Page 1 of Her Second Chance

Prologue

Hannah

Bzzz.

Bzzz.

Bzzz.

I ignore my phone as it dances inside my purse, alerting me to an incoming call. There’s only one person it could be. I’m late, like later than late. No doubt he’s calling to make sure I’m on my way, pretending not to be frustrated I’m running late as usual. He knows me well enough to not be surprised by my tardiness. I knew I should’ve left earlier.

Tonight is a big night, one I’m going to mess it up if I don’t pull myself together. This anniversary has to be perfect. Wanting to surprise him with my good news, scratch that, our good news, I spent way too much time practicing how I was going to tell him. By the time I perfected my speech, I was already behind schedule.

When the buzzing starts up again, I grab my phone out of my purse. Not letting him say anything, I blurt, “I’m five minutes away.”

He snorts. “Be honest. You haven’t even left the condo yet.”

I huff. How does he always know? “I have, too.”

Our doorman opens the door for me to exit. “Good evening, Ms.–“

“Shh!” I wave my hands to quiet him, knowing I’m busted.

The chuckling in my ear tells me he heard Kirk. “Hannah.” He pretends to scold me, but I can hear the amusement in his voice. At least he’s not mad I’m just now leaving. Of course, he rarely gets mad at me. My idiosyncrasies have always been a source of entertainment for him. He loves me, flaws and all.

In a rush to meet him, I step off the curb without looking left or right. Loud honking makes me jerk my head up in time to see two headlights headed right at me. Making eye contact with the driver, I step back and falter as I trip over the curb, ending up on my back, looking straight at the night's sky. My heart thunders in my chest.

Shit! That was close.

Getting run over would definitely ruin our anniversary, tainting my good news. I look to the side and see my phone just out of reach. Hopefully, that new screen protector and case I got for my birthday works. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure my screen is toast.

“Hannah!” a muffled voice calls out, thick with worry.

“I think I’m going to be late,” I croak, closing my eyes. The thundering of my pulse flashes technicolor behind my eyelids.

Fuck.

Chapter 1

Hannah

“It’s not you, it’s me. I need some time to work on myself.” I stare across the table at the man, who suddenly feels like a stranger, as he continues his monologue as if he’s not breaking my fucking heart. “This isn’t the end. We’re simply postponing things for a little while.”

I stare at him, taking in his perfectly manicured appearance. Not a single dark hair on his head is out of place. His suit is designer, along with his tie, watch, cufflinks, and belt. I can’t see his shoes, but I’m sure they’re designer as well, shined to perfection. He’s like a cardboard cutout from a men’s magazine. Fake.

A flash of me throwing my snifter of single malt scotch in Hunter’s face makes me chuckle. Who does he think he is? He needs to work on himself? Fuck that. No one says that and means it. There has to be another woman. That’s the only explanation.

“Let me get this straight. You’re thirty-one years old and need to find yourself? Do you hear how ridiculous you sound right now?” I want to punch him in his smug, over manicured face. He’s had plenty of time since college to find himself. If anyone needs to find themselves in this relationship, it’s me. I’m the one who’s slowly had their identity erased by their partner. Not him.

His sigh signals he’s growing tired of this conversation, as if breaking up with his fiancée is interfering with whatever he’d rather be doing. “I feel like we want different things.”

I scoff, flaring my nostrils. “Obviously.”

I take the gaudy 2 karat diamond off my finger. He opens his palm, reaching across the table as if I’m actually going to give him the damn thing. Instead, I slide it inside the small pocket of the Birkin bag he got me for my birthday. Neither of those items reflect my taste. They reflect his. He’s been molding and curating my personality for so many years now that I don’t even know what my style is. Old Hannah has long since been forgotten, replaced with this bleached, tweezed, plastic version of herself. I miss the former me.

He widens his eyes when he realizes he’s not getting back the diamond. “You’re not seriously keeping the engagement ring I paid for, are you?”

“I thought this wasn’t a ‘breakup’,” I mimic, using air quotes for the sentence. Childish? Maybe, but I don’t care. I want my old life back, the one where I created beautiful art in paint splattered jeans. In that life, I was free. In this one, I’m a prisoner.

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