Page 7 of The Valentine Agenda

She'd worn her nicest blouse today but James hadn't noticed. He never did. Just like he never noticed how she always pressed the 'door open' button when she saw him rushing for the elevator, or how she'd memorized which morning papers went to which residents so she could hand him his Wall Street Journal on the rare days their paths crossed at the mailboxes.

Nothing like Vanessa, James's girlfriend, who floated through the lobby in designer dresses and four-inch heels, her laugh like wind chimes in a summer breeze. Hannah had overheard enough of their conversations to know Vanessa worked in PR, that she only drank oat milk lattes, and that she thought James worked too much.

Each detail felt like a stolen secret, something she had no right to know but couldn't help collecting.

Hannah waited for a couple of tourists to take a photo, careful not to ruin their shot, before continuing her walk to school. Another morning of watching life happen around her, of being the reliable background character in other people's stories. She was good at it—being dependable, responsible, invisible.

CHAPTER THREE

James

Without Vanessa's things, James's apartment looked like a high-end real estate listing. Immaculate. Perfect. And utterly lifeless—just like the rest of his carefully curated existence.

He loosened his tie and poured himself a scotch, allowing one small wrinkle in his evening routine. His phone buzzed—probably another message from his mother about the family dinner he was definitely not attending. Instead, he found himself opening Instagram.

The algorithm knew exactly what to show him.

There she was. Vanessa. She was wearing a dress he'd bought her for Christmas, laughing at something off-camera. The caption read:Some people walk into your life exactly when you need them tofollowed by a heart emoji.

James took a larger sip of scotch than strictly necessary. The next photo showed who had walked into her life—Trevor Martinez, board member at First National, leaning in close with practiced intimacy. James recognized that move. He'd perfected it himself for countless social media photos, the carefully calculated angle that suggested romance without being too obvious.

She'd already replaced him.

The word 'replace' stung more than he wanted to admit. James Park wasn't replaceable. He was the one who replaced others—at work, in deals, in life. He was the upgrade, not Trevor Martinez with his second-rate business school and derivative investment strategies.

He scrolled through the comments, each one hitting him like a personal betrayal:You guys are perfect together!??(Posted by the wife of a client he'd secured for Vanessa last year)So happy for you V! Upgrade!?? (From his former tennis partner's sister)Power couple alert!??

The last one was from someone in Product Development, who'd just asked him to review her proposal yesterday. He made a mental note to be particularly thorough with his criticism. Let them all see what happened when they bet on the wrong horse.

His fingers tightened around his glass. She'd probably been planning this while she sat across from him at Le Petit Jardin, crafting her speech about his emotional unavailability. Well, he'd show her exactly how emotionally available he could be—with someone else.

Setting down his glass harder than necessary, James pulled up Trevor's profile. Harvard Business School (James had gone to Wharton). Summer home in the Hamptons (James preferred Nantucket). Recent feature in Business Insider about "40 Under 40" (James had made that list two years ago).

"Trevor Martinez," James tested the name, hating how it sounded. Had Vanessa been thinking of Trevor when she'dcriticized James's work hours? When she'd complained about his distance? When she'd—

His phone buzzed again. This time it was Mike:Dude. You seeing this?

I see it, James typed back.

Want to get a drink? Plan some strategy?

James was about to agree when another notification popped up. The building's community newsletter, which he usually deleted without reading. But there, in the bottom corner, was a photo that caught his eye.

The lobby woman—Hannah something—surrounded by elderly residents and cardboard hearts, leading some kind of Valentine's craft activity. She looked exactly as he remembered—plain, unpolished, and completely unaware of the camera. Nothing like Vanessa's sleek, perfectly curated presence.

Vanessa had always rolled her eyes at his building's community events. She'd dismissed James's family's approach to volunteer work, suggested he distance himself from anything too "local."

His fingers hovered over his phone.No need, he wrote to Mike,I already have a strategy.

???Details needed.

James looked at the newsletter photo again, studying it with new intensity. Hannah. The woman who straightened the lobby's artwork, who helped his elderly neighbors without beingasked, who smiled at him even though he'd barely acknowledged her existence.

She had a nondescript, forgettable sort of look. Nothing attention-grabbing like Vanessa—just plain, unremarkable features and an easygoing demeanor that would irritate Vanessa to no end.

He could picture it perfectly: Vanessa opening social media to find him—successful, ambitious James Park—happily coupled with the kind of genuine, community-minded woman she'd always dismissed as beneath their social circle.

The kind of woman who wore sensible shoes and bought her clothes off the rack. The kind of woman who would make Vanessa question everything she thought she knew about him.

---