Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Bennett
I'm standing on the curb watching the Uber's taillights disappear around the corner when the panic really sets in.
She wouldn't look at me. Not once. Not when I found her near the entrance, pale and shaking. Not when I walked her outside. Not when I opened the car door and she climbed in.
I shove my phone into my pocket and push through the doors back into the ballroom. The noise hits me immediately—laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses. Everyone is still here, still enjoying themselves, completely unaware that my entire world just walked out the door.
Richard finds me near the bar. "Hey, where'd you go? I was looking for—" He stops, his expression shifting. "What's wrong?"
"Hannah left." My voice sounds flat even to my own ears.
"Left?" Richard frowns. "What do you mean left? She was just?—"
"She said she wasn't feeling well. Took an Uber home." I pull out my phone again, checking for new messages. Nothing. "She won't tell me what happened."
Richard's quiet for a moment, studying me. "That's... weird. She seemed fine earlier."
"I know." I stare at the screen, willing a new message to appear. "Something happened. Here. At the event. I can feel it."
"Did you ask her?"
"She said nothing happened." I look up at him. "She's lying."
Richard glances around the ballroom, his expression thoughtful. Then he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. "Bennett... did you notice anything off tonight? Anyone acting strange around her?"
I think back through the evening. Hannah laughing with Patricia. Hannah fitting in so perfectly I'd felt proud just watching her.
Then I remember. The way she'd excused herself to the restroom. How long she'd been gone. The careful way she'd avoided my eyes when I found her near the entrance.
"She was gone for a while," I say slowly. "Twenty minutes, maybe. When she came back, she was different."
Richard nods. "So something happened while she was gone."
I nod at Richard. "She's shutting me out."
"Give her tonight," Richard says quietly. "Maybe she just needs to process whatever happened."
"And if she doesn't call tomorrow?"
Richard doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. We both know what that means.
I'm trapped here. Trapped at my own event, surrounded by people who expect me to smile and shake hands and make conversation. Meanwhile Hannah is alone in her apartment, pulling away from me, and I have no idea how to stop it.
Patricia Hendricks approaches, her expression warm. "Bennett, wonderful event. And your Hannah is absolutely delightful. Where did she disappear to?"
The question sends ice through my veins. "She wasn't feeling well. Had to leave early."
Patricia's smile falters slightly. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I hope it's nothing serious."
"Me too." I force myself to smile. "If you'll excuse me."
I walk away before she can respond, heading for the quieter hallway near the restrooms. I pull out my phone again.
Me: Please just tell me you're okay.
No response.
Me: I'm worried about you.
Nothing.
Me: Hannah, please.
The three dots appear. My heart lurches. Then they disappear. No message comes through.
I lean against the wall, my chest so tight I can barely breathe. She's typing. She's right there, looking at her phone, reading my messages. And she's choosing not to respond.
Something is very, very wrong.
I check my watch. 9:15. The speeches haven't even started yet. I'm supposed to stay until at least eleven. Two more hours of smiling and pretending everything is fine while Hannah pulls further and further away.
My phone buzzes again.
Hannah: I'm fine. Really. I just need to go. I'll text you tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Not tonight. Not in an hour. Tomorrow.
I stare at the message, reading between every carefully chosen word. She's not fine. She's not going to text me tomorrow. And whatever happened tonight—whatever someone said or did—it's bad enough that she can't even tell me.
I'm already typing a response when I hear voices from around the corner. Two women from the firm, associates whose names I can't remember right now.
"—left early, did you see?"
I freeze, my thumb hovering over the send button.
"I know," the other one responds. "I mean, what did he expect? She's a barista. She doesn't belong in a room like this."
My entire body goes rigid.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to get in my car and drive to her apartment. To demand she let me in. To fix whatever's wrong because that's what I do—I fix things. I take care of her.
But I can't. Not yet. Not until I understand what happened.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and step around the corner.
The two women are standing near the bar, too caught up in their conversation to notice me yet.
"It's sweet that he's trying," one of them continues. "But let's be honest. She's completely out of her depth. Did you see how uncomfortable she looked half the time?"
"Exactly. I just don't see them lasting. They're in completely different worlds."
The words hit like a physical blow. I turn slowly, my eyes finding them.
"It's cute now," one of them says with a dismissive laugh. "But once the novelty wears off, he'll realize she doesn't have the right pedigree or wear the right designer labels."
I'm talking to James Whitmore about some case when I hear it.
“—left early, did you see?"
The voice comes from behind me, cutting through the ambient noise like a knife. Two women from the firm, associates whose names I can't remember right now. I'm not trying to eavesdrop, but they're not exactly being quiet.
"I know," the other one responds, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "I mean, I'm not surprised. She looked so out of place all night."
My hand tightens around my glass, the crystal pressing into my palm.
"Did you see her dress? It was nice, but you could tell it wasn't designer. Not like what everyone else was wearing."
"And she's so young. What is she, twenty-three?"
"If that. I heard she's a barista."
Laughter. Sharp and cutting, like broken glass.
My vision narrows. I set my glass down on the nearest table with deliberate care, my movements slow and controlled even though rage is building in my chest.
"A barista," the first woman repeats, like it's the punchline to a joke. "I mean, Bennett Cross could have anyone. Why would he settle for someone like that?"
"She's pretty, I'll give her that. But pretty only gets you so far in this world."
"Exactly. And did you see the way she was trying so hard? It was almost... sad."
I remember Hannah earlier in the evening, laughing with Patricia Hendricks near the bar.
Patricia had been telling her about her own journey, how she'd started as a paralegal, worked her way up, built a life that mattered.
And Hannah had listened with genuine interest, asking real questions, making Patricia feel seen in a way that made the older woman's face light up.
"You know what I love about your story?" Hannah had said, her voice warm and sincere. "You didn't let anyone tell you who you were supposed to be. You just... became."
Patricia had actually smiled, a real smile, not the polite society smile she'd worn all night. She'd reached out and squeezed Hannah's hand. "That's exactly right. And you know what? I see that same thing in you. That refusal to apologize for who you are."
Now, standing here listening to these women tear her apart, that moment feels like a knife in my chest.
"I know. Like she thought if she smiled enough and asked the right questions, people wouldn't notice she doesn't belong here."
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. James is still talking beside me, but I'm not hearing a word he's saying. All I can hear is these women tearing Hannah apart, reducing her to nothing more than her job and her age and her dress.
"Eventually he's going to realize she's just... ordinary. She doesn't belong here."
"Exactly. Women like her, they're fine for a fling. But long-term? Please. Can you imagine her as Bennett Cross's wife?"
More laughter.
"I give it three months, tops," one of them says. "Once the novelty wears off?—"
I'm moving before I consciously decide to. Richard notices, his eyes widening in alarm, but I'm already crossing the room with measured, deliberate steps.
The two women don't see me coming. They're too busy laughing, too caught up in their cruel gossip to notice the attention shifting around them.
"I mean, what does she even talk to him about? Coffee orders?"
"Excuse me."
They both turn, and the color drains from their faces when they see me standing there. The laughter dies instantly.
"Mr. Cross," the first one stammers, her eyes going wide. "We were just?—"
"Talking about my girlfriend," I finish, my voice deadly calm. Each word is precise, controlled, even though fury is burning through my veins. "I heard."
The second woman's mouth opens and closes like a fish. "We didn't mean?—"
"You didn't mean for me to hear you?" I take a step closer, and they both instinctively step back. Good. Let them be afraid. "Or you didn't mean to say those things about the woman I love?"
"We were just?—"
"Just what?" My voice is still quiet, but there's steel underneath it now.
The kind of tone I use in court when I'm about to destroy someone's argument.
"Just gossiping about someone you don't know?
Just making assumptions about her worth based on her job?
Just deciding she's not good enough for me because she doesn't have the right pedigree or wear the right designer labels? "
The first woman's face is bright red now, her hands clasped in front of her. "Mr. Cross, we're sorry. We didn't realize?—"