Chapter 30 Poppy
Hannah
The following week slips back into something almost resembling normalcy.
Sienna returns on Monday, bursting into the shelter with her usual chaotic energy and a bag of pastries she insists are medicinal. She pulls me into a hug before I can even ask how her grandmother is.
“She’s fine,” Sienna says quickly, reading the worry on my face. “Scared us half to death, though. Turns out grandmas are immortal out of pure spite.”
I laugh an actual laugh, surprised by how easily it comes.
We spend the morning catching up between feeding schedules and cleaning runs. She tells me about her family descending en masse on the hospital, aunties arguing over soup recipes, cousins stealing chargers, her grandmother flirting shamelessly with a nurse half her age.
I listen. I smile. I ask questions.
But I don’t say much about myself.
Some things feel too heavy to bring into this space. I don’t want to contaminate it.
After work, Sienna drags me out for fries and milkshakes, declaring it post-family-survival decompression. We sit in a booth with sticky tables, knees bumping, talking about nothing and everything. For a while, I forget the house waiting for me. The silence. The tension. The man I’m married to who feels like a stranger I keep colliding with.
When I get home, dusk has already settled.
The house feels… off.
Not quiet as it always is, but just different.
I step inside slowly, keys clutched between my fingers out of habit. There’s laughter drifting down the stairs. A woman’s laughter. High, lilting, carefree.
I freeze.
Lisa isn’t in sight. Neither is Timothy.
A woman steps into view at the top of the staircase, leaning casually against the banister like she belongs there. She’s beautiful in a way that feels deliberate with long honey-blonde hair, glossy lips, a short dress that hugs her curves unapologetically.
She looks down at me, smiling.
“Oh! Hi there,” she chirps. “Who might you be?”
My pulse spikes. “Excuse me,” I say carefully. “Who are you?”
She blinks, surprised by my tone, then grins wider. “Poppy. I’m here for Timmy.”
Timmy?
The name hits me sideways.
“I…” I hesitate. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I’m his…”
“Hannah.”
His voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
Timothy steps into the hallway behind her, jacket slung over his shoulder, expression cool and unreadable. His gaze flicks to me, sharp, warning.
“She’s Hannah,” he repeats smoothly. “My cousin.”
The word rings in my ears.
Cousin.
I stare at him, my brain scrambling to keep up. “Your….”
Before I can finish, he steps forward and kisses Poppy.
Not a polite peck.
A wet kiss of lewdly clashing tongues.
His hand slides to her waist. He holds her there for a beat longer than necessary, eyes locked on mine the entire time. My stomach twists violently, heat and nausea colliding in my chest.
Poppy giggles, utterly unbothered. “God, Timmy, you didn’t tell me your cousin was so pretty.”
I can’t breathe.
Timothy smiles faintly. “Go wait upstairs,” he tells her. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
She nods eagerly, brushing past him, throwing me a curious look before disappearing up the stairs.
The moment she’s gone, the air turns sharp.
“What the hell was that?” I demand, my voice trembling despite my effort to steady it.
Timothy shrugs out of his jacket. “Exactly what it looked like.”
“You called me your cousin,” I say, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how that looks?”
He finally looks at me properly, eyes cold. “Relax. Poppy won’t say anything.”
“That’s not the point,” I snap. “We’ve been careful. We’ve been presenting a united front. You think rumors won’t start if people see women coming and going?”
“I took precautions,” he says dismissively. “She was brought in discreetly.”
I laugh, short and disbelieving. “So that’s it? That’s your plan? Just parade them through the house?”
He steps closer, towering, his presence suddenly heavy. “Let me be very clear,” he says quietly. “My life didn’t stop because I married you.”
My chest tightens.
“Why?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. “Why do this here?”
His mouth twists into something cruel. “Biological needs,” he replies flatly. “And because the last thing I’d ever do is get into your bed.”
The words land like a physical blow.
I stagger back a step, heart pounding, eyes burning. “You…This isn’t fair, Timothy. I never asked for any of this. You didn’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I did,” he says coldly. “So you don’t get the wrong idea.”
I swallow hard. “Don’t tell me this is gonna become a norm?”
He scoffs. “It will. So just be polite. Smile. Ignore it.”
Ignore it.
“As long as you’re living here,” he continues, already turning away, “you’ll see women. Don’t embarrass me by acting surprised.”
He starts up the stairs.
I stand frozen, watching his retreating back, something inside me cracking open slowly, painfully.
“Timothy,” I whisper.
He pauses, just for a fraction of a second.
But he doesn’t turn around.
The door to his wing closes softly above me.
I’m left alone in the foyer, the echo of his words reverberating in my chest, realizing with sick clarity that this house isn’t just lonely.
It’s hostile.
And whatever fragile balance I thought we had…
It’s officially shattered.