15. Lilian
Lilian
I can still feel Arson’s fingers ghosting against my flesh a reminder of his brutality.
I know I should be angry at his behavior, even angry with myself for enjoying his cruel touch the way I did, but the reality is, both of us should be directing our anger elsewhere.
At the real culprits.
Which is why the second I’m awake in the morning, I storm through Hayes mansion with purpose, past the housekeeper’s concerned looks, heading straight for my mother’s private sitting room. As expected, she’s there—perched on her favorite settee, tablet balanced on her knee. A hot cup of tea sits beside her. I take the chair opposite her.
She only ever uses this space to plan her next charity event or talk business, so it’s safe to assume that’s what she’s doing right now. Everything about her radiates careful control, from her expertly styled golden blond hair down to the Louboutin heels on her feet.
“Darling,” she greets without looking up, “I didn’t expect you to sleep so late. Are you not feeling well?”
The concern in her voice sounds genuine, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s fake. That’s the worst part—she probably thinks she loves me, even while using my condition to manipulate everyone around us.
“I’m feeling fine. I don’t get to sleep in with school as much as I used to.” A quick check of my watch makes me roll my eyes, though. It’s only nine o’clock. “I just wanted to talk to you about Aries before you went out or whatever.” I force myself to sit gracefully, the way she’s trained me. No signs of distress that might trigger her protective instincts.
“Oh?” This time she looks up, interest sharpening her features. “Have you two been spending time together?”
It’s such a normal question, yet the way she asks it, as if she’s hungry for new information, makes me uneasy. Has she been waiting for this conversation to happen?
“Sort of.” I choose my words carefully. “I’m just noticing that he seems...different. Not himself.” I pause and then continue. “I was wondering if something happened recently? Or if you or Richard spoke to him about anything?”
“Hmm. Different in what way?” Her fingers are still on the tablet screen.
How much information do I give her? Maybe just enough for her to tell me something, anything.
“More intense. Less controlled.” I watch her face closely. “Like he’s a different person.”
Something flickers in her eyes—fear? Recognition? Before I can make sense of it, it’s gone, replaced with her perfectly cultivated social mask. Well. Fuck. How much does she know? How much can I trust her with this?
“Sweetheart”—she sets the tablet aside and reaches for my hand—“I understand your concern for Aries, but we didn’t allow you to attend Oakmount so you could spy on your brother. You need to leave him alone. He’s going through some changes, preparing to take his place in your father’s company. It’s not healthy for you to fixate on him like this.”
“Fixate?” I pull my hand away. “I’m not fixating. I’m worried about him. He’s my stepbrother.”
“Exactly.” Her smile is gentle but firm. “And it’s not appropriate for you to be so...concerned about him. People might get the wrong idea. I thought you’d gotten over this little...crush. The stress of school must be affecting you more than we realized. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to let you attend Oakmount. Perhaps we should call Dr. Matthews?—”
“No, no. Everything is fine. I’m fine. I just…you’re right. It must be all the changes lately,” I lie and continue, “and there is no crush. I’m just concerned, that is all.”
The last thing I need is her putting her nose into my love life. If she thought for a second I still had a little kid crush on Aries, she would lose it.
“Oh, sweetheart. I understand, but the only person you should be worrying about right now is yourself.”
I nod. “I know. I didn’t mean to worry you, Mother. I’m sorry. “ I soften my voice and place my hand on her knee, playing the role I always have.
“It’s okay. I understand your worry for Aries, but I think you need to put some distance between yourself and your stepbrother. I don’t want people getting the wrong idea about you two. The stress of such a scandal could cause your heart condition—” I cut her off before she finishes and head toward the door.
“My heart is fine. I love you. I’ll keep my distance,” I tell her before I slip out of the room. I should’ve known she wouldn’t give me any information or anything relevant.
I faintly hear her say love you, too, but all I can see in my mind is her reaching for her phone to call Dr. Matthews. Or worse—Richard.
Either way, they’re hiding something. And I’m going to find out what it is, even if it means risking my own freedom. Back in my bedroom, I sit at my vanity, staring at my reflection.
The perfect Hayes daughter—carefully styled hair, expensive sweater, delicate pearl necklace that perfectly frames the surgical scar on my chest peeking above the neckline of my sweater. Their favorite conversation piece at parties.
“Have you heard about poor Richard’s stepdaughter? Such a shame, her condition. But they’ve provided her with the best care...”
My fingers trace the faint bruises forming on my throat where Arson grabbed me, where he bit me. Easy to hide with a scarf or higher neckline. I’ve become an expert at hiding things—my strength, my intelligence, my rage. Playing the role they created for me.
Just like they created roles for the twins.
The golden boy and the forgotten shadow.
My laptop sits open beside me, a social media photo from three years ago on the screen. Aries at a charity gala, smiling that perfectly practiced smile. I’ve studied his photos obsessively since my crush developed, but now, as I stare at the image it’s like seeing it with new eyes, without the veil of need clinging to it.
Was he always so controlled? So careful? Or did the sudden disappearance of his twin brother teach him that there was a price to stepping out of line?
It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Aries is being held in that cell. Arson is on a revenge mission, and no one is going to help me. If I want answers, I’ll have to find them myself. And I know exactly where to look next.
The attic.
With all the cobwebs, spiders, and dust, it’s rare that anyone goes up there. Which isn’t surprising when you think about it, since that’s where my mother keeps all the archives for our family under lock and key.
I doubt she knows it, but I’ve seen her carry boxes up those stairs, and when she was finished, I watched her lock the door and tuck the key into the top of the doorframe. It never occurred to me that something sinister could be hidden behind that door. I guess years of playing the quiet, invisible invalid of the family has finally paid off.
I check my phone—Richard is at the office until six, and Mother has her hospital board meeting in ten minutes. The staff won’t disturb me if I say I need to rest.
“Miss Lilian?” Maria, our housekeeper, knocks softly. “Your mother asked me to check on you. Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine,” I answer, making my voice appropriately weak. “Just tired. I think I’ll lie down for a while. Please don’t disturb me.”
“Of course, miss. I’ll let your mother know.”
Perfect. They’re all so trained to respect my condition that they won’t think to check on me again for a few hours.
Time to discover what other secrets the Hayes family is hiding in that attic. After a few minutes, I slip from my bedroom and tiptoe down the long hall. The thundering of my own heartbeat fills my ears, drowning out any other noise. I’ve never done something like this before. It’s almost exhilarating to stop pretending and be myself.
By the time I reach the door, my hands are trembling.
I rise onto my tiptoes and feel for the key. My fingers skim the edge of the wooden doorframe, and thorns of panic prick at my senses.
It’s not there. I try the other side, my muscles aching as I put all my effort into finding that key. A scream of joy builds in my throat when my fingers graze the cold brass key, but instead of screaming, I smile and pluck the key out of its hiding place.
With the door open, I put the key in my pocket and peer up the stairs, the darkness looming with untold secrets. Here goes nothing. Gently, I close the door behind me and ascend. The attic stairs creak under my careful steps despite my practiced movements.
Up here, the mansion’s perfect facade crumbles—a thick coat of dust covers everything, cobwebs stretch between boxes, and the air tickles my nostrils with the scent of dust and wet gym socks. Gross.
To the right of me are shelves with boxes in each spot.
I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight, sweeping it across labels written in Mother’s precise handwriting: Christmas Decorations, Summer Clothes, Family Photos Pre-2010 . Everything is categorized and controlled, just like our lives below.
As I move my flashlight across the space, I notice a door across the expansive room. I don’t know why, but my legs feel heavy with each step I take toward it. I grip the brass doorknob and push the heavy door open. I shine my flashlight inside, and the beam catches on rows and rows of filing cabinets, stacked boxes, and a large desk covered in papers.
“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” I whisper, moving to the nearest cabinet.
The first drawer reveals nothing interesting—tax records, property deeds, insurance policies. The second holds medical files, but they’re recent. My quarterly checkups, Aries’s anxiety prescriptions, Father’s blood pressure monitoring.
Holy shit, they have a file on each of us.
Dust tickles my nose, and I reach for my inhaler, more from habit than necessity. The familiar action steadies me as I move deeper into the room. I can’t seem to get my eyes to move fast enough, to take all the information in fast enough.
A box labeled Family Holdings - Confidential catches my attention.
I tug the top of the box off, eager to discover its contents. Inside are more medical records, but these are older. I squint as I read off the names at the top of each file.
Elizabeth Martov, Marcus Richards, Thomas Wright.
I’ve never heard my parents talk about these people or say their names.
Why would they have information on them? Curiosity draws me deeper down the rabbit hole, and I examine the files. Each name belongs to a teenager and contains notes about behavioral issues and institutional care recommended.
My hands shake as I continue to read. I move on to the next file, and the next, and the next. Each file follows the same pattern—troubled teen, family connection to the Hayes business empire, sudden transfer to specialized facilities. There are no follow-up records. No indication of what happened to them.
A spider scurries across one of the files, and I jump, barely holding back a scream. But in my haste to escape the small spider, I bump into a stack of boxes. They topple with a crash that seems deafening in the stuffy attic air.
I freeze, listening for footsteps, voices, anything. Nothing. Not a sound.
Breathe, I tell myself, staving off the building panic attack. I gather the scattered papers up and place them back into the boxes. Something sparkly on the floor catches my eye, and I shine my light on the object—a metal lockbox half-hidden behind an old dresser.
I pull it out and frown when I discover the digital keypad on the front. I chew on my bottom lip, trying to think of what the code might be.
Let’s try the most obvious.
Mother’s birth date doesn’t work. Neither does Father’s. I consider mine or Aries’s birthdays, but I don’t think either of them would use our birthdays for something like this. A light bulb goes off in my head and I try the date from one of the old medical files—the day Elizabeth Martov was committed.
I’m both excited and afraid when the box clicks open. I don’t allow myself to reflect on any of the findings. Instead, I start to dig. Inside, beneath more institutional paperwork and payment records, lies a single birth certificate.
My heart stutters in my chest as I read the name printed there:
ARSON ALEXANDER HAYES. Born six minutes after his twin brother, ARIES ANDREW HAYES.
“Yes! I’ve got it,” I breathe, but the victory feels hollow as I realize what this document represents—proof of a systematic erasure of inconvenient truths. And holding this evidence in my hands, knowing it exists…that could get me erased, too.
The birth certificate is just the beginning. The lockbox is a treasure trove of carefully documented atrocities masquerading as medical care . My stomach tightens as I spread the documents across the dusty floor.
Hospital records show the twins were identical in every way until age seven, when notations regarding Arson’s concerning behaviors began to appear.
There are payment receipts—large sums transferred to various therapeutic facilities . Not just for Arson, but for others. Monthly payments to doctors, administrators, even judges.
All signed by my mother. I do the math on that little tidbit...she wasn’t even married to Richard Hayes yet. This must have been when she was working for him...before his first wife died. A stack of commitment papers reveals a pattern. Every time the Hayes family faced a potential scandal or business threat, someone’s child would develop concerning behaviors requiring immediate institutional care.
How could something like that be possible?
The timing is too perfect to be coincidental.
I continue to scour through the papers and pause when I find the reports about Arson. Pages of clinical observations, medication logs, therapy notes.
They read like torture documents.
“Patient exhibits continued resistance to treatment...”
“Increased doses recommended...”
“Solitary confinement implemented after the mention of his twin brother...”
My hand flies to my throat, remembering Arson’s grip. No wonder he’s dangerous—they made him this way. They systematically broke him while rewarding Aries for staying quiet, for playing his role. If I thought the terror ended there, I was wrong. The medical authorization forms make my blood run cold.
Mother’s signature dots numerous lines authorizing “experimental treatments” to be performed on minor patients. Father’s signature on liability waivers. An ache rips through my chest. Both of them knew exactly what they were condemning these children to, and not just other people’s children, but their own son. A letter from Dr. Matthews— my doctor —catches my eye. It’s recent, dated just last month:
“Regarding Lilian Hayes: Patient’s cardiac condition provides excellent coverage for any necessary behavioral modifications. Recommend increasing monitoring as she approaches college age. Previous symptoms of independence and questioning authority can be easily attributed to stress on her heart...”
All these years, my heart condition wasn’t just something they managed—it was something they weaponized. A built-in excuse to control me, drug me, commit me if necessary.
Just like they did to Arson.
Just like they’ve done to countless others.
The perfect Hayes family, making problems disappear behind beautiful mansion walls and medical terminology. Looking at these papers, it becomes clear that I’m not their daughter or even their victim—I’m their next potential project.
Unless I can figure out a way to stop them.
At the bottom of the box is a letter from Richard to the board of Hayes Pharmaceuticals, dated fourteen years ago.
“The acquisition of Northstar Facilities provides us with additional resources for handling sensitive family matters. Their psychiatric wing has proven particularly useful in managing potential threats to company interests...”
Northstar. The abandoned pharmaceutical warehouse where Arson is holding Aries. It wasn’t a random choice—it was where they first learned to make people disappear.
My fingers trace the family tree sketched in Mother’s elegant hand on another document. Hayes family connections branch out into every major business in the city. Next to certain names, are small red X’s. I recognize some from the medical files—families of the troubled teens who vanished into treatment .
Arson isn’t the only one they’ve done this to. A photo slips from between the pages—two boys, maybe ten years old, dressed in identical prep school uniforms. But their smiles are different. Aries looks directly at the camera, confident and controlled even then. Arson looks sideways, watching something off-camera with intense focus.
Watching...my mother, I realize, who stands at the edge of the frame holding what looks like medical papers.
The timeline assembles itself in my mind:
The Hayes family acquires Northstar Facilities.
Children of business rivals begin showing “symptoms” requiring treatment.
Arson starts asking questions.
The boathouse incident, whatever that was, provides the perfect cover.
One twin disappears, while the other is groomed for succession.
And now, ten years later, Arson has returned, wearing his brother’s face and using the very facility they imprisoned him in to exact his revenge.
But why take Aries? Why not expose the whole operation?
Unless...
My hand flies to my neck where his fingers and teeth left their marks. He’s not just seeking revenge—he’s recreating what they did to him. Making Aries experience the imprisonment he endured. Using me to twist the knife deeper. My lungs tighten as I force air into them. I’m probably the only person alive who knows the full truth.
The only question now is: what do I do with this information?
Expose the family and risk becoming their next victim? Help Arson and become complicit in his revenge? Try to save Aries and potentially make everything worse?
I think on it for another second, and consider another option—one that requires playing a role I’ve perfected over years of being underestimated.
Arson did it, so why can’t I? Perhaps it’s time for the perfect Hayes daughter to become as dangerous as they always feared she might be now. My heart condition is real—the surgeries, the medications, the occasional episodes. The asthma—also real, but they’ve twisted the medical narratives into something else entirely.
A leash. A threat. A ready-made excuse to commit me the moment I become inconvenient.
Like Arson became inconvenient. Without a doubt, I know they would do the same to Aries. To anyone who becomes a problem. I gather the documents with trembling hands, taking photos of everything with my phone. The birth certificates, the payment records, the letter about managing my independence.
Evidence of decades of systematic abuse hidden behind medical terminology and family concern. This is what I wanted, right? Evidence. But now that I have it, what do I do with it? Who do I go to?
The police? That’s a joke. They’re in the Hayes family pockets—I recognize the police commissioner’s daughter among the “treated” teens.
The media? Richard owns half the local papers, and the other half won’t risk getting involved with the Hayes family lawyers. Arson? The thought stops me cold in my tracks. He already knows most of this, and has lived through the worst of their abuse.
He wants revenge, that much is obvious, but is there a way to change his perspective, to direct his anger away from Aries and toward the people who matter most? The monsters who did this? Would knowing that there were others change his mind? Or would it be added fuel to his rage? And Aries...my stomach twists, thinking of him in that cell.
Did he know about any of this? The documents suggest he was kept deliberately ignorant, trained to look away, rewarded for his silence. Just like they’ve trained me.
I put everything back as it was, except for the birth certificate. I fold it nicely and place it in my pocket for safekeeping. All this new information has my head spinning and my emotions all over the place. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but what I do know is that I’m done playing the part they wrote for me. Done being their perfect, fragile daughter. Done watching them destroy lives while pretending it’s for the greater good.
I descend the stairs quickly, as if I’m running from the secrets I discovered. I close the attic door behind me, lock it, and then place the key back where I found it. A heaviness presses down on me while I walk back to my bedroom. If I’m not going to play the role they want me to play any longer, then what is my new role?
Do I help Arson expose everything, knowing his revenge might hurt innocent people?
Do I try to save Aries, potentially becoming Mother’s next patient in the process?
Or is there another option—one that requires me to become something far more dangerous than any of them expect. A smile pulls at my lips. It’s time to show them exactly what their perfect daughter has become.