Chapter 12 #2
"That I was listening? That I'd care?" I look between them, and I can feel the attention of everyone nearby shifting toward us.
Conversations are stopping. People are turning to watch.
Good. Let them all hear this. "Let me make something very clear.
Hannah is the best thing that's ever happened to me.
She's kind, genuine, and makes every room she walks into better just by being in it.
She's more real than anyone in this room, and I'm lucky—lucky—that she chose to be with me. "
The second woman is staring at the floor now, her hands clasped in front of her, her face pale.
"I intend to marry her," I continue, my voice carrying across the suddenly quiet space.
"And when I do, she'll be my wife. My partner.
The person I build my life with. So if you have a problem with that, if you think she's not good enough, then you don't belong at this firm.
Because I don't work with people who judge others based on their job title or their bank account.
I don't work with people who lack the basic decency to treat others with respect. "
The silence around us is deafening. I can feel Richard somewhere behind me, probably trying to decide if he should intervene. Patricia Hendricks is watching from across the space, her expression unreadable. Marcus Smith looks impressed. James Whitmore is grinning.
I don't care about any of it. "Do I make myself clear?" I ask, my voice dropping lower.
They both nod quickly, mumbling apologies that sound hollow and meaningless.
"Good." I turn away from them, scanning the room one last time. Then I pull out my phone and check my messages again. Still nothing from Hannah.
Richard appears at my elbow as I'm heading for the exit. "Well, that was subtle."
"I don't care about subtle right now." I'm already pushing through the doors, my car keys in my hand. "I need to go."
"Bennett—"
"She heard them, Richard." The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath. "That's why she left. She heard people saying those things about her, and she left."
Richard's expression shifts to understanding, then concern. "Shit."
I'm already running toward the parking garage, my dress shoes echoing on the concrete. My hands shake as I fumble with the keys, the car door, the ignition. The engine roars to life and I'm pulling out before I've even fully closed the door behind me.
The drive to Hannah's apartment takes fifteen minutes, but it feels like hours.
Every red light is torture. Every slow driver makes me want to scream.
I keep replaying the conversation in my head, the things those women said.
She doesn't belong here. Not good enough.
Just a phase. Can you imagine her as Bennett Cross's wife?
My hands tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. How long was she standing there listening? How much did she hear before she decided to leave? Did she hear them laughing? Did she hear them dismiss everything she is, everything we are, like it means nothing?
And why the hell didn't she come find me? But I know why. Because she believed them.
The thought makes my chest ache, makes it hard to breathe. After everything—after all the time we've spent together, all the ways I've tried to show her how much she means to me, all the times I've told her she's enough—she still doesn't believe it. She still thinks she's not good enough for me.
I should have paid closer attention tonight.
I should have noticed when she left. I should have gone with her, stayed by her side every second, made sure no one had the chance to make her feel less than.
This is my fault. I brought her into my world and didn't protect her from the worst parts of it.
I pull up outside her building and park haphazardly, not caring if I'm blocking someone in. The elevator takes too long. I can't stand still, can't stop moving, so I take the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding against my ribs.
When I reach her door, I stop. Force myself to take a breath. To calm down even though every part of me is screaming to break down the door and make her listen.
Then I knock.
"Hannah. It's me."
Silence.
I knock again, harder this time, my palm flat against the wood. "Hannah, please. I know you're in there. I just want to talk."
More silence. Then, finally, her voice. Muffled through the door. Small and broken in a way that makes my chest crack open. "Bennett, go home."
"I'm not going anywhere until we talk." I press my other hand against the door, wishing I could see her face, wishing I could hold her. "Please, baby. Let me in."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Yes, there is." My voice cracks despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "I know what happened. I know what you heard."
A long pause. I can hear her breathing on the other side of the door, can almost feel her presence just inches away. "It doesn't matter."