10. Hannah
— ? —
Hannah
The investor across the table has been condescending for forty-five minutes, and I’m running out of ways to not throw my coffee in his face.
“It’s a cute idea,” he says, examining my business plan like it’s a child’s finger painting he’s been asked to critique. “Accessibility software for people with learning disabilities. Very niche.”
“It’s a two-billion-dollar market.” I keep my voice steady, professional, channeling every ounce of patience I’ve developed over years of dealing with my mother-in-law.
“And growing every year as awareness increases and schools mandate accommodations. We’re talking about software that helps people with ADHD focus, helps people with dyslexia process text, helps students who learn differently succeed in environments that weren’t designed for them. ”
“So you say.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his expensive suit in a way that signals this meeting is already over.
“Look, sweetheart. I appreciate the passion. I do. But you’re asking for serious investment money here, and your experience is what, exactly? Charity work? Some volunteer teaching?”
I grip the edge of the conference table hard enough that my knuckles go white.
“I have a degree in computer science from Stanford,” I say, keeping my voice level even though I want to scream.
“I’ve been developing this software for three years, building prototypes, testing with actual users, refining the interface based on real feedback from people who actually have ADHD and dyslexia and other learning disabilities.
I’ve done the research. I’ve built the product.
I’m not asking you to fund an idea. I’m asking you to fund something that already exists and already works. ”
“Stanford, sure.” He waves his hand dismissively. “That’s impressive, I’ll give you that. But let’s be honest here.” He tilts his head and studies me with an expression that makes my skin crawl. “You’re also Hannah Jasper, aren’t you? The chaotic wife?”
The words hit like a fist.
“I saw that interview,” he continues, clearly enjoying my reaction. “Your husband’s quite the character. Very charming. That bit about you losing your head if it wasn’t attached, that was funny stuff. My wife and I laughed about it for days.”
I should walk out. I should tell him exactly where he can shove his condescension and his assumptions and his smug little smile.
But I need this money. I’ve burned through my savings getting the prototype built, paying for design help and testing rounds out of my own pocket. I need investors, real investors with real money, and this is the third meeting this week that’s gone exactly the same way.
“My marriage has nothing to do with my business plan.”
“Doesn’t it?” He spreads his hands like he’s being reasonable, like he’s doing me a favor by pointing out the obvious.
“I’m just saying. You’re asking me to bet serious money on you personally.
And everything I’ve seen suggests you’re not exactly the stable, focused type.
Your own husband said so, on camera, to a reporter.
If the man who knows you best thinks you’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached, why should I trust you with my investment? ”
My hands are shaking under the table. I press them flat against my thighs and focus on keeping my voice steady.
“Cameron doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.”
“Maybe not.” He shrugs, unconvinced. “Tell you what. Come back with your husband’s signature on the investment documents. Get him to co-sign, put some of his money behind this little project of yours. Then we’ll talk seriously.”
I stand up and gather my papers with as much dignity as I can manage. My throat is tight and my eyes are burning but I will not cry in front of this man. I will not give him the satisfaction.
“Thank you for your time,” I say, and my voice only shakes a little.
“Think about what I said,” he calls after me as I head for the door. “A signature from Cameron Jasper would go a long way toward making this viable.”
I make it to the elevator before the tears start, hot and furious. I make it to my car before the sob breaks free, ugly and raw, my forehead pressed against the steering wheel while I cry out all the frustration and humiliation and rage that’s been building for weeks.
This is the fifth investor who’s turned me down.
The fifth meeting where I’ve walked in with a solid business plan and a working prototype and walked out feeling like nothing I’ve accomplished matters because Cameron’s words follow me everywhere.
Five men in expensive suits who looked at my research and my product and my projections and saw only Cameron’s wife.
The scatterbrained charity case with her cute little hobby who needs a man’s signature to be taken seriously.
I drive back to Summer’s apartment on autopilot, barely seeing the road, replaying every condescending comment in my head.
The coffee shop on the corner has lavender lattes on their seasonal menu, and I have to look away from the sign because everything in this city reminds me of him and I’m so tired of crying.
Summer’s at work, so I have the apartment to myself.
I pour a glass of wine even though it’s barely two in the afternoon, because the rules about appropriate drinking hours don’t apply when your husband has sabotaged your career with one two-minute interview clip.
I sit at her kitchen table with my laptop open and my dreams dying, scrolling through my rejection emails like picking at a wound.
Maybe I should give up. Maybe I should quit fighting his lawyers’ stalling, let the process grind on without me, and start over somewhere else. Somewhere nobody knows my name or my face or my husband’s viral interview.
But the thought of giving up makes me physically sick. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to hide. I want to build something that’s mine, proof that I’m more than the caricature he made me into, proof the world can watch Hannah Jasper be worth betting on even without her husband’s signature.
My email pings. I almost ignore it because I can’t stomach another rejection right now, but the subject line catches my eye.
Re: Your Proposal - Investment Opportunity
I click it open, bracing for the polite no.
Mrs. Jasper,
We’ve reviewed your proposal and are prepared to offer full seed funding, office space, and operational support for your accessibility software venture. In return, we request an advisory role and regular progress updates on development milestones.
Details attached.
- A friend
I read it three times because I must be missing something. I check the sender address for signs of spam, check the attachment for viruses, check everything I can think of because this can’t be real.
The attachment is a formal offer letter.
The numbers are real, more than I asked for, enough to not only build the software but to hire a small team and market it properly.
The office space is in a building just off Sunset, good location, modern facilities, reasonable terms. Everything I need to actually make this happen, wrapped up in a bow and handed to me by someone who won’t even tell me their name.
From an anonymous benefactor who signs their emails “a friend.”
I call Summer immediately.
“This is too good to be true,” she says the second I finish explaining. “Who offers millions of dollars anonymously? That’s not how investment works.”
“I know.”
“Someone who wants something. Someone with an agenda.”
“I know.”
“It could be a trap, Han. Someone trying to get leverage over you. Someone who wants to control your company before it even gets off the ground.” She pauses, and I can hear her thinking. “It could be Cameron.”
The thought has already occurred to me, has been sitting in the pit of my stomach since I opened the email.
It would be exactly like him, wouldn’t it?
Showing up with money when I said I didn’t want his money, finding a way to insert himself into my life after I told him to stay away, thinking he can buy his way back into my good graces if he just throws enough cash at the problem.
“I’ll ask for a meeting,” I say. “Find out who they are before I sign anything.”
I reply to the email requesting to meet in person, to put a face to the generous offer, to understand who I’d be getting into business with. The response comes back within minutes, faster than any legitimate businessperson would respond to a cold inquiry.
Not available at this time. But the offer stands. Take your time deciding.
Not available. Anonymous. Generous to the point of suspicious.
I stare at the ceiling of Summer’s apartment for hours, turning it over in my head. The wine goes warm in my glass. The sun moves across the floor. My laptop screen dims and then goes dark and I don’t move to wake it up.
If this is Cameron, accepting would mean letting him back into my life through the back door. It would mean building my dream on his foundation, owing my success to his money, never being free of him no matter how far I run.
But if it’s not Cameron, if it’s some legitimate investor who just happens to prefer anonymity, then turning it down means going back to condescending meetings with men who see Cameron’s wife instead of me.
It means watching my savings drain away while my prototype sits on my laptop gathering digital dust. It means giving up on the thing I’ve been working toward for years because I’m too scared to take a risk.
I think about the investor today, his smug smile, his suggestion that I come back with my husband’s signature. I think about all the closed doors and dismissive comments and assumptions about who I am based on a two-minute interview clip.
I think about building something that proves them all wrong.
I accept the offer.
Because the alternative is admitting defeat, and I’ve never been good at that.
Whatever the catch is, whoever this mysterious benefactor turns out to be, I’ll deal with it when it comes.
I’ve dealt with worse. I’ve survived worse.
And if someone is trying to manipulate me, they’re going to find out that Hannah Jasper doesn’t manipulate easily.
I knew, even as I clicked send. I knew from the moment I read that email that this was too easy, too convenient, too perfectly tailored to what I needed. I knew, and I accepted anyway, because I wanted to believe someone was betting on me instead of against me.
The next two weeks pass in a blur of paperwork and planning.
I sign contracts, meet with lawyers, coordinate the move into the new office space.
I hand the fall literacy program to my program director, who has been ready to run it without me for a year, and I promise the schools I’ll be back when I can breathe.
Summer’s aunt is handling the divorce on a payment plan, mostly, I suspect, for the pleasure of going up against a Jasper.
The anonymous benefactor’s representatives handle everything efficiently and professionally, never once hinting at who’s actually behind the money.
I ask questions and get non-answers. I push for information and hit walls.
Eventually I stop asking and focus on the work, because the work is what matters.
Moving day arrives on a Saturday morning, gray and overcast, weather that matches my cautious optimism.
The office is nicer than I expected, all clean lines and big windows and modern furniture that costs more than my car.
I spend the morning unpacking boxes, setting up my workspace, trying to make the space feel like mine even though I still don’t know whose name is really on the lease.
I’m arranging my desk when the door opens behind me.
“I hope the space meets your needs.”
I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere, in any room, in any crowd, even after weeks of actively trying to forget it exists.
I turn around slowly, my heart already sinking because I knew. Some part of me knew all along.
Cameron is standing in my doorway. He’s wearing a suit that has no business being in a room full of moving boxes, and his expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the hunger underneath it. The desperation. The look of a man who’s finally cornered his prey after weeks of hunting.
“Hello, wife.”