Hannah laughed, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Teresa looked between us again. “Hey, actually—since I have you both here. I was going to tell you this later, Hannah, but…” She paused, and Hannah’s shoulders tensed. “Eddie asked me to move in with him.”
Hannah’s smile was genuine but strained. “That’s great!”
“I’ll wait until the lease is up in February,” Teresa said to me. “But I figure you’re pretty much moved out anyway, so that should work out.”
“That works for me,” I said neutrally.
Teresa squeezed Hannah’s shoulder. “And you’ll be back on your feet by then, right? Those HR assholes can’t blacklist you forever. You’re too good at your job for them to keep shutting you out.”
Hannah pulled Teresa into a hug, tucking her face into her sister’s neck. I looked away, giving her the privacy of that moment—but I’d seen the tears she was trying to conceal.
And while I looked away, I remembered headlines I’d read in March about a scandal—accounting fraud, buried audits, a senior accountant who’d tried to report internally, and when their reports were ignored, they went to the SEC and brought the whole thing down.
Teresa pulled back, checked her watch, and swore. “Shit, I need to go. The Moreno wedding party is coming in at nine.”
Hannah handed her a bacon and egg sandwich and travel mug that had clearly been poured in advance. She planted a kiss on Hannah’s cheek, waved to me, and then Teresa was gone in a blur of pink hair and spa uniform.
The apartment settled into silence.
Hannah plated eggs, bacon, and toast, and carried two plates to the small table. She sat down and immediately tore into her toast.
I stared at the plate she’d set in front of the other chair. When was the last time someone had made me breakfast? Not grabbed coffee on the way to work, not a breakfast meeting with Victoria. Actually cooked for me. Made a plate and set it down like it was normal to take care of someone else.
She’d made me breakfast. I should tell her I know. She shouldn’t have to keep hiding—not here, not from me.
Hannah
Itoreoffachunk of toast, watching Connor stare at the plate like I’d covered it in diamonds instead of scrambling eggs and frying bacon.
He sat down across from me. Took a bite, chewed slowly. Swallowed. Wiped his mouth. Then he set his fork down and said, casual as anything:
“So… how long ago did you leave Callihan & Murphy?”
I froze with my fork halfway to my mouth. My walls rose automatically—bracing for judgment, condescension, pity.
Connor turned his coffee mug slowly between his palms like he hadn’t just dropped a conversational landmine into the middle of our morning.
My heartbeat thudded against my ribs. “What?”
“You worked near Wall Street, probably in the Financial District. You left this spring. You’ve been blacklisted. And last night, you tracked liquor inventory like you were managing a Fortune 500 balance sheet.” Connor's gaze was steady, nogotchasmirk. “I read a dozen version of the reports, but none of them said the name of the whistleblower.”
My chest tightened. I didn’t breathe for a second.
But he didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn't even seem to blink.
I swallowed hard. “It destroyed everything.”
He nodded. “That means it mattered.”
And that was somehow the worst and best thing he could’ve said.
I stared at my eggs, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“It’s not mine to tell.” He paused, then added quietly, “And you don’t have to talk about it. Not with me, not with anyone. Not until you’re ready.”
“Why’d you say something, then?”
