Chapter 9 - The House of Hannah
One year later.
The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of my light-filled interior design studio in downtown Memphis.
The space was gorgeous—exposed brick walls, polished concrete floors, sleek marble sample boards, and vibrant green potted plants filling every corner. On the front glass door, painted in crisp gold lettering, read: HANNAH ROSS DESIGN STUDIO.
My studio was thriving. After the story of my high-profile divorce and legal victory circulated through Tennessee business circles, wealthy clients flooded my firm with contract requests. I had hired three full-time junior designers and an assistant, expanding my business into Nashville and Atlanta.
"Hannah," Maya called out from the front desk, holding a cup of fresh iced coffee. "Your eleven o'clock appointment is here for the East Nashville luxury estate renovation."
"Thanks, Maya," I smiled, taking the coffee. "Send them in."
I walked over to my drafting table, picking up my digital stylus.
My right wrist had healed completely, leaving only a tiny, faint silver scar—a quiet badge of honor from the night I finally broke free.
I looked out the window at the vibrant, bustling street below.
No one was telling me to wash dishes. No one was stealing my mother's jewelry. No one was forging my name on loans or treating my hard work like an afterthought.
I was the sole owner of my home, my business, my inheritance, and my future.
My phone buzzed on the drafting table. It was a notification from my bank.
Deposit Confirmed: $450,000. Client Payment for Atlanta Commercial Project.
May you like
I smiled softly, setting the phone down, and touched the smooth blue leather portfolio resting on the corner of my desk—the original deed to my mother's Atlanta loft, sitting safely right where it belonged.
I picked up my stylus and began to draw the blueprints of my new life.
