Not That Easy

The terrace was empty except for Danny, standing at the railing with a manila folder tucked under one arm like he'd been rehearsing this moment in the mirror.

"Give me five minutes," Hannah said to Andy, before he could follow her through the doors. "Alone."

Andy's jaw tightened, but he stopped at the threshold. "I'll be right here."

"I know." She almost smiled. "That's why I can do this alone."

The night air outside was sharp enough to clear her head. Danny turned when he heard the doors close, and for a moment his face did the thing it always used to do when he wanted something — soft, a little sad, achingly familiar.

"You look beautiful tonight," he said. "You always did clean up better than you gave yourself credit for."

"You didn't drag me out here to compliment my dress."

Danny's smile faltered, just slightly. He held out the folder. "I want this finished, Hannah. All of it. No lawyers dragging it out for eight months, no fighting over furniture. I had my attorney draft a settlement tonight. Clean and fast."

"Tonight," Hannah repeated. "The same night your funding fell through."

Something flickered across his face — there and gone, but she'd caught it.

"That has nothing to do with this."

"Doesn't it?" She didn't reach for the folder. "You want this signed before your assets get any messier. Before anyone starts asking what's actually yours and what's ours."

"I want to stop hurting you," Danny said, softer now, reaching for the version of himself that used to work on her. "Isn't that what you want too? For this to just be over?"

For one unsteady second, some old, exhausted part of her wanted to say yes. Wanted to take the folder, sign wherever he pointed, and let six years end with a pen stroke instead of a fight.

Then she thought about the fish tank story. About four months of Tuesdays and Thursdays labeled with a single letter.

"I want my lawyer to read every page of that before I touch it," she said. "That's what I want."

Danny's expression hardened, the softness dropping away like it had never been real. "You didn't used to be like this."

"No," Hannah agreed. "I used to sign things because you asked nicely. That's over too."

"This is him." Danny's voice sharpened, his eyes flicking toward the terrace doors, toward Andy's silhouette just visible through the glass. "Andy's turned you into this. Cold. Suspicious. He's good at that — making people doubt everyone except him."

"Andy didn't do anything tonight except dance with me."

"Andy doesn't do anything without a reason, Hannah. Ask yourself why a man who hasn't spoken to you in fifteen years suddenly can't stay away." Danny stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Ask him what he was doing in March. Before any of this became your business."

Hannah went very still. "What are you talking about?"

Danny's smile came back, thin and satisfied, like he'd finally found the crack he was looking for. "Ask him," he said again. "See if he tells you the truth."

The terrace doors opened behind her. She didn't need to turn around to know it was Andy — she felt the shift in the air, the way Danny's spine straightened on instinct, some old twin reflex neither of them had ever managed to unlearn.

"That's enough," Andy said, quiet and even.

"Is it?" Danny didn't look away from Hannah. "Or is there something you haven't told her yet, brother?"

For just a moment — barely a second, gone almost before it registered — something crossed Andy's face that looked less like anger and more like being caught.

Hannah felt the folder still sitting untouched on the railing between them, and understood, with a small cold drop in her stomach, that tonight had just handed her two separate reasons not to trust anyone in this conversation.

"I think I'd like to go home," she said.

"Hannah—" Andy started.

"Not with either of you asking me questions." She picked up her clutch from the railing, leaving the folder exactly where it was. "I'll call a car myself."

She walked past both of them, past the twin faces wearing two different kinds of guilt, and didn't look back to see which one moved first.

Andy didn't watch her go. His eyes stayed on his brother, and something in his stance had gone very quiet, in the specific way Hannah used to be able to read from across a room, back when she'd still known how.

"Careful," Andy said, once the terrace doors had closed behind her. "You almost sounded like you cared what she thinks of me."

"I don't." Danny picked the folder back up off the railing, brushing invisible dust from its cover. "I care what she thinks of herself. Confident. In control. It's a good look on her. Almost makes me forget you're the reason Marchetti pulled their funding."

"I never said I wasn't."

"No." Danny's jaw worked. "You never do. You just let people find out on their own, right when it costs them the most." He tucked the folder under his arm, the wounded-ex-husband softness gone entirely now, replaced by something colder and more familiar — the brother Andy had grown up standing beside instead of across from. "You've been planning this since March, Andy. I want to know why you waited so long to tell her."

Andy said nothing.

"That's what I thought." Danny brushed past him toward the doors. "Enjoy the rest of the party, brother. I have a feeling it's about to get a lot less fun for both of us."

Three blocks away, alone in the back of a car she'd called herself, Hannah's phone lit up against the seat.

"I should have told you about March sooner. I'm sorry."

She looked at the screen for a long moment, then turned it face-down beside her and watched the Hendricks

Ballroom's lights shrink into the distance behind her.

She didn't answer. Not yet.