Chapter 32 Friction
Hannah
Despite whatever foolish, fragile hope I thought had begun to grow between Timothy and me, nothing actually changed.
If anything, he became more deliberate.
The women came and went like seasons; never the same face twice, always dressed too well, laughing too loudly, trailing unfamiliar perfume through halls I had begun to think of as mine. He never bothered to hide them. Never pretended. If anything, he seemed to want me to know. To see. To understand exactly where I stood.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
I told myself I was numb.
Some days, I even believed it.
The only mercy, the only reprieve, if I could call it that, was Rowan.
Sometimes Timothy came home with him in tow, business bleeding into personal space the way it always seemed to with those two. And when Timothy inevitably disappeared upstairs with whatever woman was clinging to his arm that night, Rowan would linger behind with me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He never acknowledged the situation outright. Never commented on the muffled laughter upstairs or the way my shoulders tightened when a door closed. He simply sat where I was, on the edge of the garden bench, or the couch, or the floor of the spare room I’d slowly turned into my painting studio, and talked.
About nothing. About everything.
“What made you choose oils over acrylics?” he asked one afternoon, watching as I mixed colors with careful precision.
I shrugged, dipping my brush again. “They take longer to dry. I like that. Feels… forgiving.”
He smiled. “You don’t strike me as someone who needs forgiveness.”
I laughed softly at that, shaking my head. “You don’t know me very well.”
“True,” he said easily. “But I’m learning.”
Those moments, those conversations pushed Timothy out of my head for a while. Pushed out the sounds, the images I tried not to imagine. Rowan had a way of making space feel safer. Lighter. As if I were just a woman painting, or gardening, or reading, not a wife trapped in a spectacle she never asked for.
And then, inevitably, Lisa would appear.
Always polite. Always professional.
“Mr. Rowan,” she’d say, hands folded neatly in front of her. “Mr. Timothy would like to see you in his office now. Work related matters.”
Rowan would sigh theatrically. “Duty calls.”
I’d smile, even when I didn’t feel like it. “Go save the world.”
He’d grin, grab his jacket, and before leaving, always say, “See you around, Hannah.”
And then he’d be gone.
This went on for weeks.
Somewhere along the way, the spark I’d once felt, the strange, reckless competitiveness that had flared between Timothy and me, fizzled out. I stopped trying to provoke him. Stopped snapping back. Stopped watching him when he walked into a room.
I stopped engaging altogether.
It wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t strength.
It was survival.
I was tired of feeling like a raw nerve.
So I buried myself in my routines. The shelter. Sienna. Gardening until my hands were stained with dirt. Painting until my wrists ached. Anything that reminded me I was still a person outside of this house, outside of him.
Still, feelings don’t disappear just because you ignore them.
They settle.
They ferment.
They wait.
One afternoon, Rowan found me in the room I’d officially claimed as my painting studio. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, illuminating half-finished canvases leaned against the walls. Soft music played from my phone on the windowsill, something old and melodic, something that made the world feel quieter.
Rowan leaned against the doorframe. “You know, I’m starting to think you keep this room just to avoid everyone else.”
I snorted. “Bold of you to assume I don’t avoid people everywhere.”
He laughed, coming in and settling on a stool. “Fair. But I’m offended. I thought I was an exception.”
“You are,” I said easily, without thinking.
He raised an eyebrow. “Careful. I might take that seriously.”
I rolled my eyes and flicked a bit of paint at him. He dodged it dramatically, clutching his chest. “Violence? In this house? Shocking.”
We bickered back and forth, playful and unguarded. At one point, I laughed, really laughed, loud and unrestrained. It startled me, the sound of it. Like I’d forgotten what it felt like.
And then…
The air shifted.
It was subtle, the way tension always is before it snaps. The music still played, but suddenly it felt too loud, too exposed. I turned instinctively.
Timothy stood in the doorway.
His presence sucked the warmth out of the room.
His face was dark, unreadable, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might crack. His gaze flicked from Rowan to me, lingering in a way that made my skin prickle.
I reached for my phone and paused the music.
The silence was deafening.
“What,” Timothy said, his voice low and rough, “are you two doing?”
Rowan didn’t miss a beat. “Talking. Hannah’s showing me her work.”
Timothy said nothing.
He just stared at me.
I turned back to my canvas, dipped my brush, and resumed painting as if my hands weren’t trembling. I hummed under my breath, the tune that had been playing moments ago, soft, defiant, deliberate.
I could feel their eyes on me.
The weight of Timothy’s attention pressed between my shoulder blades like a brand.
“Rowan,” Timothy finally said, stiffly, “come with me, please. I just came across some… critical information.”
Rowan glanced at me. “Rain check?”
I nodded. “Go. Save the world, remember?”
He smiled faintly. “Later, Hannah.”
He strode towards the door, and past Timothy and was gone. Timothy stepped back but then stopped. There was silence. The back of my neck prickled.
“Hannah.”
I didn’t turn. “What,” I said, still painting.
“Hannah,” he repeated, firmer.
I sighed and finally turned to face him. “What?” I said, snappish.
For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something. His mouth opened slightly. His expression shifted, conflict, anger, something sharper beneath it all.
Then he stopped.
Shook his head once.
And walked out.
The door closed with a muted click.
I stood there, brush hovering uselessly above the canvas, my chest tight, my heart pounding for reasons I refused to name.
“Coward,” I muttered shakily to the empty room.
The word lingered in the air, heavy and true.
I wondered who between us, was truly it.