Chapter 23 Fault lines beneath the suit
Timothy
After Hannah disappeared into the crowd…no, out of it, Timothy turned back to the man in front of him as if nothing had happened.
“…as I was saying,” the partner continued, oblivious or politely pretending to be, “the acquisition would stabilize your East Coast interests by Q3.”
Timothy nodded, his expression smooth, composed. He asked the right questions. Made the right sounds. His mind, however, lagged half a step behind, snagging on the image of Hannah’s face just before she’d asked to leave. Pale. Taut. That look she wore when she was bracing for impact.
He crushed the thought.
This wasn’t the time. Or the place.
A shadow fell beside him and Rowan leaned in slightly, his mouth close to Timothy’s ear. “You’ve got a situation. Keller’s on line two. Says it can’t wait.”
Timothy stiffened. “Excuse me,” he said smoothly to the partner, already stepping away.
They moved toward a quieter corridor lined with abstract art and low lighting. Timothy pulled out his phone and dialed as Rowan leaned against the wall, hands folded, eyes watchful.
The call was brief but tense. Numbers. Delays. A sharp disagreement that ended with Timothy’s jaw tight and his voice clipped. When he finally ended the call, he exhaled slowly through his nose.
Rowan tilted his head. “Rough?”
“Everything’s rough,” Timothy muttered.
Rowan studied him for a moment. “How are you holding up?” he asked lightly. “With… everything.”
Timothy shot him a look. “Careful.”
“I mean it,” Rowan said calmly. “Your wife and your ex in the same room. Anyone would be rattled.”
“I’m fine.”
Rowan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he said, “You’ve been sleeping at the penthouse again. The one at Blackwood Heights.”
Timothy’s eyes sharpened. “You keeping tabs on me now?”
Rowan lifted his hands slightly. “Relax. You left your jacket there last Thursday. Lisa mentioned it to my assistant. People talk.”
Timothy scoffed. “Let them.”
“So you’re not going to talk about it,” Rowan said.
“No.”
Rowan nodded once, accepting the boundary even if he didn’t like it. “Fair enough.”
Timothy’s phone buzzed again. He glanced down and groaned.
“What now?” Rowan asked.
“Yvonne,” Timothy said flatly. “Compulsory family dinner tomorrow night. And”, his jaw clenched, “she wants Hannah there.”
Rowan hummed. “Ah. The wicked stepmother strikes again.”
Despite himself, Timothy let out a short, humorless chuckle. “You have no idea.”
Rowan smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I have some idea.”
They lingered a moment longer, then straightened as the noise of the party swelled again around them. Business masks slid back into place.
Back in the main room, Timothy resumed circulating. Hands were shaken. Deals were teased. Compliments were exchanged like currency. He accepted a drink and barely tasted it.
Half an hour later, the main event wound down and select guests were ushered upstairs for the after-party, more exclusive, more strategic. Timothy followed, already tired of the performance but unwilling to skip it.
The room upstairs was darker, richer. Leather seating. Low voices. Power concentrated into clusters of men who thought themselves untouchable.
Timothy moved among them, glass of scotch in hand, listening more than he spoke.
That was when he heard it.
“Shame about the wife,” one man snickered to another, not quite quietly enough. “Guess he has a type…sisters with loose morals.”
The other laughed. “Yeah, must run in the family.”
Timothy stopped dead.
The room seemed to contract, the air thickening as he turned slowly toward them.
“Say that again,” he said softly.
The men froze.
“I…what?” one stammered.
“You heard me,” Timothy said, voice calm in a way that made Rowan watching from across the room tense. “Repeat what you just said. Slowly.”
“That’s not what I meant,” the man said quickly. “It was just…”
“A joke?” Timothy finished. He set his glass down with deliberate care. “You think my wife or her sister is a joke?”
The second man tried to laugh it off, nervously. “Come on, Blackwood, we were just…”
“You will not speak their names,” Timothy cut in sharply, “as if they’re punchlines. Not tonight. Not ever.”
The room went silent.
Timothy stepped closer, his presence suddenly predatory. “You want to question my judgment? Do it to my face. You want to speculate about my marriage? Keep it behind closed doors where it belongs.”
The first man swallowed. “We apologize.”
“Louder,” Timothy said.
“I apologize,” the man repeated, voice shaking.
“Both of you,” Timothy said. “And then you leave.”
They mumbled an apology, their faces red as security came and ushered them out of the room.
No one spoke for several long seconds. Then, cautiously, conversations resumed, quieter now, edges dulled.
Timothy picked up his glass again, his hand steady.
As he checked his watch, his thoughts drifted unbidden to Hannah. To the way she’d stood there earlier, holding herself together with sheer force of will. To the way she’d looked at him once, fleetingly, like she expected him to do something.
He took a long sip of scotch, the burn grounding him.
“One more hour,” he muttered to himself.
Just one more hour before he could leave.