Chapter 24 LILY
LILY
I'm nervous.
More than nervous. My hands shake. My thoughts spiral into patterns I can't control, looping endlessly through the same questions without finding answers.
I don't know what last night with Luan means. Was it just a moment? Something that happened because we were both vulnerable and needy? Or does he want something more? Something that extends beyond one night of heat and desperation and connection that felt too real to be temporary?
And the other men. The way they looked at me this morning when I walked into that kitchen. They know. There's no way they don't know what happened between me and Luan.
Artan's face when he walked in. The silence that dropped like a stone into water, ripples spreading outward. The weight of his stare, heavy enough to feel like a physical touch. Not angry, exactly. Something more complicated. Something that looked like hurt mixed with resignation.
Erion's smirk. Like he was amused by the whole situation. Or maybe pleased. Or maybe something else I couldn't read because his expressions shift too fast, change too often, reveal and conceal in equal measure.
I don't know how to tell them. Don't know how to explain that I've been intimate with all of them in different ways.
How do you even have that conversation?
So I'm doing what I always do when I'm stressed, when my thoughts won't settle and my chest feels too tight.
I'm baking.
The kitchen counter is covered. Banana bread cooling on wire racks, the tops cracked and golden.
Chocolate chip cookies arranged on parchment paper, still warm enough that the chocolate is soft.
A lemon cake with cream cheese frosting, the tangy sweetness filling the air.
Cinnamon rolls rising under a clean towel, the dough pillowy and smooth.
Brownies cut into perfect squares, fudgy and rich.
I can't stop. Every time I think I'm done, every time I tell myself that's enough, I find another recipe. Another thing to make. Another way to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted from the spiral threatening to pull me under.
Flour dusts the counter, my apron, my forearms. Sugar crystals stick to my fingers.
The oven radiates heat that makes the kitchen almost too warm, but I don't care.
The repetitive motions soothe me. Measuring.
Mixing. Pouring. Shaping. Watching raw ingredients transform into something complete and whole.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts through my concentration, pulls me back from the edge of the spiral. I wipe my flour-covered hands on my apron, leaving white streaks across the fabric, and grab the phone from where it sits on the counter.
The caller ID makes me smile despite everything.
Jess.
I answer immediately, pressing the phone to my ear. "Jess! I'm so happy to talk to you. It feels like ages."
"That's because it has been ages," she says, and I can hear the affectionate exasperation in her voice. "You're always too busy. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Never," I say. The word comes out fierce. Honest. "I'm sorry. Things have been crazy."
"Tell me everything."
I lean against the counter, my hip pressing into the edge. "I'm working somewhere new. Living somewhere new too, actually. It's temporary but it's nice. Really nice."
"Living where?" Jess's curiosity is immediate. "With who?"
"With my employer. It's part of the job. They needed someone on-site." I keep my voice carefully neutral. Vague on purpose.
"But it's good. Stable. Better than what I had before. Better pay. Better conditions. A place to live while I figure things out."
I don't mention names. Don't mention the fake engagement that's starting to feel less fake every day. Don't mention anything that could identify them or put them at risk. The instinct to protect them surprises me with its intensity, but I don't question it.
"I'm happy for you," Jess says, and her voice is warm and genuine in a way that makes my chest tighten. "You deserve it. God knows you've had enough chaos."
The words settle over me like a blanket. Comfort and validation wrapped together.
"Actually," Jess continues, her tone shifting slightly, "speaking of your old job. Did you hear what happened to your former boss, the mighty Chef Marcus Hale?"
My stomach drops. The pleasant warmth from her earlier words evaporates. "No. What happened?"
"He was assaulted. Some weird attack. They cut off both his thumbs."
I gasp, the sound sharp and involuntary. Horror floods through me, cold and immediate. "Oh my god. That's awful."
"Is it though?" Jess's voice is dry. Matter-of-fact. "He had it coming after what he did to you. Made sure you couldn't get another job. Blackballed you everywhere that mattered. And now he can't hold a knife either. Poetic justice."
"Jess," I say, scandalized despite myself.
"I'm just saying. Karma's a bitch." She pauses. "And he'll have a hard time jerking off now without thumbs."
The dark humor shocks a laugh out of me before I can stop it. I shouldn't laugh. It's terrible. Horrible. A man was mutilated. But the image is so absurd, and Jess's delivery is so deadpan, that I can't help it.
"You're horrible," I tell her, but there's no real heat in it.
"I'm honest," she corrects. "There's a difference. Anyway. I'm glad you're happy. You sound happy."
"I am," I say, and I realize as the words leave my mouth that they're true.
For all my stress and nerves and confusion, for all the anxiety spiraling through my chest and the questions I can't answer, I'm happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way I haven't been in years. Maybe ever.
We say goodbye. I hang up and set my phone down on the counter, the screen still warm against my palm.
I'm thinking about happiness, about what Jess said, about the strange lightness in my chest despite everything, when I hear the door open.
The sound pulls my attention immediately. My pulse kicks up, nervous energy flooding back.
They walk in together. All three of them.
The sight hits me like a physical force.
Luan moves with more confidence than he did even yesterday, his steps sure and purposeful.
His sunglasses are off, tucked into his jacket pocket, and his eyes are clear and focused in a way they haven't been since the explosion.
Green cutting through the afternoon light.
He's tall and controlled and magnetic in a way that makes my breath catch, that makes me remember last night with visceral clarity.
The way he touched me. The way he looked at me.
The way he made me feel like the only thing in the world that mattered.
Artan is solid beside him. Steady. Grounded.
The kind of presence that makes you feel safe just by existing in the same room.
His broad shoulders and weathered face, the quiet strength that radiates from him like heat from a fire.
His eyes find mine immediately, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
Erion is pure energy. Movement and heat and barely restrained chaos. He grins when he sees me, that sharp, dangerous smile that makes my pulse race for entirely different reasons. He holds up a package wrapped in butcher paper, the brown stained dark in places.
"I come bearing gifts," he announces, his voice carrying easily across the space. "The best dry-aged ribeye from my butcher shop. Thought maybe you could make us lunch. We could all enjoy it together."
I stare at him, momentarily derailed from my spiral by the sheer randomness of the statement. "You own a butcher shop?"
He smirks, clearly enjoying my surprise. "Just one of my many businesses, dashuri."
The Albanian endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, warm and deliberate.
Artan steps forward, his presence filling the space between us. "We can all help."
And somehow, without quite understanding how it happened, I end up directing all three of them around the kitchen like some sort of culinary general commanding troops.
Luan opens a bottle of wine by feel, his hands moving with surprising confidence despite his limited vision. The cork comes free with a soft pop. He pours four glasses with careful precision.
Artan seasons the meat, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he massages salt and pepper and garlic into the flesh. The scent fills the kitchen, rich and savory.
Erion sets the table, moving with the kind of easy grace that comes from confidence rather than practice. He folds napkins. Arranges silverware. Places wine glasses just so.
We talk about nothing important. Safe topics that don't require vulnerability or honesty. Random stories that don't mean anything, that fill the air without demanding response.
It's almost normal. Almost domestic. Like we're four people who do this all the time, who've fallen into comfortable rhythms built over years instead of weeks.
The illusion is fragile. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Lunch is ready. We sit. The ribeye is perfect, seared on the outside with a caramelized crust and pink in the middle, juices running clear when I cut into it. The sides are simple. Roasted vegetables. A salad with lemon vinaigrette. Bread still warm from the oven.
The food is excellent. Everyone agrees. Compliments flow easily.
But tension builds with every passing minute, coiling tighter and tighter until I can feel it pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe.
I can't take it anymore.
"I don't know what's happening here," I say. The words tumble out before I can stop them, before I can think better of it. "I don't understand what this is or what you all want or how this is supposed to work or—"
Luan interrupts, his voice calm and steady. "It can be whatever you want it to be. It's your choice."
The simplicity of the statement stuns me.
Artan adds, his voice gentler, "Your choice if you don't want any of us. No pressure. No obligation. You're free to walk away."
Erion leans back in his chair, that dangerous smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Your choice if you want all of us. At the same time."
Heat floods my face. Instant. Overwhelming. I open my mouth to respond, to say something, anything, but no words come out. My brain has short-circuited completely.
All of them. At the same time.
The image that conjures is vivid and immediate and so overwhelming I can't process it.
"You don't need to answer now," Erion says, and his voice has lost the teasing edge, become something quieter and more serious. "Just think about it. Take your time. We're not going anywhere."
We eat in silence after that. The weight of the conversation presses down on all of us, heavy and inescapable. The clink of silverware against plates. The soft sound of breathing. Wine being poured.
No one speaks.
The silence stretches, taut as a wire.
Then Luan breaks it. He sets down his fork, his green eyes finding mine with unsettling accuracy. "I need to go to Zurich in two days. To see the eye specialist. My vision is improving but I want confirmation that the recovery is complete. Would you like to come with me?"
The question catches me off guard. Switzerland. Zurich. Days away from here, from Chicago, from everything familiar.
Before I can answer, before I can even begin to formulate a response, Erion speaks up.
"Great idea." His voice is bright with manufactured enthusiasm. "I've always wanted to go to Switzerland. I hear they have excellent chocolate. World-class skiing too, though the wrong season for that."
Luan's jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath skin. His eyes cut toward Erion with barely concealed irritation. "I wasn't inviting you."
"Too bad," Erion says, completely unbothered by Luan's tone. "’Cause I'm going."