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I know.” He lifts his head, and his face is all sincerity, the face that closes deals. “But I mean it this time. After the launch, everything changes. I’ll talk to my mother. I’ll make her understand. And we’ll start trying for a baby. A real try, not just talk.”
Standing here in his arms, still trembling, believing him feels less like a choice and more like gravity.
“The Myer project is almost done,” he continues. “Two more weeks. And then it’s you and me. The family we always talked about. I promise, Hannah.”
I search his face for a lie. I don’t find one, but I’ve stopped trusting my ability to find them.
“Okay,” I whisper. “After the launch.”
He kisses me again, soft and sweet, and helps me down from the counter. We clean up in silence, and I try to hold onto the feeling of being loved, being wanted, being enough.
Later, lying in bed while Griffin snores beside me, I realize I’ve been queasy for days. I blamed it on stress. I blamed it on Rhonda. I blamed it on the constant state of anxiety that has become my baseline existence.
But now, in the dark, I do the math. My period is twelve days late.
I press my hand flat against my stomach and stare at the ceiling.
I could be pregnant. Right now. Already.
The thought should make me happy. It’s what I’ve wanted for years.
But lying here in the dark, listening to Griffin breathe, all I feel is afraid.