As the call ended, Hannah closed the file on Mason Porter. The investigation had been effortless—a testament to the terrifying reach of the Wold family. In her previous life, she had often wondered how Oscar Wells emerged as the ultimate victor in the city's power struggles. Now, the answer was clear: the Wold family was the engine behind his ascent.

Yet, a puzzle remained. Why had the Wolds chosen Oscar over their own blood, Theodore? The two families didn't appear to be traditional allies. Hannah tucked the question away for later; Oscar was her partner now, and having the Wolds in her corner was a blessing she wouldn't question.

She lost herself in her work, the scratching of her pen the only sound in the room until she noticed the clock. 8:00 PM.

She stretched, her muscles aching, and walked out to find Jimmy waiting by the door. He stood with the silent, immovable presence of a gargoyle.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah apologized. “A newcomer needs extra time to find her rhythm.”

“It’s no trouble, Mrs. Wells,” Jimmy replied. “I’ve had longer shifts.”

“Call me Hannah,” she corrected.

“Not permitted by Mr. Wells, Ma'am.”

Hannah sighed, the irritation flickering briefly before she suppressed it. Max wasn't allowed, Jimmy wasn't allowed—Oscar’s possessiveness even extended to her title. She took a deep breath. It’s just a name, she told herself. Don’t let it get to you.

“Let’s call it a night.”

The drive home was a vacuum of silence. Hannah leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, watching the neon glow of the city blur into streaks of light. In these quiet moments, the reality of her rebirth often felt fragile, like a dream she might wake from only to find herself back in Charles’s basement.

Her phone buzzed, shattering the silence.

“Hi, Susan,” Hannah said, her voice weary.

“Guess who I’m looking at right now at the Emperor Club?” Susan’s voice was thick with mystery and a hint of suppressed rage.

“Manuel?”

“Ugh, stop it. That’s insulting,” Susan snapped. “It’s Oscar.”

Hannah’s heart gave a small, involuntary thump, but she kept her voice level. “And? Is there a problem?”

“He has a woman with him, Hannah. They are... very close.”

Hannah closed her eyes. Oscar had promised her fidelity, a promise she hadn't even asked for. Why did men treat oaths like temporary suggestions? “Susan, it’s fine. We aren't the kind of spouses you think we are.”

“Not the kind I think? He’s your husband!” Susan’s voice rose an octave. “Are you telling me you’re just... friends with benefits?”

The term hung in the air, cold and clinical. “Stop imagining things,” Hannah said. “I’m fine.”

“You’re ‘fine’ with being betrayed? Hannah, don’t let a woman show up at your door in nine months claiming she’s carrying the Wells heir. Life isn't a soap opera, but it’s just as messy.”

“I have to go, Susan. Take care of your own business.”

“My business is perfect! Henry is like glue,” Susan retorted triumphantly before hanging up.

Hannah stared at the blank screen of her phone. She felt a strange, hollow annoyance. She told herself she didn't care what Oscar did in his spare time, yet the "neon glow" outside now felt a little less peaceful.

At the Emperor Club, Susan was fuming. She watched Oscar and the woman from across the room, her eyes narrowed. Men are trash, she muttered, retreating to her private booth to drown her frustration in expensive gin.

Glass after glass, she chased a numbness that refused to come. She told her friends she and Henry were the perfect couple, but the truth was a bitter pill. Henry was "obedient," yes, but he was also a ghost. He dodged her kisses, made excuses for marriage, and treated her more like a fragile heirloom than a girlfriend.

Drunk and staggering, Susan finally decided to leave the revelry. As she lurched out of the booth, she slammed into a broad, solid chest.

The familiarity of the scent—sandalwood and something sharp—made her gutsy. She reached up, her hands wandering over the man’s chest. The muscle beneath the shirt was firm, exciting her in her blurred state.

“What a chest!” she giggled, her fingers trailing down to his abdomen. She could feel the ridges of a six-pack through the fabric. “My goodness...”

Above her, Manuel’s throat moved convulsively. His body was a wire of tension. He watched the woman who claimed to hate him practically fondle him in a drunken haze, wondering if she’d have the courage to face him once the alcohol wore off.

He tried to push her away, but his hands lingered a second too long on her waist.

“I’m taking you home, Susan.”

“No!” she protested, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the neon-lit dance floor. “Dance with me. Let's just... enjoy the dance.”

Susan had no idea whose hand she was holding as she dragged him into the crowd. Standing in the shadows nearby, Theodore Wold watched the scene with a faint, knowing smirk.

Poor Manuel, Theodore thought. He never stood a chance.