Chapter 16 LUAN
LUAN
The velvet box turns in my hand. Over and over, my thumb tracing the seam where fabric meets hinge, the texture soft.
I stand outside Lily's bedroom door and tell myself this is simple. Straightforward.
Except my pulse is elevated. My breathing requires conscious effort to keep steady, each inhale measured and deliberate instead of automatic. The kind of control that reveals exactly how little control I actually have.
This is absurd. It's a ring. A prop for the charade we're maintaining, nothing more complicated than that.
I asked Artan to choose it this morning, told him to get something appropriate, something that would photograph well if it came to that, something that looked like I gave a damn about the woman wearing it.
He handed me the box an hour ago without comment.
I should just knock. Hand it over. Move on.
Instead, I'm standing here like some nervous boy about to ask a girl to prom, and the comparison pisses me off enough that I finally lift my hand and rap my knuckles against the wood.
Footsteps approach from inside, light and quick, the sound of high heels against hardwood.
The door opens.
Red floods my compromised vision. Bright and unmistakable even through the blur, the color so vivid it almost hurts.
Her shape is diffuse, edges soft and undefined, but I know it's her immediately.
The way she moves, the slight hesitation before she settles her weight, the sound of her breathing, faster than usual like she's nervous too.
"You look beautiful." The words come out before I can stop them, automatic and entirely true despite the fact that I can barely see her.
She laughs. The sound is light, teasing, with an edge of genuine amusement that makes something in my chest loosen fractionally. "You can't even see me properly."
"Red is your color."
The laughter stops. I hear the shift in her breathing, the small intake of air that signals surprise. Then something warmer settles into her voice, something that wraps around my ribs and squeezes.
"You can see colors now? Luan, that's wonderful. I'm so happy for you."
The genuine pleasure in her voice isn't for herself, isn't calculating what my improved vision means for her situation or her safety. It's just pure, uncomplicated happiness that I'm getting better. That I'm recovering. That the darkness is receding.
"You look quite handsome too," Lily adds, quieter now, almost shy, like she's not sure she's allowed to say it.
I don't know how to do this. Don't know the protocol for giving a woman a ring.
So I just extend my hand, the box sitting in my palm like a small grenade. "The engagement ring. You should wear it now. For appearances."
The words come out stiff, and I hear how it sounds, how completely devoid of anything resembling romance or sentiment or basic human warmth.
She takes the box hesitantly, her fingers brushing mine for half a second before pulling away. I hear the small click of the hinge, the barely audible sound of her breath catching.
"It's perfect." Her voice breaks slightly on the last word, genuine wonder bleeding through.
Then she seems to catch herself, remembering that this isn't real.
"It will make your real fiancée very happy someday.
If she doesn't mind wearing a used ring.
I mean, not that it's really used. Well, it will be used but not used used.
You know what I mean. It's just for show.
So it doesn't count as used. But technically it will have been worn.
So maybe you should mention that. Or maybe not.
I don't know the tradition for previously engaged rings. Is there a tradition?…"
She's babbling, words tumbling over each other in that way that means she's nervous, that her brain is moving faster than her mouth can keep up with and she can't quite make them sync.
It's oddly reassuring that I'm not the only one uncomfortable with this moment. That whatever strange territory we're navigating, we're both equally lost in it.
"Come on," I say, cutting off the spiral before it can gain more momentum. "Artan and Erion are waiting."
I guide her toward the living room, my hand finding the small of her back automatically. The touch grounds me, orients me in space, gives me a reference point that's warm and solid and real. She's wearing something smooth, silk maybe, the fabric sliding under my palm as she moves.
Artan and Erion are already there. I can make out their shapes against the lighter background of the windows, dark suits and controlled postures, both of them radiating the particular tension that comes from successfully executing violence and waiting to see if there will be consequences.
"Did you manage to sort the problem?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral, casual, like we're discussing a shipment delay instead of arson.
"It all went according to plan," Artan says, his tone matching mine perfectly. Nothing in his voice suggests we're discussing anything more significant than a minor business inconvenience.
I nod. The Irish will understand. Back off our territory or next time we won't be so careful about casualties. Next time it won't be just merchandise going up in flames.
"And the other matter?"
"Went very well," Erion says, and I can hear the satisfaction bleeding through his voice. "Two thumbs up."
The phrase is deliberately cryptic but the meaning is clear. Lily's former boss had an unfortunate accident.
Good.
"Lily, you look beautiful," Artan says, deliberately shifting the conversation away from business and toward safer territory.
"You all look very dashing," Lily says, her voice warm and genuine, carrying none of the calculation that would exist if she understood what we were actually discussing. "Very intimidating in a good way. Like you could run a Fortune 500 company or star in a mafia movie."
If she only knew how close to accurate that second option is.
I extend my hand toward her, feel her fingers slide into mine immediately. Small and soft and entirely too trusting, her palm warm against mine, her grip firm enough to be real instead of performative.
We head down to the garage. Artan drives, Erion takes the passenger seat, and Lily and I settle into the back of the SUV. The security vehicle falls in behind us as we pull out, a constant shadow.
The ride to Obsidian is quiet. Lily's hand stays in mine, resting on the leather seat between us.
I don't know if she realizes she hasn't let go or if she's maintaining appearances even without an audience to perform for.
Don't know if the touch means something to her or if it's just automatic comfort, the human instinct to hold onto something solid.
I don't ask. Just hold on, my thumb occasionally brushing across her knuckles, mapping the delicate bones and soft skin, memorizing the shape of her hand.
We park in my private spot behind Obsidian. Artan and Erion lead the way through the private entrance, and Lily and I follow a few steps behind, my hand on her elbow, guiding her through the dim corridor.
The bass from the club vibrates through the walls before we even enter properly, low and rhythmic and invasive, the kind of sound you feel in your bones.
A waitress intercepts us near the VIP section, her face lighting up with recognition. "Mr. Krasniqi! It's so wonderful to see you back after so long. We've missed you."
Artan steps in smoothly, engaging her attention with the practiced ease of someone who's run interference a thousand times before.
Gives me time to orient myself, to find the railing and use it as a guide, to move into the VIP section before she can look too closely and notice that something's off, that my eyes don't quite track right, that I'm navigating by touch and memory instead of sight.
The space opens up above the main floor, a private balcony where we can be seen but remain separated from the crowd below. Perfect for visibility without accessibility. Perfect for maintaining the illusion of control.
The lights hit me immediately. Flashing strobes that fragment my already compromised vision into useless pieces.
Rotating colors that send spikes of pain through my skull with each shift.
Sharp and disorienting, each flash a small violence that builds into something larger, something that threatens to crack my careful composure.
The music is too loud, bass vibrating through my bones, through my teeth, through the base of my skull where the migraine is already beginning to build.
I settle into the booth, forcing my face into neutral lines, controlled and relaxed and completely unbothered by the sensory assault happening on every front.
Artan orders champagne. The most expensive bottle they have, delivered with enough fanfare that people notice. Make sure they see me here with my beautiful fiancée, relaxed and comfortable and completely in control. Make sure the image registers before we disappear again.
The migraine builds steadily, pressure behind my eyes that spreads outward with each flash of light, each bass drop, each assault on senses that are already struggling to process the limited information they're receiving.
"What's wrong?" Lily leans close, her voice barely audible over the music but her breath warm against my ear.
"Migraine. The lights."
"Do you want to leave?"
"Not yet." The words come out tight but firm. I need to stay longer, need to be seen, need to cement the image before we can disappear back into hiding.
She shifts beside me. I can't tell what she's doing, just sense movement, her weight leaving the seat and then returning in a different configuration.
Then she's on my lap, her body blocking the worst of the lights, creating a shadow that offers immediate and profound relief. The strobes hit her back instead of my eyes, the colors diffused through her shape instead of stabbing directly into my retinas.
"Don't startle," she says against my ear, her lips brushing the sensitive skin there and sending a different kind of sensation through me entirely. "I'm putting ice on the back of your neck. It should help."
The cold hits a second later, sharp and shocking and exactly what I need. The cloth wraps around the ice, the bundle pressed against the base of my skull where the pain is worst. Her hand holds it in place, steady and sure.
To anyone watching from below, it looks like my fiancée sitting on my lap, holding onto me with tender intimacy. Natural. Affectionate. The kind of comfortable closeness that comes from real relationships.
But it's more than performance. It's relief, the migraine backing off just enough that I can breathe without pain spiking through my skull.
It's her warmth against my chest, solid and real and grounding.
It's her scent surrounding me, vanilla and honey and something uniquely her.
It's the darkness she creates by blocking the lights, the shadow that lets me exist in this space without feeling like my head is being split open.
I relax into it despite every instinct screaming that this is dangerous, that letting myself depend on this comfort is a weakness I can't afford.
Let myself feel it anyway, the care and the relief and the strange intimacy of being held together by someone who has no obligation to care whether I'm suffering.
My hands settle on her hips automatically, holding her steady, keeping her positioned exactly where she's blocking the worst of the light.
Dangerous. This is dangerous. But I can't make myself care right now.
I pull her closer, eliminating the last inch of space between us, my mouth near her ear. "Don't startle."
Then I kiss her.
It starts as performance, public affection for the benefit of anyone watching from below. A calculated display designed to sell the engagement, to make it real in the eyes of witnesses.
But it shifts almost immediately, the performance dissolving into something genuine and hungry and entirely unplanned.
Her lips part under mine, soft and warm and willing. Her hand tangles in my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp in a way that makes me forget about the migraine entirely. The ice and cloth slip, forgotten, as she kisses me back with an intensity that matches my own.
I deepen it, one hand moving to the back of her neck to angle her head exactly where I want it, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks.
Forget where we are, forget why we're here, forget everything except the taste of her and the small sounds she makes when I bite her lower lip and the way she fits against me like she was designed for exactly this purpose.
We're making out. Fully. Lost in it completely, all pretense of performance abandoned in favor of genuine want.
"Well, well. Didn't take you long to find yourself a cheap little whore to chase away the grief for your dead father."
The voice cuts through everything, shrill and vicious and intimately familiar. Nails on glass. Poison wrapped in false sweetness.
Valentina.
Lily goes rigid in my arms, every muscle locking, the warm pliant woman from two seconds ago replaced by something carved from ice.
I hear Artan move immediately, his voice low and controlled as he intercepts Valentina. "Let's take this conversation elsewhere."
The sound of heels clicking away, Artan's steady footsteps guiding her firmly toward the exit before she can cause more damage.
But the damage is done.
Lily stands, pulling away from me, taking all the warmth with her. The lights hit my eyes again, unfiltered and vicious. The migraine surges back with brutal intensity, pain spiking through my skull hard enough to make my vision white out completely for a second.
"I think that's enough," Lily says. Her voice is tight, controlled in the way that means she's holding onto composure by force of will alone. "I want to go."
"Lily, let me—"
"It's okay." She's already moving, already creating distance, physical and emotional space opening up between us like a chasm. "It's nothing. You don't owe me any explanation."
But that's the problem. That kiss wasn't nothing. Not for me. And I need her to know that, I need her to understand that whatever just happened was real, was genuine, had nothing to do with performance or appearances or maintaining the lie.
I need her to know that I have nothing but disdain for that woman.
Except she's already walking away, and I can't see well enough to follow without stumbling, and the words I need are locked somewhere behind the pain fracturing through my skull.
So I just sit there in the flashing lights and the pounding music, tasting her on my lips and watching her blurred shape disappear into the crowd.
Alone again.
Like I probably deserve.