Chapter 15 Polished for display
Hannah
I walked into chaos.
The house buzzed the moment I stepped through the doors; voices overlapping, hurried footsteps, the sharp scent of hairspray and perfume already clinging to the air. It felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s life mid-scene, one where I clearly hadn’t been meant to wander into unannounced.
My guards peeled away as staff rushed past me, carrying garment bags and makeup cases. No one stopped to explain anything. No one looked at me for long.
I searched instinctively for Timothy.
I found him in the living room, phone pressed to his ear, his posture rigid as he spoke in clipped, authoritative tones about numbers and deadlines and things that sounded far more important than me. He didn’t look at me when I approached. I hovered awkwardly until he finally ended the call and turned.
“We’re attending an event tonight,” he said flatly.
“Oh,” I replied, startled. “Tonight?”
“Yes.” His eyes flicked over me; my simple clothes, my loosely tied hair, the faint exhaustion I hadn’t managed to hide. His lip curled almost imperceptibly. “There’s a team of stylists waiting. If you’re going to look presentable, they need to start now.”
Presentable.
The word sank in slowly, bitterly.
“I didn’t know…” I started.
“That’s irrelevant,” he interrupted, already turning away. “Don’t waste their time.”
He left without another word.
I stood there for a second longer, then followed the invisible pull of expectation.
They descended on me immediately.
Hands guided me into a chair. Clothes were removed and replaced without ceremony. Voices spoke about me, never to me, discussing colors, silhouettes, optics. My reflection shifted piece by piece until I barely recognized myself.
Hours passed in a blur.
By the time they finished, night had fallen.
The woman staring back at me from the mirror looked elegant. Expensive. Carefully crafted. My hair fell in soft waves, my makeup flawless, my dress a quiet statement of understated wealth.
She looked like someone worthy of standing beside Timothy Blackwood.
I didn’t feel like her.
When I went downstairs, Timothy was already waiting. He stood near the door, adjusting his cufflinks, every inch of him composed and immaculate.
He looked up.
For half a second, something flickered across his face.
Surprise.
Maybe even… admiration?
Lisa appeared just then, murmuring something to him about the car. I listened quietly, my hands clasped together.
I felt his gaze again.
This time, I met it.
His expression hardened instantly. Whatever he’d been thinking vanished behind cold contempt.
“Let’s go,” he said sharply.
He walked out without waiting.
I followed and slipped into the car beside him. The door shut with a dull thud that echoed in the heavy silence between us. Timothy pulled out his phone and immediately began answering emails, his attention already elsewhere.
I did the same, more out of reflex than curiosity.
My feed refreshed.
A headline flashed across the screen.
My breath hitched.
I locked my phone immediately and turned toward the window, pressing my forehead lightly against the cool glass as the city lights streaked past. I focused on breathing. On not letting the memories crawl back in.
The car slowed.
Flashes erupted the moment we stepped out.
Cameras. Shouts. Microphones thrust forward like weapons.
“Hannah! How does it feel to be married?”
“Timothy, was this wedding rushed?”
“Are the rumors about your sister true?”
“Are you happy?”
I forced a smile onto my face and stood beside Timothy, close enough to look united, distant enough not to touch. I followed his lead; when to stop, when to move, when to look forward.
Some questions were curious.
Others were cruel.
“Did you plan this?”
“How does it feel stealing your sister’s fiancé?”
“Was the tape really an accident?”
My stomach churned.
Timothy said nothing. Neither did I.
As we moved toward the entrance, the crowd grew bolder, pressing closer, voices louder, hands reaching. Someone shoved a microphone too close to my face.
“Say something, Hannah!”
Timothy pushed ahead without looking back.
I forced myself forward, heart pounding, managing to slip inside seconds later.
The noise dulled behind us.
Crystal glasses clinked. Soft music filled the air. Laughter drifted through the room. I stood there, shaken, my fingers twisting together anxiously.
I’d never been under a spotlight like that before—not truly. Not with every breath watched, every silence interpreted.
Timothy scanned the room, calculating.
“Don’t speak,” he said under his breath. “I’ll answer the questions. You’ve already ruined my life enough.”
The words cut deep.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he offered me his arm.
A performance.
A façade.
I hesitated only a moment before taking it.
Together, we stepped forward.