7: The Short Leash

Hannah's POV. 

I didn't look up when the door hit the wall.

I knew that sound. It was the sound of a man who thought he owned the air I breathed. For three years, that specific bang of a door meant I had ten seconds to fix my face, stand up, and ask Daniel how his day was before he found something wrong with the way I was breathing.

But today, I just kept scrolling on my tablet. The glass was cool under my fingertip. I liked the weight of the device. It felt like real power, unlike the heavy bottles of "vitamins" he used to force down my throat.

"Hannah."

His voice was that low, vibrating growl. The one he used to make me go weak in the knees...not from love, but from the sheer need to make him stop being angry. He walked over and slammed his hands onto my desk. The mahogany groaned.

"Enough of this. I don't know what kind of sick game you’re playing with Alexander, but the joke is over," he said. He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could smell his expensive coffee and that minty gum he chewed to hide the smell of the cigarettes he smoked at Grace’s house.

I finally looked up. I didn't blink. I didn't pull back. I just stared at the tiny red veins in his eyes. He looked tired. He looked messy.

"You're in my chair, Daniel," I said. My voice was flat. No shaking. No plea for mercy.

He let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "Your chair? Hannah, look at you. You’re wearing a suit that probably cost more than your mental health bills. You think because you put on a green blazer and sat in a big office that you’re suddenly a boss? You’re a housewife who can’t even handle a trip to the grocery store without getting a headache."

"Is that what you told the board?" I asked. I leaned back, crossing my legs. The silk of my trousers felt smooth against my skin. "Or is that just what you told yourself so you wouldn't feel like a thief every time you stole my notes for your quarterly reports?"

Daniel’s face went from red to a sickly white. His eyes darted to the door, then back to me. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't. That’s the problem with the medicine you gave me, Daniel. It made me forget things. But it didn't make the journals go away. And it didn't make me stupid." I turned the tablet around. On the screen was a side-by-side comparison of his "breakthrough" strategy from 2023 and my handwritten diary from 2022. "Alexander was very interested in the dates. He’s big on intellectual property."

Daniel’s jaw tightened so hard I heard a click. He reached out, his fingers curling like he wanted to grab my throat, but he stopped. He remembered where he was. He remembered the cameras.

"You think he cares about you?" Daniel sneered, trying to regain his footing. "He’s using you to get to me. Once he’s bored with the novelty of a 'recovering' wife, he’ll toss you back to the curb where he found you. And then what? You have nothing. No family. No money. You’re a transition, Hannah. A temporary tool."

I felt a spark of heat in my chest, but I didn't let it reach my face. "I'd rather be a tool for a man like Alexander than a footstool for a man like you."

I tapped a button on the screen. A new document popped up.

"This is your new reality, Daniel. Since you’re so worried about my health, I decided to return the favor. I’ve gone through your department’s spending. It turns out, you’ve been 'consulting' with a boutique jewelry firm quite a lot. Funny thing is, the company never received any jewels. But Grace is wearing a very nice diamond tennis bracelet in her latest I*******m post, isn't she?"

Daniel’s hands started to shake. "That was... those were business gifts."

"To your mistress? On my company’s dime?" I stood up then. I wanted to be taller than him. I wanted him to see that I wasn't the girl in the grey sweater anymore.

"Hannah, don't do this," he said. The threat was gone. Now, it was just the sound of a man drowning. "We can talk about this at home. We’re a team. I did all of this for us. For our future."

"Our future? You mean the one where you move me into a 'quiet facility' while you and Grace play house with your son?" I walked around the desk. Every step felt like I was reclaiming a year of my life.

He looked at me, his eyes searching mine for the woman who used to apologize for things she didn't do. He didn't find her.

"I'm not firing you, Daniel," I said.

His shoulders dropped. A look of pure relief washed over his face, and for a second, he actually tried to smile. "I knew it. I knew you still loved me. I knew you were just hurt..."

"Don't finish that sentence," I interrupted. "I’m keeping you here because I want to watch you. You’re going to stay in your office. You’re going to keep your title. But from this second on, you don't buy a cup of coffee on the company card without my signature. You don't send an email to a client without me being copied on it. You work for me now."

His smile died. The relief turned into a mask of pure, cold humiliation.

"You want me to report to my own wife?" he whispered.

"I want you to report to your Head of Operations," I corrected him. "And when we go home tonight, you’re going to be the perfect, loving husband. You’re going to cook dinner. You’re going to tell me how smart I am. Because if I hear one more word about my 'mental health' or my 'fragility,' I’ll send those jewelry invoices to the legal department. Do you understand?"

Daniel stared at me, his breath coming in short, angry huffs. He looked like he wanted to break the desk, but instead, he just nodded once.

"Good. Now, go back to your office. I have a report due by five on the Vance account. Don't be late."

I watched him walk out. He didn't slam the door this time. He closed it quietly, like a man who w

as afraid of waking up a monster.