Chapter 142: Hannah
It was only moments after Viona showed me the tabloid that my phone rang on the coffee table. Exchanging nervous glances, I leaned forward, visibly cringing at the caller ID: Noah.
“It’s Noah,” I murmured, my voice trembling.
Viona gasped, gripping my knee. “Are you going to answer it?”
My hand hovered over the phone. Answering would undoubtedly bring Noah’s wrath; he’d surely seen the pictures. Ignoring it, however, might make him even angrier. I was caught between a rock and a hard place.
Ultimately, I couldn't answer. Too stunned to speak, I pulled my hand away, letting the phone ring. I chewed my lip, shooting Viona a terrified glance.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
Viona shuddered and nodded, sinking onto the couch. For breathless moments, we watched the phone ring, the silence stretching into what felt like an eternity before it finally stopped. I gasped, releasing a held breath.
“It wasn’t like that,” I murmured, shaking my head. “Drake and I are friends. Nothing more.”
“I believe you,” Viona said, rubbing my back. “But the press likes to create its own stories.”
“Trust me, I know.” I buried my face in my hands. We sat like that until the front door slammed, followed by Noah’s voice.
“Go,” I whispered to Viona, nodding toward the back door. “I don’t want you to hear this.”
Viona quickly left. Moments later, Noah appeared in the doorway, phone in hand, nostrils flaring.
“What the hell, Hannah?” he demanded, striding toward me and shoving his phone in my face.
I swatted his hand away, turning my head. “I don’t need a scolding,” I growled.
Noah glared, huffing, before lowering his phone. “I warned you,” he said quietly. “When you went out with him the first time, I warned you it would backfire. And that I wouldn’t help you again.”
I clenched my jaw. “I know.”
“But you did it anyway,” he growled. “You couldn’t just come home this morning; you had to go gallivanting around with him. Eating food out of his hands, hugging him in public. And now look what happened.”
I started to explain, to say the picture was a misconstrued moment between friends, but stopped. Let him think we had a thing. It would serve him right for whatever he was doing with Zoe.
I crossed to the window, peered out into the dark yard, then snapped the curtains shut, feeling watched.
“I’ll handle it,” I said simply.
I heard Noah scoff. “Of course you will,” he snarled. “And you’d better do it quickly.”
“Quickly?” I turned, incredulous. “Are you timing me?”
Noah shrugged. “Forty-eight hours,” he replied coldly, fists clenched. “If you don’t…”
“What?” I scoffed. “Beat me? Lock me up? Prevent our divorce?”
“No, Hannah! Goddess,” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “What do you think of me? That I’m some kind of tyrant?”
When I didn’t answer, he turned and strode to the doorway. “If you don’t handle this, I will—because it affects both of us. And this time, I’m charging you for my time. I’m tired of cleaning up your messes for free.”
“Oh, like your time is so precious,” I retorted. “You seem to have plenty of time to spend with—”
Noah’s icy glare silenced me. My mouth worked uselessly before I looked away.
“Fine,” I managed.
Noah stormed out. I leaned against the wall, sliding to the floor, exhausted. Forty-eight hours. To fix a situation that wasn't even my fault, all thanks to the tabloids. But I already had a plan.
The next morning, I woke up early, showering and dressing with newfound motivation. Today, I had a trick up my sleeve, something I'd been planning. I'd had to expedite it, but it seemed to be working. Noah would be eating his words—because unlike what he assumed, I was always prepared. I supposed dying and being resurrected had given me that trait.
Later, I stepped out of the car, thanking the driver and climbing the steps to the large community center. People bustled around inside, putting up flyers, arranging a podium, and setting up flower displays and information booths. And there, in the center of it all, was a large banner: “Eating Disorder Awareness.”