Chapter 34 Tickets
Hannah
The change didn’t happen all at once. It crept in quietly, the way the house did when it settled at night, subtle, almost polite, but impossible to ignore once you noticed it.
It was almost like Timothy stopped knowing how to exist around me.
That was the only way I could describe it. Where he used to be sharp-edged and cruel with intention, now he was… stiff. Awkward. Like every word had to be measured before it left his mouth, like he was afraid of stepping on something fragile he refused to acknowledge was there.
He’d pause when he saw me in a room, then continue walking as if he’d forgotten what he came for. He’d hover in doorways and then retreat. Sometimes he’d open his mouth to say something and stop, jaw flexing, eyes unreadable.
It unsettled me more than his cruelty ever had.
And then there were the women.
They stopped coming.
No giggles floating down the hallway. No unfamiliar perfume clinging to the air. No Lisa quietly ushering strangers out in the morning with practiced discretion. Days passed. Then a week. Then more.
I noticed. Of course I did.
But neither of us said a word about it.
Rowan still came by, still sat with me when he could, still asked about my paintings or pointed out which flowers were stubbornly refusing to bloom but even that had shifted. The conversations were shorter. Less frequent. The warmth was still there, but muted, like someone had turned the volume down.
I knew without anyone telling me that this, too, was Timothy’s doing.
And that hurt more than I wanted to admit.
One evening, Rowan finished up whatever intense, low-voiced business discussion he and Timothy had barricaded themselves into the office for. I was already seated at the dining table when they emerged, napkin folded neatly in my lap, trying to pretend the tension didn’t prickle my skin.
Rowan smiled at me. “I’ll let you two eat in peace.”
“Drive safe,” I said softly.
He hesitated, just a second, like he wanted to say something else. Then he nodded. “Goodnight, Hannah.”
“Goodnight, Rowan.”
The door closed behind him with a quiet finality.
Timothy sat across from me, posture straight, movements controlled. He reached for his glass, took a sip, set it down.
The silence stretched.
I poked at my food, appetite suddenly gone. Then I set my fork down.
“Did you tell him to keep his distance from me?”
Timothy’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
He didn’t look up. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes,” I snapped before I could stop myself. “It’s a problem.”
He lifted his gaze then, hard and guarded. “Why?”
“Because,” I said, incredulous, “you don’t get to decide who I’m allowed to talk to.”
“I’m not deciding anything,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “I made a suggestion.”
“A suggestion,” I repeated bitterly. “You suggested he stop being my friend.”
His jaw worked. “I suggested boundaries.”
I laughed, sharp and humorless. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
He said nothing.
I pushed my chair back slightly, frustration buzzing under my skin. “Do you know how isolating this house already is? Do you know how lonely it feels to exist in a marriage that only matters when cameras are around?”
“Hannah…”
“No,” I cut in. It didn’t escape me that he’d used my first name. Something he rarely ever did. “You don’t get to ‘Hannah’ me now. You don’t get to decide when I deserve kindness. You already took enough from me.”
His fingers curled against the table. For a long moment, I thought he’d snap back. Instead, he just sat there, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder.
“I wasn’t trying to isolate you,” he said finally, voice low.
“Then what were you trying to do?” I demanded.
Silence.
Long. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then, abruptly, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out two thick, cream-colored envelopes. He slid them across the table toward me with deliberate care.
I frowned. “What’s this?”
“Tickets,” he said tersely.
I picked them up, curiosity warring with irritation. My breath caught when I read the embossed lettering.
An exclusive art exhibit. One I’d read about months ago. One that had sold out almost immediately. One that was invite-only now.
“Oh,” I breathed. “Oh my God.”
I looked up at him, anger evaporating like mist under sunlight. “Timothy…this is…this is incredible.”
His expression didn’t soften, but something shifted in his eyes. “I thought you’d like it.”
“I love it,” I said immediately. “I mean, I’ve wanted to go to this for ages.”
I was smiling now, genuinely smiling, excitement bubbling over. “I’m going to ask Sienna to accompany me right now. She’s going to lose her mind.”
His mouth opened.
“I thought we…”
He stopped.
Just… stopped. The words died between us.
I watched confusion flicker across his face, quickly masked. He nodded once, sharp and decisive. “That’s fine. You should go. Enjoy your time.”
“Oh,” I said, a little breathless. “We will. Definitely.”
He pushed back his chair. “I have work.”
Already standing, already distancing himself.
“Thank you,” I added quickly. “Really.”
He paused at the doorway, back to me. “Don’t read into it.”
There it was. The familiar coldness. The reminder.
Then he was gone.
I stared at the doorway long after it closed, my heart doing something strange and fluttery I refused to name.
Did he want to go with me?
The thought crept in uninvited, bold and ridiculous.
I shook my head. No. That was absurd. Timothy didn’t do gestures without ulterior motives. This was probably image management. Or guilt. Or some twisted attempt at balance.
I refused to dissect it.
Instead, I finished my meal quickly, barely tasting it, and hurried upstairs. My phone was on my bedside table, screen lighting up as I grabbed it.
Sienna answered on the second ring.
“Hannah?”
“You’re sitting down, right?”
She laughed. “Should I be scared?”
“No, you should be excited,” I said, grinning. “Guess who just got tickets to that exhibit.”