Chapter Fourteen #2
“You’re loud, Lillian, so damn loud all the time.
You never stop talking.” He gestured vaguely, like the entire space around me was proof.
“It’s suffocating being around someone who doesn’t have an off switch.
And this whole thing you’ve got going on—this.
..Lilly Spectacle you’re trying to shove down everyone’s throat?
You think it’s charming, but it’s annoying.
It’s the exact thing that drives people away.
” His eyes flicked over me. “I’m not a bad guy for not wanting to sign up for a lifetime of that shit.
I mean—you’re too much for anyone to handle.
It’s all an act anyway, right? The confidence, the strength.
” His smirk sharpened. “You’re not confident.
Or strong. Or sure of yourself.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “You’re insecure. You’re weak.”
The words took root slowly, one after the other, like he knew exactly where the seeds of doubt had already been planted.
“Yeah, you’re pretty and you’re smart,” he continued, shrugging, “but that’s not enough. You’re not enough.”
A pause.
Then, softer—nastier for it.
“I’m sure Khalifa will feel that way, too. It’s only a matter of time.”
Too tall, too loud, too much.
“All that stuff you told me about your mom not wanting you?” His eyebrows lifted, mock sympathy curling at the edges of his mouth. “Be honest, Lillian. Who would want you?”
Something inside me churned violently. It wasn’t heartbreak anymore; heartbreak was too searing, too alive.
This was the dull ache of an old bruise, one I’d almost forgotten was there—right up until someone swung a sledgehammer into the exact same tender spot.
Not enough force to knock the air out of me.
Enough to remind me it had never really faded in the first place and probably never would.
I kept my face still, my expression carefully blank.
I even managed a small exhale through my nose, like none of it had landed anywhere important.
Only my fingers betrayed me, clenching into my palm, nails pressing crescents so deep that the pain in my hand was all I could feel.
I opened my mouth to reply when a familiar voice broke through.
“Lillian?” Khalifa stood a few feet away, holding out my phone. “You forgot this.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
His eyes bounced back and forth between us. “What’s going on?”
Malik grinned, vain and unbothered. “Just catching up.”
Khalifa’s tone dropped an octave. “You’re not classmates anymore. There’s nothing for you to catch up on.”
“I’m going to go,” I said quickly, grabbing my phone. My heart was pounding too loud, too messy.
“Wait,” he murmured, cutting a glance toward Malik again before pivoting his attention back to me. His lips moved inaudibly, “Are you okay?”
I forced a small smile, something light and dismissive that said I’m fine, nothing to see here.
He didn’t look convinced. Not even a little.
His gaze lingered, and I wondered if he could read the slashes Malik’s words had carved into me, if he could smell the faint smoke of the wreckage Malik had left behind only moments before, still drifting through the air.
Was it obvious? Had something in me been marked beyond hiding—my skin somehow tainted, my presence spoiled, the label my mother stamped on me years ago burning itself into my forehead like a bright red Scarlet A?
It was ironic, almost cruel, that Malik and my mother believed they knew me, when in truth neither had bothered to scratch past the surface long enough to catch even the faintest glimpse of who I really was.
Khalifa finally nodded, ready to head to his office, when Malik chuckled, stopping him mid-step.
He turned back with no warning, no hesitation, and offered one clean, effortless punch that sent Malik stumbling into the wall.
Then he adjusted his jacket smoothly, like the whole thing had been a trivial inconvenience, and walked away without another word.
For a second, all I could do was stare—half-shocked, half-mortified, and, annoyingly, a little impressed. The man had just committed mild assault in a tweed blazer, and I’d never found him more attractive.
Malik moaned, rubbing his jaw, and I let a snicker slip through.
“You so deserved that. Only tragic part is that I didn’t get to do that myself, asshole.
” One swift kick sent his briefcase skating across the hall, dumping papers, pens, and whatever else he deemed essential flying in every direction.
I crouched beside his sprawled form, limbs akimbo, looking like a rejected mannequin.
“And for the record? I’m pretty, smart, and way out of your pathetic league. ”
The entire drive back to work, my pulse still hadn’t caught up with me. It was stuck at the university—somewhere between his lecture, the way he’d looked at me before pretending he hadn’t, and the part where he threw a right hook without breaking a sweat.
I pushed the entrance too hard, the handle clattering against the wall. Kevin nearly choked on his yogurt.
“Follow me,” I demanded, already making a beeline toward my office.
He hesitated, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Uh, is this—?”
“Now, Kevin.”
He scrambled up, clutching the spoon like he might need it for self-defense, and followed me in. I started pacing, trying to breathe past the hammering in my chest.
Kevin stood stiffly near my desk, wide-eyed. “Is this about Mrs. Henderson?” he asked slowly, hands raised. “Because I swear—”
“It’s not about Mrs. Henderson!” I snapped. “I have a huge problem, Kevin. Monumental. Catastrophic.”
“Okay. Catastrophic sounds bad. But you’re saying it calmly enough that maybe it’s fixable?”
I stopped pacing and faced him. “I think I have feelings for my husband.”