Even if it means doing it alone.
FIFTY-TWO
HANNAH
“Do you need help getting—”Drew stops mid-sentence when he walks into the bedroom and finds me already dressed.
He looks me up and down with this flat expression. “You look beautiful,” he says, but his voice sounds like he’s reading from a script. Then he turns and walks away like he can’t get out of the room fast enough.
This has been our dynamic all week since Mom basically pushed me out of her house and into Drew’s car. I got my job back and spend as little time in this apartment as possible. That first night when I told him I’d be sleeping in the guest room, he looked surprised but didn’t argue.
We barely talk anymore. The most enthusiastic he’s been was yesterday when he mentioned a work dinner tonight that he hoped I’d attend.
Looking at him now in his perfectly tailored black suit—or wait, was it brown this morning?—I feel absolutely nothing. Which is weird because all week I’ve been thinking aboutAbaddon constantly. How is he? Is Thing okay after that brutal fight?
And the question that keeps sliding into my thoughts, even though I don’t know what to do with it, is, does Abaddon miss me?
I grab my purse, balancing on low heels for the first time in my adult life. “Ready to go?”
I can’t manage a smile, and Drew doesn’t look at me when he nods. “We don’t want to be late.”
I follow him with a sigh. The last thing I want is to be paraded around for his work friends, where everything feels like some competition I don’t understand the rules of. I just want to curl up, wrap my arms around my stomach, and cry for everything I’ve lost.
Being back in the “real world,” castle life feels like a dream anyway.
Nothing’s normal anymore. My body works differently, Drew and I can barely speak to each other, and I’m supposed to just pretend everything’s fine? Drew keeps trying to help me with things I can do myself now, and I’m starting to wonder how much of our relationship was him needing to be my caretaker.
Because now that I know what it’s like to be truly desired—to be worshipped rather than managed—the difference between love and duty is crystal clear.
The car ride is silent except for Drew’s business podcast. Maybe he’s hurt that I left? But if he really loved me, wouldn’t he be happy about my healing, even if I found it without him?
I’m afraid I already know the answer, so I stay quiet too.
At the restaurant, Drew hands off his keys to the valet without a word.
“Thank you!” I call after the valet, and Drew gives me this annoyed look like I’ve committed some social crime.
He immediately reaches for my elbow as we approach the revolving door, but I’m already walking through confidently, and he has to jerk his hand back to avoid getting smacked by the spinning glass.
When he joins me on the other side, looking frustrated, I realize that even in these low heels, I’m actually taller than him. We both notice it at the same moment, and his face darkens as he glares at my shoes before stalking ahead so I have to hurry to keep up.
Which I can do easily now. Something that seems to constantly surprise him. I can’t help the wry smile that I know lifts my lips.
As soon as we’re in view of his colleagues’ table, he grabs my arm and puts it through his elbow. We haven’t touched all week, so the sudden contact confuses me until I realize it’s performative—we’re on display now.
My stomach sinks. I’ve always hated these people. I never fit in with their competitive dynamics, and putting on this dress and these stupid heels I can barely walk in isn’t going to change that.
Drew drags me forward with a plastic smile. Looking at him now, he really does look like a Ken doll—even his hair is pomaded into that same stiff helmet.
Maybe I was just as shallow as him, so grateful for attention from someone conventionally attractive that I ignored how little chemistry we actually had. Back when I thought no one else would ever want me.
“Look who’s up and around again!” Drew announces in this weird game-show voice, presenting me like a prize. “We didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but Hannah’s been to Europe for experimental treatments and, well, voila!”
The table erupts in exclamations. Several people stand up, but instead of the usual awkward scrambling to make space formy wheelchair, Poppy—one of the partners’ wives—comes over and hugs me.
“Oh my God, I’m so glad to see you doing better! I pray for you every day.”
Belinda, Poppy’s constant companion, looks me up and down appreciatively. “Wow, you look amazing. Can you give me your doctor’s info? I need some work done.”
