Chapter 29 Notes played to an empty room
Hannah
Rowan’s arrival changes the air in the room almost immediately.
It’s subtle, the way a window being cracked open is subtle; you don’t notice it at first, just the fact that breathing suddenly feels easier. He greets Corby with easy respect, Yvonne with that effortless charm that seems to slide past her defenses, and Timothy with a familiarity that makes my stomach twist in ways I don’t fully understand yet.
Dinner is announced soon after, and we move into the dining room.
The table is long, polished to a mirror shine, set with more silverware than anyone reasonably needs. I take my seat quietly, folding my hands in my lap, the sting on my cheek from earlier still faintly throbbing like a reminder I can’t shake off.
The men start talking business almost immediately.
Acquisitions. Expansion. Numbers that blur together. Timothy’s voice is clipped and precise, Rowan’s smoother, conversational, asking questions that invite discussion rather than dominance. Corby listens, occasionally interjecting with the weight of experience.
Yvonne hates it.
She clears her throat loudly. “Honestly, must we talk shop at the dinner table? Some of us would like a civilized conversation.”
Timothy doesn’t even look at her. “You’re free to excuse yourself, then.”
The temperature in the room drops several degrees.
Yvonne’s smile is brittle. “Such a temper. Anyways, Rowan, darling, tell me, how is your mother doing? Still hosting those charming charity galas?”
Rowan smiles charmingly like he’s grateful for the topic change. “She is, actually. She’s already roped me into three this quarter. I’m fairly certain she thinks suffering builds character.”
Yvonne laughs too loudly. “Oh, you’re dreadful.”
She reaches out and pats his arm.
I watch the interaction from behind my glass of water, chewing slowly, quietly. She hasn’t looked at me once since dinner began. When she does speak in my direction, it’s indirect comments about some people lacking refinement, about young women these days not knowing how to behave.
Rowan notices. I can tell he does. And so does Timothy.
Every time Yvonne veers toward sharpness, Rowan redirects her gently, pulling her attention back to himself with a compliment or a joke. It’s almost artful. Timothy, meanwhile, grows colder with every exchange, answering his stepmother in curt, emotionless sentences that only seem to irritate her further.
I finish my meal long before anyone else, appetite gone.
When there’s a lull, I clear my throat. “Excuse me.”
No one stops me as I stand and leave the dining room. I don’t think they even hear me.
The bathroom is quiet, marble and mirrors and the faint scent of lavender. I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection. My face looks composed, pale but steady. You wouldn’t know I’d been slapped here earlier. You wouldn’t know how close I am to cracking.
I breathe in slowly. Out.
Don’t cry. Not here.
By the time I step back into the hallway, I’ve pulled myself together enough to function.
I almost collide with Rowan.
“Oh, sorry,” he says quickly, stepping back. Then his brows knit slightly. “You disappeared. I noticed you were very quiet.”
I manage a small smile. “Was I?”
“Mm,” he hums. “Though, to be fair, the tension in this house could suffocate a small village.”
That earns a real huff of laughter from me before I can stop it. “That’s… one way to put it.”
“I half expected the chandelier to fall,” he adds lightly. “Or at least someone to throw a bread roll.”
Before I can respond, I feel it, that prickle at the back of my neck.
Timothy.
He’s standing a few steps away, watching us. His expression is unreadable, eyes dark, jaw set. Rowan notices too, because he straightens immediately.
“I should…ah,” Rowan says, glancing between us. “I’ll give you two a moment.”
He steps away smoothly, offering me a brief, reassuring smile before disappearing down the hall.
Silence rushes in to take his place.
I shift my weight awkwardly. “I should probably…”
“Are you okay?”
The question stops me cold.
I look up at Timothy, genuinely startled. He doesn’t sound angry. Or dismissive. Just… stiff. Like the words didn’t come easily.
“I…” I hesitate, then force a smile. “Yes. I’m fine.”
He studies my face like he’s looking for cracks. I can’t tell what he sees.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” I add, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “About the dessert. I overreacted. It was silly. I could always make another one.”
Something flickers across his face, something like discomfort.
He nods once. “Right.”
For a second, it looks like he’s about to say something else. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. He looks away, jaw tightening.
Then he clears his throat and nods again. And then he turns and walks off.
I stand there, heart racing, feeling strangely off balance.
Was that… effort?
Or am I just desperate enough to imagine it where it doesn’t exist?
I return to the lounge where everyone has gathered. Yvonne’s mood has improved considerably, buoyed by Rowan’s attention. She smiles over sweetly when she sees me.
“Hannah, dear,” she says sweetly. “Why don’t you play something for us?”
My stomach drops.
“I…” I glance at the grand piano in the corner. “I haven’t played in a while.”
“Nonsense,” she says brightly. “You must keep up appearances.”
It’s not a request.
So I sit.
The bench is cool beneath me as I lift the lid and place my fingers on the keys. I choose something simple, familiar, muscle memory guiding me as the notes spill into the room.
I play well.
But no one listens.
Conversation continues behind me, laughter rising and falling, glasses clinking. My music becomes background noise, something decorative. I keep playing anyway, finishing the piece with care even though it feels like shouting into the void.
When I stand, no one applauds or comments.
Eventually, it’s time to leave.
Yvonne bids Corby and Rowan an effusive goodnight, kisses Rowan’s cheek, then turns away from me as if I don’t exist. Rowan, at least, meets my eyes.
“Goodnight, Hannah,” he says warmly.
“Goodnight,” I reply softly.
He exchanges a look with Timothy before heading out.
The drive home is silent again. The familiar, suffocating kind.
My nerves get the better of me. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
Timothy glances over. “For what?”
“For… checking in. Earlier.”
His expression hardens. “Don’t read too much into it.”
The words land like a slap.
“Oh,” I whisper, heat rushing to my face. “Right.” God, I’m so stupid. Of course it didn’t mean anything.
I turn toward the window, retreating inward, wishing I hadn’t said anything at all.
When we get home, I don’t wait. I step out of the car and head straight inside, up the stairs, to the safety of my room. I feel his eyes on my back the entire way.