The antiseptic stung as I pressed the cotton against Andrew's neck. The cut wasn't deep—barely more than a scratch—but it marked something irreversible between us.
"Hold still," I commanded, though his body hadn't moved.
"I'm not going anywhere." His voice rumbled through his chest as I lay against him afterward, listening to his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. As if we hadn't just crossed a line most couples never even approach.
I turned to face him. His fingers brushed strands of hair from my face with unexpected gentleness.
"You're so beautiful when you feel." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "You haven't felt anything in a long time."
I nodded, unable to dispute the truth.
"I regret nothing," Andrew continued, his hand settling against my neck. "Every betrayal, every game, every moment of destruction—it all brought us here."
"There's still one thing left." The words emerged without planning.
"Hannah." He didn't even hesitate. "We need to end it. We've used her enough."
Laughter erupted from my throat, sharp and unexpected. "So you admit you only used her?"
"I've always loved only you, Angie. I love you now. I'll love you tomorrow and every day after." His eyes held mine with brutal honesty. "Hannah was fun, a distraction, a toy we played with. But she's mediocre next to you. I'd never choose a real relationship with her."
"Then why did you—"
"I enjoyed making you jealous." His smile turned rueful, self-aware in a way that surprised me. "Watching you come alive with rage, seeing that fire return to your eyes. Until Julian."
The memory flashed—Julian's hands on my thighs, his mouth against mine, that desperate encounter during Andrew's exhibition. The weight of that secret pressed against my ribs. Now we were even, though Andrew would never know the specifics.
He kissed me, decisive and claiming. "I'll talk to Hannah on Monday. At the gallery, surrounded by people. She'll keep her composure there. No scenes, no drama."
"And if she doesn't take it well?"
"She will." Andrew's confidence bordered on arrogance. "She knows this was temporary. A transaction. Nothing more."
For the first time in months, calm settled over me. Strange that only a couple of minutes ago I'd held a knife to his throat. Stranger still that I felt grateful I hadn't killed Hannah in her kitchen weeks ago when my hand wrapped around her throat.
"Sleep," Andrew murmured against my hair. "Tomorrow we start fresh. Just us."
But sleep wouldn't come. I lay awake thinking of Hannah's hollow eyes, her desperate compliance, the way she'd begged me not to tell Andrew about the money. What if she decided she had nothing left to lose?
* * *
Monday arrived wrapped in deceptive normalcy. The conference room hummed with typical corporate warfare as Davidson pushed his latest power play about the Singapore acquisition.
"The quarterly projections don't support that level of risk," Sarah countered, her voice steady as steel. She'd arranged her papers like weapons, each document a bullet ready to fire.
I watched my protégé with satisfaction.
She'd learned to fight back, to claim space at the table with the kind of confidence that couldn't be taught. Even Davidson's expression showed grudging respect as she systematically dismantled his arguments.
My phone vibrated against the mahogany table. Andrew's name on the screen. I declined—this meeting needed my attention.
It rang again immediately, the vibration more insistent.
"Everything alright?" Davidson's voice carried false concern, his eyes glittering with the hope of witnessing weakness.
"Fine. Please continue, Sarah."
I declined Andrew's second call, but unease prickled along my spine like cold fingers. He knew my Monday schedule, knew not to call during board meetings unless something had gone catastrophically wrong.
The text arrived like a knife between ribs: It's important. It's about Hannah.
The conference room voices became white noise. Sarah's presentation continued but I heard nothing except the blood rushing in my ears. My mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last.
What had Hannah done? Had she failed to stop Olivia? Had she recorded our conversations, our encounters? Had she confessed everything to Andrew out of spite—the money, the coercion, the office?
"The liability concerns are negligible if we structure the deal correctly," Sarah was saying, but her voice seemed to come from underwater.
The careful reconstruction of my marriage, the delicate balance we'd achieved last night with betrayal, blade, and blood—Hannah could destroy it all with a few well-placed words.
"Excuse me." I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "I need five minutes."
“We’re in the middle of a presentation,” Davidson protested, already calculating how to weaponize this.
“Then continue without me.” I rose before he could respond.
Sarah’s gaze flicked to me—concern and a quiet question: you okay? I gave a small, steady nod that said, You’ve got this. Her shoulders set; a winner’s composure slipped into place as she turned back to the room and kept presenting while I slipped out.
The door sighed shut behind me.
In the corridor’s light I stared at Andrew’s message until the screen dimmed, then brightened with a new one: Pick up. Please.
I exhaled once, slowly, and made a decision I couldn’t unmake. I pressed the call.
The phone pressed against my ear in the empty corridor, Andrew's voice cutting through before the first ring finished.
"She's not here." His words came rapid, edged with panic. "Hannah didn't show up for work. She's not answering calls, texts—nothing."
"When was she supposed to arrive?" I kept my voice level, though my pulse quickened.
"Two hours ago. She had meetings with collectors, press interviews about the exhibition. This isn't like her—she's never missed work without notice."
"Don't go to her apartment." The command came out sharper than intended.
"I'm already heading there."
"Andrew, wait." I glanced back at the conference room where Sarah continued presenting, Davidson's predatory gaze tracking my absence through the glass. "My meeting ends in thirty minutes. Wait for me. We'll go together."
"Why? What aren't you telling me?"
"Just wait. Please."
A pause. Then: "Fine. I'll be outside her building."
The call ended. I stood in the corridor, fluorescent lights humming overhead, calculating probabilities. Hannah had failed with Olivia. Or succeeded too well. Either outcome spelled disaster.