Chapter 7 – Lydia - Smoke and Mirrors #2
Walk back to the bed.
Pick up my phone.
The message from Dom is still open.
“You’re expected at dusk. Wear the red.”
I stare at it until the words stop meaning anything.
Then I erase the message, lock the phone, set it on the bed and stare at it like it betrayed me.
I lie on the mattress, face up.
The ceiling stares back.
My mind drifts to Silas again, and I know for sure that If he’s there tonight…
And he doesn’t look away—
I won’t either.
The ceiling doesn’t give anything back.
Not clarity. Not comfort.
Just blank white stillness, lit by a city that never lets you forget it’s watching.
I sit up, push off the bed, and drift back into the kitchen. I open cabinets. Close them again. I’m not hungry. I’m just moving because stillness feels too loud.
Then I open the fridge and see the little orange pill bottle on the top shelf.
The one I got from the seaside clinic the day I passed out in my apartment.
Celeste had told me to stop skipping meals… And rest, but here we are.
At the time, I nodded and promised I would.
I didn’t.
But now? Now the echo of Silas’s hand still clings to my thigh. My chest hurts with things I never said. And there’s a performance waiting for me tonight that I can’t walk into half-alive.
I pour a glass of water.
Take one of the tablets. Just one.
Then I walk back to the bedroom, slower this time. And I slide beneath the sheets.
About thirty minutes later, I start feeling the pill kicking in.
I curl on my side.
And the last thought I have before sleep drags me under is his mouth—
On mine.
When I finally wake, it’s not morning anymore.
It’s light out — late light. Slanted and golden and reaching across the bed like it’s been waiting. The pill worked. Hard. My body feels heavier than I remember, but calmer. No throb in my temples. No haze behind my eyes.
Just a strange, unfamiliar quiet.
I stretch under the sheets, slow and real, then sit up and breathe for a second before standing. The robe’s still on the bed. The city hums outside my window, busy but blurred.
I shower. A long one. Steam. Citrus soap. I rinse my hair twice and let the water beat against the back of my neck until I start to feel human again.
Then I dress—simple. Black tank, cropped blazer, straight-leg jeans, boots. Hair up. Minimal makeup. Nothing dramatic.
Just me.
And I go outside.
No destination.
Just movement.
The city doesn’t pause for anyone. I walk three blocks past the station and down an alley shortcut I used to take before I was anyone important. Find a tiny café that makes real espresso and still uses cash.
I order a flat white and a croissant.
No one looks twice at me here.
I take a seat by the window and eat like it’s a religion. Small sips. Small bites. Like tasting things might make them real again.
Then I walk.
Not far. Just enough to feel like I’m not someone’s marked territory.
And when I pass a boutique I’ve never seen before—low windows, copper sign, a mannequin in the window wearing a long, slinky dark green slip—I stop.
I don’t think about it.
I go in.
Inside smells like cedar and silk. A woman greets me without asking my name. Doesn’t recognize me. Doesn’t care.
I let my fingers run over fabric I’d never wear in Drazen’s world. Patterns too bold. Necks too high. Sleeves too soft.
I pick out a pair of earrings I’ll probably never wear and a pale blue scarf that feels like air between my hands.
It’s nothing.
But it’s mine.
When I’m walking back, my phone buzzes.
I check the screen.
Dom.
“I’m passing through your end. If you don’t mind a lift, I don’t mind the company. Don’t forget the red.”
My fingers tighten on the phone.
The city is gold around me. The wind has teeth. The night is coming, and the game is about to begin again.
I look up at the sky once, then start walking faster.
By the time I get back to my building, the light outside has gone cold.
The sun’s still up, but barely—edging behind the rooftops like it’s ducking from what comes next. I can feel dusk gathering even before it arrives. The light thins. The wind stings. Everything smells faintly metallic.
I take the stairs two at a time.
Not because I’m in a rush.
Because I need to move before I change my mind.
Inside, I drop the boutique bag on the counter. Strip the boots off at the door. Pull my hair loose and let it fall down my back.
Then I walk to the closet.
And open it.
I reach for the dress without hesitation now.
This isn’t about doubt.
This is about control.
I pull the zipper down and step into it.
It slides over my hips like memory. Tight at the waist. Exposing everything it needs to. Hiding nothing. The hem brushes my thigh as I walk to the mirror.
I don’t look like prey in it.
I look like something meant to be offered, but never touched.
I pull my hair up. Loose enough to look like I didn’t try. Earrings from the boutique: small and clean. The pale scarf stays in the bag. It doesn’t belong tonight.
I do my makeup standing, not seated—eyes focused, mouth sculpted, no blush.
I don't need to look warm. I need to look untouchable.
I don’t bring a bag.
Just my phone.
When it buzzes, it’s him again.
“Outside.”
I glance at the window. A black car idles at the curb, with its lights on.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror.
And walk out the door.