Chapter 31 Games without rules
Hannah
True to his word, Timothy starts bringing women around.
Never the same one twice.
At first, it feels like a personal affront every single time with heels clicking down the hallway that isn’t mine, laughter drifting through walls I didn’t choose, perfume clinging to the air long after they leave. But after the third woman, something in me hardens. After the fifth, I make a decision.
I will not give him the satisfaction.
I stop flinching when unfamiliar voices echo through the house. I stop stiffening when doors close softly down his wing. I stop wondering what they look like, how long they stay, whether they know who I am.
Instead, I redirect.
I throw myself into the garden, kneeling in the dirt until my knees ache, coaxing stubborn flowers into bloom. I paint in the afternoons, canvases propped open by sunlight, colors bleeding into one another while I blast music loud enough to drown out giggles and murmurs from Timothy’s lounge.
Some days it works.
Some days it doesn’t.
On the days it doesn’t, I cling to Pet Patrol like a lifeline. Sienna’s warmth, the animals’ uncomplicated affection, the simple act of being useful; it all steadies me. No one there looks at me like I’m something shameful. No one expects me to shrink.
More than a week passes like this.
Then, one evening, Timothy informs me we have an event.
He doesn’t ask.
He doesn’t explain.
Just says it in passing, as if reminding me to take out the trash.
“Be ready by seven,” he says, already halfway out of the room.
“Sure,” I reply lightly, not even looking up from my sketchbook.
He pauses, just for a fraction of a second, then continues walking.
The stylists arrive within the hour.
They flutter around me, efficient and impersonal, pulling and pinning and painting me into something polished and public-ready. I sit still, hands folded in my lap, chanting silently to myself.
You are fine.
You are calm.
You will not crack.
My reflection stares back at me, looking elegant, composed, someone who looks like she belongs in glossy magazines. I barely recognize her.
When I go downstairs, Timothy is already waiting.
I don’t spare him a glance.
We get into the car. Silence stretches between us, thick and deliberate. At the venue, I slip my hand into the crook of his arm automatically, muscle memory taking over. We smile. We nod. We network.
I play my role perfectly.
Demure. Polite. Untouchable.
If Timothy notices, he doesn’t comment.
The moment we’re back in the car, I free myself from his arm and slide as far away as I can, staring out the window. He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t say a word.
When we get home, I head straight upstairs.
Only once my door is shut do I sag against it, breath coming out in shaky bursts. My hands tremble as I press them to my chest, grounding myself.
You didn’t break, I tell myself.
You won.
But Timothy doesn’t stop there.
He starts pushing harder.
He leaves doors open just long enough for me to hear laughter. Mentions women casually in conversation, names dropped like bait. Brushes past me too closely in hallways, his presence deliberate and invasive.
I don’t react.
Most of the time.
On the rare occasions I slip up with a sharp reply, a narrowed look; his mouth curves into something pleased and cocky, like a man who’s scored a point. It becomes an unspoken competition, a silent war of attrition.
Who will crack first?
He barely looks at me when we’re in the same room. But when I turn away, I feel his gaze, heavy and intent, tracing my back, my hands, the line of my throat.
It unsettles me.
Worse, it…it thrills me.
The adrenaline buzz is new and unwanted, curling low in my stomach. I hate him, I remind myself fiercely. He’s cruel. He’s vindictive. He enjoys hurting me.
And yet.
One afternoon, it comes to a head.
We’re both in the sitting room, a rare overlap. Lisa stands nearby, pretending not to listen while very obviously listening. Timothy is issuing instructions to staff with his usual clipped authority.
I roll my eyes without thinking.
He catches it.
“Do you have something to add?” he asks coolly.
“Just admiring your talent for being universally unpleasant,” I reply sweetly.
Lisa makes a small choking sound.
Timothy turns to me fully now, eyes glinting. “Careful, Hannah.”
“Or what?” I lift my chin. “You’ll bring another woman home to punish me?”
His lips twitch. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I smile thinly. “Trust me. I stopped.”
The air crackles between us. Lisa clears her throat pointedly.
“That will be all,” Timothy snaps at the staff, then looks back at me. “You enjoy provoking me.”
“I enjoy not cowering any longer,” I say calmly. “There’s a difference.”
He steps closer. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
I meet his gaze, my pulse racing. “So are you.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then, with deliberate haughtiness, I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.
I can feel his eyes on my back, burning, following every step.
A smile threatens to creep up my lips.
I squash it ruthlessly.
I hate him, I remind myself again.
I do.
But as I climb the stairs, my heart pounding with something dangerously close to excitement, I can’t shake the feeling that this game…
Whatever it is…
It was going to ruin us.