Page 18 of The Valentine Agenda

The laugh that escaped her throat sounded strange even to her own ears. A date implied two people, didn't it? What she'd been was a prop. A convenient extra in James Park's elaborate performance.

The snow was falling harder now, catching in her carefully styled hair. She'd spent too long on it, watching tutorials, wanting to look perfect. Now the wet strands clung to her neck, making her shiver. Her new dress, hidden beneath her coat, felt like a costume she couldn't wait to tear off.

A couple hurried past, laughing and holding hands. Hannah pressed herself against a building to let them pass, suddenly unable to bear the sight of genuine connection. Their happiness felt like sandpaper against her raw emotions.

"At least let me call you an Uber," Sophie's voice crackled through her phone. "You shouldn't be walking in this weather."

"I need the air," Hannah said, her voice steadier than she felt. "And anyway, I'm almost home.

"Hannah." Sophie's tone held that dangerous mix of fury and concern. "You don't have to pretend this didn't hurt."

"I'm not pretending." But even as she said it, Hannah felt the first crack in her carefully maintained composure. "I just... I feel so stupid."

"He'sthe stupid one."

Hannah stopped at a crosswalk, staring up at the familiar silhouette of her building. Light spilled from the windows. He was probably up in his apartment right now, warm and comfortable. How easily James had used the building's pathetically eager do-gooder for his revenge plot.

"For a minute there, at the beginning..." Hannah's voice caught. "I actually believed him. The way he looked at me, how he pulled out my chair... I thought maybe..."

"Han—"

"But he wasn't even seeing me, was he?" The tears finally came, hot against her frozen cheeks. "He was watching forherreaction. Making sure she saw his perfect little performance. Knew exactly how to make me look—" She broke off, remembering how he'd positioned her, angled her chair just so. For the photo. For the scene he was creating.

A bus passed, spraying slush onto the sidewalk. Hannah barely noticed the wet seeping into her new shoes.

"I'm coming over," Sophie declared. "With wine. And possibly arson supplies."

"No, I just... I need to be alone." Hannah could see her building's entrance now. The same lobby she'd loitered in so many mornings, straightening pictures that didn't need straightening, just for a glimpse of him. "You were right about me."

"What do you mean?"

"I built this whole fantasy about who he really was underneath it all." Hannah's laugh was bitter. "But there was no underneath. He's…nothing. Empty."

She reached her building's entrance, but couldn't bring herself to go inside yet. Through the glass doors, she could see the Valentine's decorations she'd helped put up. Paper heartsand twinkling lights that had seemed so full of possibility just hours ago.

Hannah stared at her reflection in the lobby doors—mascara smudged, hair ruined, looking exactly like what she was: a foolish girl who'd thought she was special enough to catch James Park's attention. Who'd spent months convincing herself she saw depths in him that others missed. Who'd actually believed, for one pathetic moment, that he'd noticed her back.

"I'm done making up stories about James Park," she whispered, but even now, even after everything, a small voice in her head whispered: Maybe there was a reason. Maybe something happened. Maybe—

She dug her nails into her palms, hating herself for still wanting to believe in him.

"I promise," she whispered, but she wasn't sure if she was talking to Sophie or herself. "I'm done being stupid about James Park."

She ended the call and pushed through the doors, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead as she crossed the lobby. She didn't adjust the crooked painting by the elevator. Didn't straighten the pile of newspapers on the side table. Didn't do any of the little things she usually did to make this place feel like home.

Some pictures were better left crooked.

And some men, she was finally learning, were exactly who they appeared to be—no matter how desperately you wished otherwise.

She jabbed the elevator button, then again, harder, needing to escape before anyone saw her like this. Before Mrs. Chen or Mr. Thompson or any of the residents she helped every day realized what an idiot she'd been. How she'd thrown herself at the first hint of attention from James Park, like every other woman who'd ever fallen for his perfect smile and beautiful eyes.

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Her studio apartment felt wrong. The single room that served as bedroom, living room, and everything in between suddenly seemed too small, too exposed.

Hannah stood just inside her door, coat dripping melted snow onto the welcome mat, unable to move further. Everything was in the right place—no mess of outfit choices strewn across her armchair, no makeup scattered on her coffee table. She'd put everything away before she left.

Evidence of hope. Of anticipation.

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