Chapter Twenty - Hannah
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hannah
"You look beautiful," James had said when he picked her up, and Hannah had believed him. Not because of her dress but because of how he'd looked at her. Like she was something precious. Something real.
Now, walking into the Morrison's annual gala, that feeling of reality was slipping away.
The women around her wore outfits that probably cost more than her monthly salary. They moved differently too—all effortless grace and calculated gestures. Hannah watched one laugh at something, noting how the sound carried exactly far enough to be noticed by the right people.
"Champagne?" James's hand was warm on her lower back as he guided her through the crowd.
"Yes, thank you." She took the glass, more for something to do with her hands than any desire to drink.
A group of executives passed, their eyes sliding past her like she was part of the decor. One woman's gaze caught on her dress for a fraction of a second—just long enough to dismiss it.
"The Sinclair merger is looking promising," someone said nearby, and Hannah watched James's attention sharpen. She recognized that focus—had seen it in the lobby countless times when he'd walked past her, too busy with his phone to notice anything else.
But that was the old James. He was different now.
Wasn't he?
"You okay?" he asked, and the gentle concern in his voice steadied her.
"Fine." She managed a smile. "Just taking it all in."
He squeezed her hand, and for a moment, Hannah let herself believe this could work. That the gap between their worlds wasn't as vast as it felt.
Then she heard someone nearby: "Is that James Park? With... who is that?"
Hannah took a sip of champagne to hide her expression. The liquid felt too sharp, too expensive.
Just like everything else in this room.
Just like everyone else in this room.
Except her.
She let James guide her through the crowd. But with each step, each dismissive glance, each conversation that flowed around her like she wasn't there, Hannah felt herself becoming more transparent.
More invisible.
Stop it , she told herself firmly. This isn't Nero's. He's changed. You've both changed.
But as she watched another group part around them—greeting James warmly while ignoring his introduction of her—Hannah felt the first crack in her careful hope.
She hadn't changed at all.
She was still the woman who didn't belong here.
And no amount of expensive champagne could change that.
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"Just one quick thing." James's smile was apologetic as he squeezed her hand. "I'll be right back."
Hannah nodded, the gesture automatic. "Of course. Go ahead."
She watched him cross the room to join a group of men in expensive suits. Even from here, she could see how he fit—the easy confidence, the perfect posture, the way he commanded attention without seeming to try.
It's fine , she told herself, smoothing her dress. He's working. This is his world.
The champagne sat on the table in front of her, catching the light. Hannah studied its perfect bubbles, trying not to count the minutes. Trying not to remember another glass of expensive champagne, another empty chair across from her.
This is different , she reminded herself. He's different.
Five minutes passed.
She looked up, finding James deep in conversation. His hands moved as he spoke—that passionate gesture she'd noticed when he talked about things that mattered. The men around him were leaning in, caught in his gravity.
He'll be back soon.
Another group of executives passed her table. One woman's designer heel clicked against Hannah's sensible shoe, but she didn't even glance down to apologize.
James was laughing now. He looked... perfect. Polished. Completely in his element.
Just a little longer , Hannah thought, but she wasn't sure if she was telling herself or remembering what she'd thought that night at Nero's.
She drank the champagne.
Somewhere in the room, a clock was ticking.
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The clock on the wall marked fifteen minutes. Hannah had positioned herself so she could see James without being obvious about watching him. He'd moved to another group now, he kept looking over at her before being drawn back in to whatever deal or merger they were discussing.
Her fingertip traced the rim of her champagne glass.
A waiter paused at her table. "Would you like a fresh glass?"
"No, thank you." Her voice came out steady. Professional. The same voice she used when parents asked difficult questions about their children's progress.
To her left, a woman in red silk was describing her recent trip to Milan. She watched the woman's perfectly manicured hands move as she spoke, remembering how she'd scrubbed finger paint off her own hands before coming here.
Another glance at James. Another conversation. Another group of people who mattered in his world.
She tried to distract herself by people-watching, falling back on her teacher's habit of observation. The way that man by the bar kept checking his phone under the table. How the woman in green touched her earring when she was nervous. The careful dance of power and influence happening all around her.
Hannah looked down at her hands, folded carefully in her lap. They were good hands, she thought distantly. Hands that helped children learn, that steadied elderly residents, that fixed crooked paintings in lobbies.
Hands that didn't belong here.
Just like the rest of her.
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The winter air hit Hannah like clarity.
She stepped out of the building's revolving doors and took her first real breath in what felt like hours. The city stretched before her, alive with possibility and completely indifferent to corporate parties or social hierarchies or the quiet endings of things that were never meant to be.
"Can I call you a car, miss?" The doorman's concern was genuine, unlike the practiced politeness inside.
"No, thank you." Hannah smiled, and was surprised to find she meant it. "I'd like to walk."
She should feel something more dramatic, she thought. Anger at James. Sadness at losing what could have been. The bitter sting of yet another disappointment.
Instead, all she felt was tired. Tired of making excuses. Tired of hoping. Tired of trying to fold herself small enough to fit into spaces that weren't built for her.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch. Probably Sophie, checking in. Or maybe James, finally noticing her absence.
She didn't check.
The city lights reflected off windows, creating little galaxies above her. She'd forgotten how beautiful this city could be when you weren't trying to be something you're not.
She wasn't running away.
She was walking toward something better.
Herself.