The Unwanted Wife's Return (Ex-Husband Wants Me Back) novel Chapter 235

The Fingerprint 

HANNAH’S POV: 

“I heard there is a new launch date?” he said. Smooth. Casual. Like he had just happened to see that piece of information somewhere. 

“Working toward one,” I said, just as casually. “The team has been incredible. Sandra especially. You remember I mentioned her or you know her, my fabric sourcing lead?” 

He nodded like he remembered, which he almost certainly did because remembering details people mention was probably part of his professional toolkit. 

I ordered water. He ordered a coffee. The bar had that particular lighting that expensive hotel bars always have. 

We talked for thirty minutes. I let him lead most of it, which was easy because Rowan liked to lead conversations and liked to give the impression that he was asking questions out of genuine interest. He was good at it. He asked about the collection in the way someone asks when they want to know something specific but do not want to appear to want to know something specific. I answered warmly and with just enough detail to seem open and just not quite enough to give him anything real. 

At twenty-five minutes in, I shifted the tone. 

Though not dramatically. Just a small lean into something more personal. I said something about how the past few weeks had made me think about who was really in my corner and who was just in the room, and I let that sit for a second. 

He looked at me. Something flickered behind his eyes. If you were not watching for it you would not see it but I was absolutely watching for it and I saw it. 

“I think about that too,” he said, in a voice that had shifted to something slightly more deliberate. “I have always been genuinely interested in what you are building, Hannah. Not a lot of people in this country take independent designers seriously the way they should. What you and Lucas have done with Prestige is remarkable.” 

That was the word. Said in exactly that tone. The tone of someone who knows something they are pretending not to know. Not a confession. Not evidence of anything by itself. But it was the fingerprint of a man who had been briefed on what the collection was actually about and why it was a problem for a specific person and who could not quite help himself in this moment from referencing it. 

I smiled warmly. “You are so right,” I said. “It can be complicated.” 

We said our goodbyes fifteen minutes later. He said we should do this again soon. I said absolutely, which was a word that required nothing from me. He walked out of the bar with the easy stride of a man who believed the meeting had gone in hits favour. 

I waited until he was through the door. 

Then I sat very still for a moment.