Page 24 of The Valentine Agenda

Hannah paused. The warmth in her expression disappeared, replaced by a carefully blank mask.

"You'll have to speak directly with the school," she said politely, turning back to her work. Dismissing him as completely as he'd dismissed her all those months.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"James." Mrs. Chen's voice could have frozen hell. "Did you need something?"

Yes, he wanted to say.I need to understand why none of you ever told me who she really was.

But he already knew the answer. They had told him. Every morning when she helped them with groceries or mail or simplekindness. Every time she remembered their grandchildren's names or their medication schedules or how they took their tea.

He just hadn't been paying attention.

"No," he said finally. "I was just..."Just watching the woman I humiliated be exactly who she always was."Leaving."

As he walked away, he heard the warmth return to their voices. Heard Hannah's laugh—genuine and unguarded—at something Mr. Thompson said.

She hadn't been invisible at all, he realized. She had been vibrantly, undeniably present.

He just hadn't been looking.

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James couldn't focus. The quarterly reports blurred on his laptop screen, numbers refusing to make sense. Instead, his mind kept returning to Hannah's laugh in the community room—how different it had sounded from her careful politeness at Nero's.

He'd posed her perfectly that night, angling her toward the windows for the best light. Had been pleased when she'd looked overwhelmed, uncertain. It had fit his narrative perfectly—the simple teacher out of her depth in his world.

But now he couldn't stop remembering the moment before he'd taken that photo. How her face had lit up at the city view, genuine wonder in her expression. Not performing for anyone, just... feeling.

"Stop it," he muttered, closing his laptop with more force than necessary. But the memories kept coming.

The way she'd asked about his day, actually listening to his answer. How she'd already known details about him that even Vanessa had never bothered to learn. Her face had been so open. The moment she'd realized he wasn't coming back—god, had someone recorded that? Posted it somewhere? The thought made him physically ill.

James stalked to his window. From his office, the city looked like a toy model—perfect, controlled, everything in its place. Just like his life had been before Hannah Miller started occupying his thoughts.

His phone buzzed: another text from Mike about their successful plan. James stared at it, remembering Hannah's voice explaining art therapy to the residents. The genuine pride when they'd mentioned her program approval. The brightness that turned off like a switch when she'd seen him.

He opened Instagram, scrolling to that photo of her. Eight hundred and forty-seven dollars. The number haunted him now. He'd spent more than that on a single bottle of wine for business dinners, never thinking twice.

James pulled up his banking app. He could transfer the money to her. Add a little extra for her trouble. That's how these things worked, right? Money solved problems.

His finger hovered over the transfer button.

But Hannah's voice echoed in his head, explaining the children's art to the residents: "They wanted to show you that your feelings matter. That someone sees you."

His finger hovered over the app. A bank transfer would be easy. Clean. Impersonal.

Just like him.

The woman who'd been publicly humiliated on Valentine's Day deserved more than an anonymous deposit. He just had no idea what "more" looked like. In his world, everything had a price tag. But Hannah dealt in different currencies—kindness, attention, genuine connection.

"What is wrong with me?" he demanded of his reflection. This was ridiculous. He was James Park. He didn't waste time thinking about community art projects or the way someone's smile changed when they talked about helping others. He just needed to pay her back and move on.

Except.

Except he couldn't stop seeing her in the lobby every morning, greeting residents by name while he'd rushed past, too important to notice. Couldn't stop remembering how she'd known about Mrs. Peterson's dance classes, Mr. Thompson's arthritis, Mrs. Chen's grandchildren.

The woman he'd used as a prop in his revenge plot had more genuine connections in their building than he'd managed in three years of living there.

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