Chapter 6 LILY
LILY
The elevator hums as it climbs. Forty-three floors. I've ridden this elevator before, but today it feels different. Slower. Tighter. Like the walls are closing in with each floor that passes.
I read the message my boss sent me for the hundredth time.
No explanation. No context. No hint about what this meeting is actually about. Just a summons delivered through text message at seven this morning while I was stocking shelves at the grocery job.
I tried calling my boss three times. She didn't answer any of them.
So I texted. Fingers shaking as I typed out the words. Is this about the whiskey bottle? Did I do something wrong?
No response. Just silence. The kind of silence that feels deliberate. Intentional. The kind that's designed to make you sweat.
My hands are slick with perspiration. The phone screen is warm against my palm, tacky with moisture.
I wipe my hand on my jeans. The denim is rough under my fingertips.
Grounding. Real. I read the message again.
The words haven't changed. They won't change.
But I keep looking anyway, like maybe I missed something the first ninety-nine times.
Some hint. Some clue about what's waiting for me when these elevator doors open.
They want to talk to you.
The elevator passes the thirtieth floor. Then the thirty-fifth. Each number lighting up feels like a countdown. Like I'm ascending toward something I can't escape.
I've been a wreck all morning. Shaking. Distracted. Unable to focus on anything except this message and what it might mean.
At the grocery store, I knocked an entire display of eggs off the shelf while restocking. Twelve cartons. Thirty-six eggs per carton. Four hundred and thirty-two eggs total. I did the math while I was on my hands and knees cleaning up the mess.
Yolk and white spreading across the linoleum floor in a viscous pool. Yellow and clear mixing together. The smell was overwhelming.
The manager didn't yell. He just stood there. Looked at me with this flat, disappointed expression that made my stomach twist into knots.
Like I was a problem he was tired of dealing with.
Like I was one more mistake away from being let go.
I can't afford to lose either job. Not now. Not when everything in my life feels like it's balanced on a knife's edge.
I have two weeks to pack up everything I own and find somewhere else to live so Henry can move in with his girlfriend.
She's pregnant. Just found out a month ago. They need space. Need stability. Need a place to build a life together. To raise a family.
And I'm still helping Henry pay off the gambling debts. The ones he swore he was done with. The ones he promised would never happen again.
I need to help him. I owe him that much.
When our parents died, I was five. Henry was fifteen.
I miss them. I do. But I barely remember them. Just fragments. Scattered pieces of memory that might be real or might be things I've constructed from old photographs and stories our aunt used to tell.
My mother's laugh. Bright and sudden like bells.
My father's hands. Calloused and strong, lifting me onto his shoulders so I could see over the crowd at the farmers market.
The way the house smelled on Sunday mornings when my mother baked cinnamon rolls from scratch.
Sugar and butter and cinnamon and warmth filling every room until the whole house felt like comfort itself.
But Henry remembers everything. He was old enough to understand what we lost. Old enough to feel their absence like a physical wound that wouldn't heal. Like something vital had been carved out of his chest and the hole just kept bleeding.
He got angry after they died. So angry. At the world. At God. At our aunt for trying to replace them even though she was doing her best. At me for being too young to understand what we'd lost.
He started skipping school. Hanging out with boys who were older. Meaner. Boys who knew how to turn anger into something useful. Something profitable.
He'd disappear for days at a time. Come back with bruises. Or bloodied knuckles. Or eyes so dilated his pupils were just black holes. Always in some kind of trouble. Always one step ahead of consequences that kept getting closer.
Our aunt took us in. Loved us. Tried her best to hold us together. To give us stability and routine and something that resembled a normal childhood.
But Henry was hard to handle. Too angry. Too hurt.
When she died two years ago, she left the house to me. Just me. Not both of us.
The will was clear. Specific. Deliberate. She loved Henry. I know she did. But she didn't trust him. Didn't trust that he wouldn't gamble the house away the first time someone offered him the wrong kind of deal. The first time he needed money and didn't have another option.
So she left it to me. Put it in my name. Made sure he couldn't touch it.
Henry pretended it didn't bother him. But I saw the hurt in his eyes when the lawyer read the will. The shame. The feeling of being judged and found wanting by the one person who raised us. The one person who was supposed to believe in him.
I felt guilty then. I feel guilty now.
So I'm giving him the house. Because he needs it more than I do. Because he's starting a family. Because maybe this time, maybe with a baby on the way, he'll finally have a reason to get his life together.
The elevator passes the fortieth floor.
My heart is hammering against my ribs. Too fast. Too hard. Like it's trying to break through bone and escape my chest entirely.
The forty-first floor.
I take a breath. Try to steady myself. It doesn't work.
The forty-second floor.
Almost there.
The elevator dings. The sound is too loud in the enclosed space. Sharp. Final.
The doors slide open.
I step out into the hallway. My legs feel unsteady beneath me. Like I'm walking on a ship deck during a storm. Everything tilting and swaying even though the floor is perfectly level.
I walk to the door. Each step feels deliberate. Forced. Like my body doesn't want to carry me forward but my brain is overriding the instinct to run.
I raise my hand. Knock. Three times. The sound echoes in the quiet hallway.
Footsteps approach from inside. Heavy. Measured. Deliberate.
The door opens.
One of the men from the other night stands there.
He's tall. Maybe six foot one. I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
Broad through the shoulders and chest in a way that speaks of strength.
Real strength. Not the kind you get from a gym.
The kind you earn through years of hard work.
His face is weathered. Lined in ways that suggest he's spent time in hard places doing hard things.
Light brown hair going silver at the temples.
Stubble along his jaw. Brown eyes, steady and watchful.
His face is unreadable. Stone. No warmth. No welcome. No hint about what's coming.
"Come in."
His voice is low. Controlled. An instruction, not an invitation.
My stomach drops. But I step inside anyway. The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. Final. Trapping me here.
"I'm so sorry about the other night." The words spill out before I can stop them.
Fast. Frantic. Tripping over themselves.
"I didn't mean to interrupt. I thought no one was home.
The agency told me the apartment would be empty.
I should have double-checked before I just walked in.
I'm really, really sorry. If there's anything I can do to make it right, I will—"
His hand lands on my shoulder.
I freeze. Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
The touch is firm. Steady. Not rough, but deliberate. His hand is large enough that it covers my entire shoulder, and I'm not a petite woman. The pressure is grounding, pulling me out of the spiral I was disappearing into. Anchoring me to the present moment.
But it's also too much. Too intimate.
I feel it everywhere. Not just where his palm rests against my shoulder. I feel it in my chest. In my stomach. In the sudden awareness of how close he is. How much bigger he is.
Warmth spreads outward from the point of contact like ripples in still water. My body reacts before my brain catches up. My pulse slows fractionally. My breathing evens out. The panic recedes just enough that I can think clearly again.
"Calm down," he says. His voice is still low. But there's something gentler in it now. "You're not in trouble."
He drops his hand. Steps back. Creates distance again.
The absence of his touch is almost as noticeable as the touch itself. Like something warm was pressed against my skin and then suddenly removed, leaving cold air in its place.
"Follow me."
I follow him through the entryway into the living room. The space is different than it was the other night. The curtains are open this time. Daylight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, though the light is still muted. Filtered.
The other man is already seated in the same chair as before. Same posture. Same rigid control. But he's wearing sunglasses now. Dark lenses that completely hide his eyes. Maybe the light bothers him. Maybe he needs the darkness.
The man who let me in gestures to a chair across from him. "Sit."
I sit. My hands fold in my lap automatically. My pulse is still racing but slower now. More manageable.
"I'm Artan," he says. His tone is formal. Clipped. Professional. "This is Luan."
I nod. "Lily."
"We know." Artan says. "We have a job proposition for you."
I blink. My brain stutters. Resets. Tries to process what I just heard. "A job?"
That's not what I was expecting. Not even close. I came here expecting to be fired. To be blamed for something. To have consequences delivered.
Not offered employment.
"Luan needs assistance for the next few weeks," Artan continues. His voice is steady. Measured. "Primarily with meals. You'd be responsible for cooking and basic housekeeping. Light cleaning. Organization. Grocery shopping. Whatever's needed to keep the household running smoothly."
Before I can respond, before I can even begin to formulate a reply, Luan interrupts.
His voice is flat. Cold. Hard as stone. "I don't need fussing over. I can manage most of the time. When I need you, I'll call. Otherwise, stick to the house. Keep things clean. Stay out of my way. Understood?"
The tone lands like a slap. Sharp and dismissive. Like I'm a servant he's grudgingly accepting into his space. Like I'm an inconvenience he's being forced to tolerate.
I bristle. Heat crawls up my neck. I want to tell him to take his grumpiness and shove it somewhere the sun doesn't reach. Want to tell him I don't need this job badly enough to put up with being spoken to like I'm beneath him.
But I do need it. Desperately.
"Understood," I say. My voice is even. Give him nothing to react to.
I study him while he sits there in silence. Stone-faced behind those dark lenses.
He's handsome. I'll give him that much. Dark hair. Strong features. The sunglasses hide his eyes completely, but I remember the green from before. Striking. Unusual. The kind of eyes that stay with you.
He's younger than Artan. Thirty, maybe. Controlled in a way that feels deliberate. Like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will. Like if he relaxed for even a second, something dangerous might slip free.
But there's hostility underneath the control. Something sharp and cold and uninviting. Something that makes me want to keep my distance. Makes me want to tread carefully around him.
Handsome grump. That's what he is. Beautiful and hostile in equal measure.
Artan clears his throat. The sound breaks the tension stretching between us. "The hours would be eight a.m. to nine p.m. Monday through Friday. Weekends off unless otherwise needed. Long days, I know. But we're willing to compensate accordingly."
He names a figure.
I go completely still. My breath catches in my throat. Stops entirely for several heartbeats.
That's enough for a deposit on a studio apartment.
Enough to help Henry with the remaining gambling debts.
Enough to put some aside for the baby. Enough to breathe.
To stop living paycheck to paycheck with nothing left over.
To stop drowning. To stop feeling like I'm one unexpected expense away from complete disaster.
Enough to maybe, just maybe, start building something that resembles stability.
"We've already spoken to your boss," he says. Matter-of-fact. "She'll be compensated for your absence. And this is temporary. A few weeks at most. Then you return to your regular position."
I stare at him. Then at Luan, who hasn't moved. Hasn't reacted. Just sits there behind his dark lenses like a statue carved from ice.
Then back at Artan.
This is real. They're offering me a lifeline. A temporary one, yes. But still. A chance to stop barely surviving and start actually living. A chance to get ahead instead of constantly falling behind.
"When do you want me to start?" The words come out steadier than I feel.
Artan's expression doesn't change. Doesn't soften. But there's something in his eyes. A flicker. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction that I said yes. That I didn't ask more questions. That I didn't push back.
"If you're available, you can start now." There's the faintest hint of something lighter in his tone. Not quite warmth. But close. Like he's offering me a way to ease into this. To start with something simple and familiar. "It's almost lunch time."
I nod. "I can start now."
Artan stands. Luan doesn't move.
And suddenly I understand that whatever this is, whatever I've just agreed to, I've just stepped into something that doesn't follow the rules I know. Something that might not let me leave the same way I came in.