Chapter 29 #10
Tears well up in her eyes until they spill freely as her body begins to shake, a flood of regret and self-loathing crashing over her.
The tangled confusion of pain and unwanted longing churns inside her, leaving her hollow and ashamed.
Nothing has ever left her feeling so trapped between revulsion and yearning.
He makes her feel pleasure in ways she has never experienced before—not with Jake, not with her own hands, not even with the toys she experimented with.
She wonders where everything went wrong.
If she had stayed in her hometown, she would never have crossed paths with this psychopath, and Jake would still be safe.
Every decision that led her here replays in her mind, each one a moment where things could have turned out differently.
Her tears mix with the warm bathwater as the crushing realization settles in: this is the cost of her choices.
“Lila, sweetie. Don’t cry,” Max murmurs beside her, startling her.
Kneeling at the tub, his presence is a sudden, unwelcome intrusion into her vulnerable moment. His dark eyes appear almost gentle as they trace her tear-streaked face. She glares at him, furious—and shocked she hadn’t noticed him reenter the bathroom while lost in her spiral.
He rubs slow circles over her exposed upper back, his touch meant to comfort but sending a chill through her instead. “I hate seeing you cry,” he says softly.
Conflicting emotions surge within her. Part of her aches for comfort; another recoils from him entirely. The irony of his words burns. They both know he is the source of so much of her pain.
His hand continues its steady motion, deepening her sense of helplessness rather than easing it. She wants to pull away, to scream at him to leave, but exhaustion roots her in place.
“Is there anything I can do or give you to make things better?” he asks, sounding earnest.
“What I want is to be as far away from you as possible!” she snaps, finally jerking away from his touch.
“No,” he replies flatly. “What else?”
She scoffs. “I don’t want to go anywhere.
I’m exhausted,” she mutters. Crossing her arms, she hunches forward, drawing the water up around her shoulders as if to shield herself.
The morning has drained every ounce of strength from her, and even the thought of moving to satisfy his demands feels unbearable.
She shoots him a weary, pleading look, hoping he sees her need for rest and will show mercy.
He gently caresses her cheek, his touch deceptively tender, almost apologetic. “Let’s hurry and get ready,” he says quietly.
She turns away with a scoff. “Then don’t bother asking me what I want,” she mutters, her voice barely audible over the running water.
She keeps her face turned from him until she hears the door click shut.
29
The only funeral Lila had ever attended was her mother’s.
At thirteen, she had been awkward and quiet, with a twiggy frame and knobby limbs to match.
She was told her front teeth looked too big for her gaunt face, so she rarely showed them for fear of ridicule.
She usually wore her long hair down, using it as a kind of protective veil to hide herself, but that day her grandmother wouldn’t take no for an answer and tied it back.
She spent most of the day trailing a cluster of chattering women who had taken her under their wings.
It wasn’t out of kindness, though they might have claimed otherwise.
Like the other religious townspeople, they hadn’t come to mourn so much as to see what had become of the runaway pregnant teenager from over a decade earlier.
Lila viewed the women and their loud personalities as a shield, something to hide behind from the other attendees who had come to gawk.
But enduring their gossip and prying wasn’t much better.
They had so many questions they wanted answered—who her mother had been seeing, whether she often left Lila alone for days, and other unnecessary details.
Lila feigned being too choked up to speak, offering nothing to fuel their rumor mill, much to their disappointment.
She had been raised to keep her mouth shut, after all.
For the brief service, her grandmother, little more than a stranger herself, had chosen an old black dress from her mother’s abandoned closet, its fabric grayed from wear.
It was several sizes too large, not only because Lila was petite compared to her mother’s taller, curvier frame, but because she had been malnourished for years.
The sleeves hung past her wrists, swallowing her thin arms. She remembered looking into the mirror and thinking she looked incredibly silly, and so very ugly.
But she hadn’t wanted to complain, especially not to a grieving stranger.
The whole affair had carried a sense of urgency, as if her grandmother wanted it over with as quickly as possible. Spending money they didn’t have on a better-fitting dress for a quick burial had seemed unnecessary.
Because of that, the entire process of being dolled up for a funeral now feels surreal.
Andy and Alexander move around her with quiet efficiency, tending to her hair, skin, and nails.
Their faces remain blank, their silence heavy.
They must have been instructed to speak to her only when necessary, offering curt directions—where to look, when to turn, when to sit or stand.
She has been reduced to Max’s pitiful doll.
She aches to be part of their usual banter, to hear the boisterous laughter that once filled the room, craving anything that might make her feel human again.
The silence presses against her ears until it feels almost physical, stretching each second in the chair into something interminable.
No one asks about the new bruises blooming along her neck and chest.
Lila studies her reflection in the arched, full-length mirror mounted on the wall. The sticklike child from her past is gone. The woman staring back at her has a fuller face and figure, one that resembles her late mother. Only the grim expression remains.
Her grandmother may have been overbearing, but the well-meaning matron had ensured Lila was well fed and received the best education she could afford.
Lila wonders whether her grandmother has been blowing up her phone, trying to reach her. At the very least, she must be annoyed, unaware of the terrible predicament her granddaughter has found herself trapped in.
When the work is finished, and Lila is finally dressed, Alexander returns to conceal the love bites on her neck with makeup, his brush gliding carefully over evidence no one dares to acknowledge.
An hour later, the black Maybach glides to a smooth stop in front of a grand cathedral somewhere in Connecticut.
Andy has outfitted her in a posh black Chanel jacket-and-skirt set, sheer dark tights, and black, block-heel loafers.
Lila hesitantly takes Max’s hand as they step out of the car, the glittered tweed catching the afternoon light and sparkling like scattered diamonds.
Her outfit feels too glamorous—almost princess-like—for a funeral. Still, instead of voicing her opinion, Lila presses her lips together and keeps her judgment to herself.
Inside, the reason for their impeccable presentation becomes immediately clear. The cathedral’s air is heavy with reverence and wealth, every corner gleaming with excess. From the polished marble floors to the soaring ceilings, the space feels designed to impress.
Before she can take it all in, Max strides toward a pair of massive double doors, pulling her along with him.
He pushes one open and steps through, his presence demanding immediate attention.
Lila stumbles after him, too focused on steadying herself to register the shift in the room.
When she finally looks up, hundreds of curious and disapproving eyes are fixed on them.
She swallows hard and glances sideways at Max.
Far from embarrassed by the disruption, he appears completely at ease.
If he intended to make a scene by arriving late, in the middle of the eulogy, he has succeeded.
Even at his father’s funeral, Max seems incapable of not making everything about himself.
The mourners’ gazes clamp around her chest like a vise. Every glare, every sharp whisper she can’t hear, weighs on her, making it difficult to draw a full breath. She catches sight of the man at the podium delivering the eulogy, his fury raw and unmasked, and her stomach twists.
Her instincts scream at her to flee, to escape the suffocating spotlight. The knot in her throat tightens, threatening to choke her, and her legs feel heavy, unsteady.
Still, despite the pressure crushing her, his hand holding hers offers a twisted sense of comfort—an anchor amid the sea of condemnation.
Then, to her dismay, Max releases her hand. He turns and offers a brief smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before striding toward the front. Lila is left standing there, stunned.
Before she can follow, a firm hand settles gently on her shoulder.
“Over here, Ms. Thorne,” Mason whispers, guiding her toward the nearest open seats. “The front is reserved for family only.”
After settling beside Mason, Lila turns her attention back to the man on stage. The anger that had briefly flared across his face at their entrance has now been carefully reined in.
“He was a complex, stubborn man,” the speaker continues, as though the interruption never happened.
“He will be remembered as one of the greatest men of his time—a man of immeasurable strength in every aspect of his remarkable life. Our relationship had its challenges, but I always knew that beneath his stern exterior… deep, deep—way deep—down,” a ripple of restrained chuckles moves through the audience, “there was also immeasurable love for those closest to him.
“His greatest wish was for them to succeed, not just in business, but in all aspects of life: love, faith, perseverance. He imparted to us the values of integrity, resilience, and the importance of staying strong, even when faced with adversity greater than we could have imagined.”
She looks toward Max, seated in the first row. His commanding presence stands out even among the assembly of distinguished guests, a few of whom she recognizes from television.
The specifics of her mother’s service have long since faded, leaving only a distant, hazy memory of something simple and somber.
She cannot even recall whether there were any heartfelt eulogies like this one.
The stark contrast between that understated farewell and the opulent spectacle unfolding before her now leaves her faintly bitter.
“…Your journey may have ended, but the impact you’ve made on all of us will never be forgotten. Your legacy will carry on as we remember your love, your wisdom, and your relentless drive to make the world a better place. Rest in peace, Pops. You’ve earned it.”
The realization that the speaker is Max’s brother surprises her. From the few details Max had shared, she had imagined someone with similar features. Yet the man standing at the podium, with neatly styled brown hair and fair, ruddy skin, looks nothing like him.
Compared to his brother’s milder, more modest appearance, Max radiates an intimidating presence, his sharp lines and proud bearing impossible to overlook. He sits alone, back straight and shoulders squared, every inch the image of control. Even from a distance, his magnetic aura is undeniable.
As she studies the back of his head, Lila wonders what expression he might be wearing on that beautiful face. Is it the usual mask of indifference, concealing whatever turmoil stirs beneath, or has he allowed a fleeting trace of vulnerability to surface, knowing no one behind him can see?
Watching him from the back row, she feels an unsettling mix of empathy for him and dread for herself, realizing more than ever how little she truly knows about the man who holds so much power over her life.