5. Lilith
CHAPTER FIVE
I ’d walked into work this morning feeling and looking like complete and utter shit. The adrenaline from two nights ago had burned out, leaving a dull ache in my chest and a bone-deep kind of exhaustion that clung to me like a second skin.
Molly had met me with an overly cheery, “ You look like you haven’t slept in a decade, did you fight a raccoon on the way in?”
But when I didn’t answer, her expression changed, and she took in how I really looked. Slumped shoulders, purple marks under my eyes, and a red nose from where I’d blown it one too many times.
She’d asked me what happened. At first, I didn’t tell her.
I was embarrassed. The words felt too heavy, too messy, and the last thing I wanted to do was to say them out loud and have to hear them back.
That would’ve made it all too real. So, I’d tried to brush her off.
Mumbled something vague. Made a joke about my questionable life choices, and hoped she’d let it slide.
She did. For a little while. But when she’d accidentally dropped a book in front of me and I flinched—because of course I flinched—she’d stopped being gentle.
“ Lilith Whitlock,” she’d said. “ Tell me what happened. Now.”
I’d tried to brush it off again, but she just stood there, waiting, her gaze pinning me in place, staring through my attempts to dodge her.
It took a good five minutes of a silent standoff before I cracked, and the words poured out, tripping over each other in their rush to be free. I told her everything.
The hits. The grabs. The bruises. How it had started so small—little things I could excuse away, convince myself weren’t real. How the apologies always came so quickly, so sweetly—soft words wrapped around razor-sharp bullshit.
How I’d let it happen. How I’d let it keep happening.
The moment the last word left my mouth, the weight of it all slammed into me at full force, and I’d braced for the inevitable.
The ‘I told you so.’
The ‘What were you thinking, Lilith?’
The ‘Seriously, how did you not see it coming?’
But it didn’t come. Instead, she’d just sat there, silent and shaking, her grip on my hand iron tight, jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter. She never hid her emotions, but I’d never seen her like this. Not just angry. Livid .
“That fucking asshole,” she’d whispered.
Then she’d moved fast and fierce, wrapping her arms around me before I could even react. She’d held on tight, warm and crushing, like she was trying to put me back together with sheer physical strength alone.
Now, as I reached for the next book, the sleeve of my shirt shifted, exposing the finger-shaped bruises that were darkening into deep violet blooms across my wrist. I swallowed hard and yanked the fabric back down, wincing as it scraped against the tender skin.
The dress was a damn masterpiece.
Black satin, sleek but not too tight, cut just right to skim my curves like it’d been made for me.
It hadn’t, obviously—I’d thrifted the hell out of it.
Found it crammed between a hideous sequinned monstrosity and something that looked like it belonged at an 80’s prom.
But the second I’d slipped it on, I knew it was mine.
I’d even splurged on new lipstick. A deep, moody red that made me feel like a femme fatale in an old Hollywood film. My hair had actually cooperated for once too. I felt good. Better than good. Like I may have even belonged there.
For about twenty minutes.
Then Clark’s hand found my waist and stayed there all night. Through the handshakes, the polite smiles, the brief introductions and conversations with people I’d never see again.
His fingers pressed in just enough to remind me who I was with, who I belonged to.
And the whispers.
“Smile more, angel. You look bored.”
“Careful with the champagne, don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”
“Try not to be so quiet, huh? People will think I dragged you here against your will.”
I bit my tongue. Smiled through it. Because that’s what you do, right? You pick your battles.
I let it roll off my shoulders—until I couldn’t.
Until his laugh cut through the conversation, loud enough to make sure the right people heard.
“Relax, angel,” he drawled, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “No one’s looking at you that hard.”
A few polite chuckles. Just background noise. A casual joke to everyone else.
But my stomach plummeted. Because I knew what he meant.
It was the silent add-on at the end of his sentence, the one he didn’t say but still meant.
‘No one’s looking at you that hard—because you’re not worth looking at.’
Because I wasn’t the one who turned heads when I walked into a room. Because I wasn’t the one who fit there. Because the dress, the lipstick, the whole night, it had all been a lie. A stupid attempt at reconciliation for me.
I put my glass down before I threw it in his face.
And I left. Or I tried to.
The grip came fast. Fingers clamping around my wrist, yanking me back hard.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going? You walk away from me, Lilith, and I swear to God, you’ll regret it.”
Flashes of my past hit me like a gut punch.
A different grip on my arm. Locks clicking. Doors slamming.
I couldn’t breathe.
My body locked up, every muscle going rigid, my brain screaming at me to run, but I couldn’t.
And Clark saw it. His fingers flexed, digging in deeper, his smirk slow and knowing. Like he could feel the power tipping in his favour.
Until another voice cut in.
“I suggest you let go of her. Now. And walk away.”
I didn’t remember much after that. Just the running, the roof, the skyline, a cigarette, a dismembered voice, and then my bed.
It was like my brain had thrown up a white flag and gone, ‘ Nope. This is too much. We’re skipping this scene.’ Leaving me to hang about in some liminal space where I didn’t have to witness what was going on.
I’d been there before. Felt the emergency brakes slam down, my mind shutting off the second it got too much. My old psychiatrist called it a survival mechanism.
But it didn’t feel like surviving when you had to piece yourself back together from nothing afterward.
“Delivery for Lilith Whitlock?” A voice echoed through the store, snapping me out of my spiral of self pity.
A man in a navy windbreaker and scuffed boots strode into the shop, barely visible behind a gigantic bouquet of aggressively pink roses. They were so bright, they practically screamed, ‘ Look how much I care!’
Molly let out a huff, climbing down the rest of the ladder. “Well, well. Guess someone thinks flowers are the cure for being a raging asshole.”
I didn’t speak. The blood draining from my face was probably doing all the talking for me.
He grinned as he approached us. “Where do you want these?”
“Anywhere but here,” I muttered, glaring at the offensively pink petals, willing them to disappear under my gaze.
“Right there’s fine,” Molly interjected, pointing to the counter.
He set down the bouquet with a satisfied nod.
“Enjoy!” he chirped, before turning and disappearing out the door like he hadn’t just delivered the floral equivalent of a giant red flag.
“I mean, like, it is him, right?” she asked.
I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “Obviously.”
She groaned, throwing her head back like the weight of his stupidity physically pained her. “Nothing says ‘I’m sorry for being the world’s biggest douchebag ’ like a bouquet that looks like it was involved in an explosion at a Barbie factory.”
“It’s his thing,” I said, poking at the flowers with one finger like they might bite me. “Screw up, send a bullshit gift, act like it never happened.”
And the worst part, that wasn’t the only gift I’d received. Oh, no.
The morning after the gala, I’d woken up reeking of cigarettes and shame and I’d run straight to the bathroom, throwing up the entire contents of my soul. Then, when I was scrubbing my skin raw under the scalding water of the shower, the doorbell had rung.
Annoyed, exhausted, and dripping in a towel, I’d checked the security app that was connected to it. Nothing. No one on the feed.
So, like the idiot in every horror movie, I’d dragged myself to the door.
But what greeted me wasn’t a person. It was a tote bag sitting innocently on my doorstep.
I’d stepped outside, clutching my towel, squinting up and down the street like I was going to catch someone darting behind a bush.
But nope. The street had been empty, not a single soul in sight.
Still, I’d brought it inside, because I’d been pretty sure someone wouldn’t leave a bomb on my porch on a Sunday morning.
And in the bag? Food. Not just food— heaven.
There were pancakes, waffles, a perfectly wrapped stack of toast that smelled like the bread had been baked that morning. Sliced fruits arranged so carefully they looked like they belonged in a fancy restaurant. A glass bottle filled with orange juice, and a thermos filled with fresh coffee.
And sitting at the bottom of the bag, like the cherry on a bizarre sundae, was a cream-coloured envelope with my name on it. I’d rolled my eyes as I opened it, fully expecting one of Clark’s usual apologies, something vague and insincere. But this? This was… different.
“ I am no bird, and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.” - Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre.
I’d stared at it for what felt like forever.
For all his charm and bravado, Clark couldn’t even recite the alphabet if it was written right in front of him.
Depth was never his strong suit. He’d obviously enlisted some poor assistant or intern to piece it together, convinced it would erase everything.
I could practically see his smirk, so sure he’d played his cards right.