The office became my war room. Spreadsheets and acquisition reports covered half my desk while the other half tracked a different kind of hostile takeover—damage control for a scandal that hadn't broken yet.
"Sarah." I called her in at nine sharp. "I need you to monitor all coverage of Andrew's exhibition. News, social media, blog posts—everything."
"Of course." Her tablet appeared instantly, fingers already moving across the screen. "Anything specific?"
"Flag anything suspicious. Anything that hints at more than just art criticism." I paused, weighing how much to reveal. "And if you see anything—article, comment, even an Instagram story—by Olivia Campbell, I need to know immediately."
Sarah's eyes flickered with curiosity but she simply nodded, professional mask intact. "Understood. Daily reports?"
"Hourly, if something seems off."
She left with her usual efficiency while I opened my laptop to compose another kind of request. The private investigator I'd hired for Hannah would now earn his retainer twice over.
Need comprehensive background on Olivia Campbell. Journalist, Urban Arts Quarterly. Everything available.
Two days of waiting felt like two years. I closed three deals, destroyed a competitor's bid, and made Davidson retreat twice in board meetings—all while part of my mind stayed fixed on the ticking bomb of Olivia's potential story.
The investigator's report arrived Wednesday afternoon, dense with mundane details that suddenly mattered.
Hannah and Olivia, same middle school in Connecticut. Their mothers were in the same book club. Sleepovers and science projects and a friendship that survived college, careers, Hannah's climb and fall.
Nothing damning except the obvious—Olivia had a platform and the means to use it.
Sarah knocked at three, entering with an expression of cautious relief. "I've completed the monitoring you requested."
"And?" I didn't look up from the contract I was reviewing, though every nerve focused on her response.
"Coverage is uniformly positive. The Times called it 'a triumph of vulnerable masculinity.' Art Forum praised the 'brave intimacy of vision.'" She scrolled through her tablet with practiced efficiency. "Social media response is equally strong. The exhibition's hashtag is trending."
"And Olivia Campbell?"
"Nothing. Not even an Instagram story from the opening." Sarah's brow furrowed slightly. "Which seems odd for a journalist who attended."
"Maybe she's writing something longer." The words tasted sour, possibilities spiraling through my mind like poison through water.
"Should I continue monitoring?"
"Yes, but you've done enough for today." I forced my shoulders to relax, attempting warmth. "Take the rest of the afternoon off."
Sarah's surprise lasted half a second before professionalism reasserted itself. "Thank you, Angie."
As the door closed behind her, I pulled out my phone. Andrew would be at the gallery—his text this morning confirmed it, something about meeting with potential buyers. And where Andrew was, Hannah followed like a shadow stitched to his heels.
She answered on the third ring, voice carefully professional. "Angie?"
"We need to meet. Your place. One hour."
"I'm at work—the gallery needs—"
"They'll manage without you for one afternoon." My voice cut through her protests like scissors through thread. "Tell them you have a stomach issue. Food poisoning. Whatever sells."
"Angie, I can't just—"
"One hour, Hannah. Don't make me come to the gallery."
The threat landed with the weight I'd intended. Her breath caught, released in defeat. "Fine. One hour."
The drive to Hannah's building felt like approaching a battlefield. By the time she opened her door, I'd armored myself in cold determination. She looked smaller than I remembered, her designer dress hanging loose on her frame.
"Kitchen again?" I noted as she led me past the living room without pause, its expensive furniture still looking untouched, like a showroom no one lived in.
"Always the kitchen with you," I said, leaning against the counter where weeks ago I'd grabbed a knife. "Especially after what happened with the knife."
Hannah slumped into a chair, exhaustion writing itself across her features in deep shadows and hollow eyes. Her hands trembled slightly as she pushed her hair back—when had it become so dull, so lifeless?
"Maybe I'm hoping you'll finally kill me and it'll all be over."
The words hung between us like a confession at a funeral.
I studied her in the harsh kitchen light—really looked for the first time in weeks. The designer clothes my money bought couldn't hide the weight loss, the way fabric hung where it once clung. Her makeup, expertly applied, couldn't quite conceal the darkness beneath her eyes or the hollow in her cheeks.
"You're not eating," I observed.
"Hard to keep anything down when your stomach's constantly in knots." She traced patterns on the marble countertop with one finger, the motion repetitive, almost hypnotic. "When every meal feels like it might be your last supper."
"The money should have helped. The financial security—"
"Money doesn't cure what's wrong with me." Her laugh came out brittle as old paper, threatening to crumble at the slightest touch. "It just makes the cage prettier. Gilds the bars."
I noticed the unopened packages in the corner—Bergdorf bags with tissue paper still pristine, a Cartier box that hadn't been touched. The accumulation of expensive things that meant nothing.
"When did you stop caring?" I asked, recognizing the symptoms.
"When?" She looked up, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "Maybe when I realized I'd become exactly what I swore I'd never be—someone's possession. Or maybe when Andrew started looking at me like I was just another canvas to paint on. Or possibly when you—" She stopped, shaking her head.
"When I what?"
"When you made it clear I wasn't even worth hating properly. I'm just a tool to you. A means to an end." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "At least when you hated me, I was something. Now I'm just... furniture in your game."
The parallel hit me with unexpected force. Her words could have been mine two months ago—before I'd discovered the affair, before rage had burned through the numbness.
"You shower but don't feel clean," I said quietly. "You sleep but wake up exhausted. Food tastes like ash."
Hannah's head snapped up, surprise flickering across her features.
"You go through every motion perfectly," I continued, moving to sit across from her. "The right clothes, the right words, the right performance. But inside, you're screaming. Or worse—you're silent. Empty."
"How—"
"Because I was you." The admission escaped before I could stop it. "Two months ago, I was exactly where you are now. Dead inside but still walking. Too tired to care that my husband was fucking someone else. Too numb to feel anything beyond the weight of existing."
Hannah studied my face, searching for the trick, the trap.
"What changed?" she asked finally.
"I saw you with him. The rage woke me up. Gave me purpose." I leaned back, considering her. "But you don't even have anger, do you? You're past that. You're in the void."
"The void," she repeated, tasting the word. "That's accurate. Everything's just... gray. Flat. Like I'm watching my life through frosted glass."
I knew that glass. I’d breathed on it for years until my face vanished.
Some shard of me wanted to reach across and say therapy works if you stop lying to yourself about the shape of the wound. But compassion was a luxury, and there was a journalist circling like a hawk. Hannah’s depression looked like my past; Olivia looked like our future, and she could still tear it open.