26. Lily
Chapter 26
Lily
I hum a Christmas song as I walk the hallway. I love Christmas music and certain songs tend to get stuck in my head rather easily. Today it's: Baby it’s Cold Outside.
My shoes make soft little taps against the tile, echoing off the tall white walls. The whole floor smells like lemon cleaner and printer ink, which means someone’s been tidying again. Probably Ava—she always goes overboard when Daddy’s stressed.
The bouquet crinkles in my hands as I adjust the ribbon. Some of the petals looked tired this morning, but a little sugar water perked them right up.
The soup’s still warm in the thermos tucked against my side, the lid twisted tight so it won’t spill. Daddy hates messes. I made sure it will be perfect for him.
I pass a group of grad students near the break room, shoulders hunched over coffee and datapads.
One of them glances up—Benji, I think.
I stop a few steps away, smiling. “Hi Benji! ”
He blinks at me, confused. “I’m sorry… do I know you?”
“Oh, that’s alright,” I say, soft and bright. “I’m Lily Voss. We met last year at Daddy’s presentation here.”
“Right,” he says, still not quite meeting my eyes. “Lilian. Well… nice to see you, but I’m very busy.”
“Oh, me too,” I chirp. “I’m on my way to visit Daddy. I hope you have a great day.”
I keep walking, thermos tucked close, bouquet steady in my hands.
Behind me, I hear murmurs. A chuckle. Then quiet laughter from the group.
I smile to myself.
Someone must’ve told a good joke.
I tuck the flowers with the thermos and reach for my phone and text Dominic.
I’m on my way to bring Daddy soup and I think I deserve cuddles
Will I see you tonight?
Oley misses his daddy
His mommy misses him too
The door to Daddy’s office blinks red as I approach.
I press my thumb to the scanner and wait for the soft chirp of approval.
The lock disengages with a click. The door eases open on its own.
And I step inside and sigh.
Daddy’s office looks like it’s been hit by a storm.
It’s chaos.
The desk is still spotless. His gold pens are aligned like always, laptop centered, research folders stacked in careful little towers. But the walls? They’re screaming.
Whiteboards filled with looping equations and half-erased formulas. Clippings tacked in jagged lines across the corkboard—some faded, some new. Photos of explosions. Test sites. Weapons in pieces. Red ink circles some. Xs slash through others.
It’s always a bit of an explosion on his walls, but this is more than is typical. He’s been working way too much. I worry about his health. I smile as I watch him shuffle several papers and then pin another to the wall.
“Hi Daddy,” I chirp as I step inside. I hold up the thermos and the tiny bouquet. “Tomato basil with extra cream. I made this for you at the shop. Something to remind you of me.”
He doesn’t answer. Just scribbles something across the wall printout with a red pen. He gets lost in his head like this when he’s in the middle of a big project.
I set the thermos down. Arrange the lilies in the small beaker he keeps for my visits. The water inside is stale.
His pen scratches faster.
I sit delicately on the corner of the couch, pull out my phone and see if Dominic has responded. Nothing yet. He’s probably busy.
Daddy mutters something under his breath. His words are clipped and sharp. I think it’s about loss margins. Or variables. Or something else I don’t understand.
The pen in Daddy’s hand snaps.
He tosses it aside and grabs another from the lineup.
I smile, soft. Reassuring. “You should rest. Even masterminds need a break.”
I check my phone again, but still no new texts .
“I don’t have time.”
I look at him and it takes me a moment to recall what we were talking about. “Then eat,” I say gently. “You can’t build a better world on an empty stomach.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the wall.
“Is that what you think I do?”
“Well… that’s what you told me when I was a little girl.”
I smile faintly. “You and Mommy both.”
His jaw tightens.
It always happens when I mention her. His face falls. His mouth presses into that same sad line. He must miss her terribly.
He’s muttering again—about timelines, about assets, about ghosts in the system.
Red ink slashes across another page. Another picture. Another name.
“Daddy…” I say softly. “Is something wrong?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps marking up the map—circling, crossing out.
Then, his voice goes low when he says, “Three of our facilities have gone silent. Entire teams. Vanished.”
I blink. “Vanished?”
“No contact. No data. One had seventeen years of classified work stored on-site. Gone.” He flips to a second page. “A quarter-billion in assets lost. Two weeks of research wiped clean.”
“Oh,” I whisper, because I don’t know what else to say.
“And whoever’s doing this,” he mutters, “they’re getting bolder.” He stares at the wall like it’s speaking back.
“This isn’t sabotage,” he mumbles to himself. “This is a message. ”
I glance at the bouquet sitting in the beaker on his shelf. I tied the ribbon extra carefully today.
“But… why would anyone want to do that?”
He exhales sharply through his nose. It doesn’t sound like a sigh—it sounds like control.
“Because they want to see me fail. Because someone out there doesn’t understand what I’m trying to do.”
I keep talking to Daddy, pretending not to care. Pretending I don’t check the screen again. And again.
I try not to frown when my notifications remain empty.
I set the phone beside me on the couch. Try to focus.
I nod slowly, even though I still don’t understand.
“What will you do?”
His fingers tighten around the marker until the cap creaks.
“Whatever I have to.”
He doesn’t answer. Just grabs another pen. Circles something with force.
Then—without looking at me?—
“Don’t go anywhere alone.”
My breath catches.
“What?”
“Just don’t. It isn’t safe right now.”
I hesitate—then smile again.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not alone."
My phone buzzes in my hand and my heart leaps.
Tell me, angel—is it me or my cock you miss?
My face goes crimson. Right in front of Daddy. I fumble the phone and shove it under my thigh like it might bite .
My lips part. A little breath escapes.
I don’t think he’s teasing me. He means it. And I… I think the answer is both.
I clear my throat and force a smile, heart pounding.
“I have a boyfriend now."
That makes him pause.
Fully. Finally.
He turns from the wall.
“A boyfriend?”
I nod, proud. “His name’s Dominic. He’s very sweet. I think you’d like him.”
Daddy blinks slowly. "Really." His voice stays even, his eyes stay locked on mine for a moment. “Then you won't mind if I meet him."
“Oh!” My heart leaps. “That would be so nice! Let me ask him!”
Daddy says he wants to meet you!!
I think it would be so cute if you two got along.
I’d be happy to meet him.
Some introductions have been a long time coming.
“What did you say his name was?” Daddy asks, voice still flat.
“Dominic,” I repeat.
His jaw tightens. Just a flicker.
“Lilian,” he says. “It’s not a good idea for you to get involved with anyone right now. He might be using you to get to me. ”
My chest seizes. “Daddy… no. He loves me.”
“Sure he does,” he mutters. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Something breaks. Not loud. Just a little crack behind my ribs.
I blink. Once. Twice. My lashes feel damp.
I touch my cheek. There’s a tear.
I don’t remember crying.
Daddy says I’m not allowed to see you.
He thinks you’re using me.
I stare at the phone. Nothing. Still.
Daddy keeps muttering behind me—something about timelines and asset failure.
Go home.
I’ll meet you along the way.
Daddy said no
Lily. No one—not even your father—is going to keep you from me.
You’re mine.
Now, go home.
ok
The air nips at my cheeks as I step off the train. It’s the kind of cold that makes your eyes water if you don’t blink fast enough. I don’t mind it, though. The sky’s still pale blue. Everything smells like pavement and roasted chestnuts from the vendor on the corner.
I’m still humming that same song from earlier. It’s so catchy and sweet, I don’t mind. Besides, it really is cold out here. Smells like it might snow later.
The sidewalks are dressed up for the season—ribbons on every lamppost, strings of lights looped around boutique windows, wreaths on the doors. Garlands twist along the railings in neat, green spirals. Somewhere nearby, a street performer plays the violin—something bright and wintery.
The city feels joyful today.
A little boy walks by in a reindeer hat, and I smile at him, gentle and bright. He stares up at me with wide, curious eyes, so I wiggle my fingers in a tiny wave. His cheeks flush a sweet pink, and he quickly turns back to his mom’s coat sleeve like he’s suddenly shy.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and my heart leaps—but when I check, it’s just a sale alert from the candle store. I swipe it away and tuck the phone back without looking.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The voice is casual. Confident. Close.
I look up and realize I’m no longer walking alone. A man I don’t recognize has fallen into step beside me. Tall. Tan jacket. Cheap cologne and a scratch on his jaw like he’s been in a fight recently and didn’t win.
I blink at him, puzzled. “Sorry, do I know you?”
He grins like we’ve been talking for hours.
“Where’s a pretty thing like you headed in such a rush? ”
“I’m not rushing,” I say politely. “And I’m not a thing, silly.”
He laughs—loud, like it’s a compliment. “Feisty. I like that. You got a name?”
I keep walking. “I’m sorry. I don’t talk to strangers.”
“But you looked at me.”
He steps closer. His shoulder brushes mine as his hand clamps around my wrist.
“As far as I’m concerned, that’s an invitation.”
My breath hitches. His touch makes me feel strange. Uncomfortable, maybe. Like something sticky crawled under my skin and didn’t ask permission.
“Please don’t touch me.” I try to pull away.
His grip tightens. I whimper.
“Don’t be like that.”
Then he yanks.
Pulls me off the sidewalk and into the mouth of an alley. I stumble but don’t fall. My boots scuff on the wet pavement. My tote bangs into the wall. My heart spikes as he pushes me against the bricks, tucked away in the shadows.
“Just trying to talk to you, sweetheart. Don’t have to be such a bitch.”
I don’t scream. I don’t yank away again. I just smile, certain this is a misunderstanding.
“I have a boyfriend.” It comes out soft. Like a confession.
The man’s grip tightens. “Yeah? Where’s he at, then?”
A shadow moves at the mouth of the alley, and he doesn’t just walk—he appears. Dressed in black, his coat catching the wind, eyes like molten glass and fists already clenched.
“Let. Her. Go.”
His voice is calm. But it sounds like violence .
The man turns, still laughing. Still cocky. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Her boyfriend.”
One punch. That’s all it takes.
The man drops like a sack of meat.
I flinch when he hits the ground. The sound echoes between the walls.
Dominic doesn’t spare him a glance. He steps over the body and reaches for me—slow, deliberate. His fingers wrap around my wrist, gentle as he checks for marks.
Just a little red. Might bruise later. I hope not.
“Are you hurt?”
My voice is barely there. “No. I’m okay now.”
He holds my wrist like it’s fragile. Like I’m something he doesn’t want to break.
I smile. “You really are my boyfriend.”
His expression doesn’t change. But something flickers behind his eyes. “Something like that.”
I look down at our hands. Then back up at him, trying not to beam too hard.
And that’s when he says, “Let me take you somewhere tonight.”
My heart skips. “Like a… date?”
His mouth quirks—just a little. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“I do,” I say instantly, like I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to ask.
And then he walks me home.
Hand in hand.
I had three hours to make myself perfect. He didn’t say where we were going—just “Dress up.” And now my closet’s a war zone. Zippers hiss, hangers clatter, and lace drapes across every surface like the aftermath of a glitter bomb detonation. A single heel’s in the sink. I don’t know how. I’m not questioning it.
I tried on eight dresses. Maybe ten. One looks too bridal. Another feels like a child playing pretend. A few cling in ways that don’t feel like me. I want something that whispers angel but dares someone to touch. Something soft. Something unforgettable. Something that makes me feel like his.
Then I found it. A green dress tucked in the back—deep emerald, shimmery when it catches the light. The fabric slides over my skin like it’s always known me. The neckline dips just low enough to feel dangerous. The hem dances above my knees with a little twirl, playful but not too loud. It’s pretty and festive, particularly when I slip into black heels with red bottoms.
I curl my hair into soft waves and let them fall down my back. A touch of shimmer across my cheeks, a little mascara—-and pause. My hands are trembling, just slightly. I don’t know why. He already calls me his. But tonight feels different. Like maybe it means something more. I want it to.
I text him when I’m done.
I’m ready Where should I meet you?
I pace. I check the mirror. I smile at my reflection and pretend I’m not glowing.
Come outside. I’m waiting.
My breath catches. I grab my dress coat that I’ve only worn a handful of times and float to the door, fingers trembling, heart weightless. And I step outside like a girl walking into her favorite chapter.
I step outside, expecting shadows and leather, and for a second, I don’t see him.
Then I do.
And I nearly fall down the stairs.
He’s standing by the curb. Leaning against a black car like he owns the city it’s parked in. Dressed in a suit.
He’s wearing a suit.
An actual suit.
Black and tailored perfectly. The coat hugs his shoulders just right. His shirt’s open at the collar, crisp and white beneath the lapels, and his hair’s been pushed back like he did it with his fingers and still looks perfect.
My steps falter.
My heart stutters.
I miss the last stair—and he catches me like he knew I would.
Did I just swoon?
His hand closes around my elbow, firm and warm through the layers of my coat. “Careful, angel.”
He looks at me with that slow, knowing smile.
“Fall for me too fast, I might get cocky.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Words scatter like dandelion seeds in the wind .
“You wore a suit,” I whisper, as if saying it out loud will make it make sense.
He shrugs, all effortless menace. “You said it was a date.”
My chest tightens. My cheeks burn. I might actually float away.
“I didn’t think you’d—I mean, I hoped you would, but—” I stop. Shake my head. Smile helplessly. “You look beautiful.”
His gaze lingers. “So do you.”
I try not to melt on the sidewalk.
I fail.
The restaurant has chandeliers like upside-down crystal gardens and napkins folded into shapes I don’t understand. Our waiter has an accent and a bowtie. Dominic doesn’t even blink.
I think I’ve entered one of my books.
They seat us at a window table with gold-rimmed glasses and more silverware than I know what to do with. Dominic pulls out my chair before I can reach for it—like a gentleman. Like this is something he does.
My brain is soup.
He orders something I can’t pronounce.
I order the first thing on the menu because I panic.
It ends up being sea bass with truffle foam and something called “edible soil.” I don’t know what that means, but I nod like I absolutely belong here.
Dominic watches me eat like I’m the strangest thing in the room.
I talk too much. About soup recipes. And candle scents. And how Oley learned to open the cupboard under the sink.
He doesn’t say much.
Just sips his drink. Smirks a little .
Watches me like I’m the only thing that exists.
And then?—
He leans forward, low enough that only I can hear it.
“Do you have any idea what I’m thinking right now?”
I pause, blinking. “…No?”
His mouth curves.
“I’m thinking about peeling that dress off you with my teeth.”
I drop my fork.
It clatters against the plate and echoes off the chandelier.
The waiter appears immediately with a fresh one.
Dominic doesn’t stop smiling, and honestly, neither can I.
“You don’t seem like the type who goes on a lot of dates,” I tease, twirling my fork.
“I don’t,” he says simply, not even pretending otherwise.
“But you’ve done this before. I can tell.”
He lifts his eyes to mine, and that unreadable smirk flickers across his face. “A few years ago. I had to.”
“Had to?”
He leans back, fingers toying with the base of his water glass like it’s a trigger he hasn’t decided whether to pull. “Friend of mine needed help. The kind of help that comes from someone sitting nearby and looking like they belong.”
“What, like undercover?”
“Something like that.”
I blink. “Wait, you didn’t actually pretend to be on a date with someone, did you?”
“No,” he says with that dry edge in his voice. “I went alone. It was a business dinner. The target was three tables away. All I had to do was mirror his phone long enough to clone the SIM. Needed to hear what he was planning. ”
“That sounds…” I try not to sound impressed, but I definitely fail. “…intense.”
He shrugs. “It worked.”
I bite my lip. “Was it dangerous?”
His gaze sharpens. “Always is.”
For a moment, he’s somewhere else. I can tell. Somewhere colder. Somewhere that doesn’t come with candles and background music and waiters in starched vests.
“So,” I say gently, “you helped your friend?”
He nods. “That was the deal.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “Was it S?”
The fork in his hand pauses.
“Or Beckett?”
His eyes rise to meet mine, suddenly very still.
The silence stretches.
His fingers tighten around his glass. Not violently. Just enough for me to notice.
“How do you know those names?” he asks, voice low now. Careful.
I smile. “I called him from your phone when you showed up hurt in my apartment. I didn’t know what else to do, and the phone just… fell out of your pocket. With only three contacts, and one of them being me, I felt confident one of the others could help.”
He smirks, “Well aren’t you full of surprises. Either of them would’ve helped, but S is the closest thing I have to family.”
“I guess that explains the men he sent that were very eager to help. Big guys. Kind of intimidating, honestly. They called me ma’am. Which was very polite. And very weird. I mean, they were obviously way older than me. ”
He barks out a single laugh that for that one second transforms him. I’ll make it my life's mission to get him to do it as often as possible.
“I’m surprised S hasn’t harassed me about that yet,” he says, voice relaxed and carefree in a way I’ve never heard him before. “Then again, he’s had his hands full lately.”
He stares at me like I’m a puzzle and then he gives me an easy smile before shaking his head.
“What?” I ask softly. “Did I surprise you?”
“Yes,” he says. “More than a little.”
I beam. “Good.”
We’re almost to my building when I spot it—lights strung between vendor stalls, warm and gold and blinking like fireflies. A little Christmas market, tucked into the square like it bloomed overnight. People bundled in scarves and laughter drift through the rows of booths. There’s music playing somewhere, and the scent of cinnamon sugar rolls through the cracked window.
I gasp, hand flying to my chest.
Dominic shifts beside me in the car, brows twitching low.
“Can we—” I start, then hesitate. “Oh. No, never mind. We don’t have to. It’s late. You probably hate things like this anyway.”
I smile at him, soft and unbothered, like I’m not already rearranging my heartbeat.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment and then he leans forward and tells the driver to stop.
My heart skips and I feel giddy.
The driver pulls over, and before I can fumble for the door handle, Dominic’s already out—coming around to open it for me like a gentleman in a movie. His hand closes over mine. It’s warm. Solid. And he doesn’t let go after he helps me out of the car.
We wander through the stalls slowly. He’s all black coat and sharp eyes. I’m practically bouncing. There are little twinkling fairy lights strung between wooden booths. Someone sells hot roasted chestnuts. Another has hand-painted ornaments that look like they belong in castles.
He gets us hot chocolate without asking—hands it to me, then drinks his own. I keep peeking over at him, certain this is all a dream.
We pass a jewelry vendor, and I pause too long in front of a tray of delicate silver rings. One catches the light just right. It has tiny stones in the middle in various colors. It’s like something from a fairy tale with the band twisted to look like flower stems. I gasp when I realize it looks like a bouquet.
I smile, what a lovely creation. Then move on. It’s silly to spend that kind of money on something so small.
“See something you like?” he asks, sipping his drink, eyes on me—not the rings.
“I just thought it was pretty,” I say, trying to sound casual.
Soft flakes start to fall from the sky. Light, drifting things like feathers or dreams.
“Oh!” I look up, grinning. “I knew it would snow! I said so earlier—didn’t I say so?”
I spin once, laughing, my scarf lifting on the breeze. The chocolate in my hand nearly sloshes over the rim. I turn back to him, cheeks flushed, eyelashes catching snowflakes.
And he’s looking at me like he’s never seen something so alive, and I swear my heart stops.
His gloved hand reaches for my chin, tilts it gently.
“I like you like this,” he says .
Then he kisses me.
Not rushed. Not rough.
Just… warm. Sure. Thorough.
Snow falls around us like confetti in slow motion. It’s magical.
“I think I like being yours,” I whisper.
“Good.”
“Do you like being mine?” He stares at me for a few seconds and I start to think I might have messed up.
“Sure,” he finally says, and that’s good enough for me.
We don’t stay much longer. The cold starts to bite, and I’m too fluttery to care about the trinkets anymore. We ride back in silence, but it’s the good kind. The full kind.
When we get to my building, he walks me up. Doesn’t ask. Just follows me to the door, hands in his coat pockets, jaw tight.
I unlock it and turn toward him, suddenly shy. “Do you want to come in?”
He hesitates, looks at me like he’s watching me closely.
“I can make tea,” I offer.
He shakes his head slowly. “Not tonight.”
My heart drops. Just a little. “Oh. Is it because of what I asked?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“If I ruined—if I made it weird?—”
“Lily.”
I stop.
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
He steps forward, cups my face in one hand.
“You’re perfect. ”
His thumb brushes a tear I didn’t know was there. That’s twice in one day.
Then he kisses my forehead, and it feels like being chosen.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
And just like that, he’s gone.
I shut the door softly.
My hands tremble as I lock it.
And I whisper to the empty apartment, “He said I was perfect.”
After he leaves, I spend a little while picking up the apartment from when my closet exploded all over the place.
I light my lavender candle and let it fill the air with calm. My favorite holiday playlist hums from the speaker—soft instrumentals, the kind that’s perfect for bedtime.
I change into pink sleep-shorts with tiny strawberries and one of my favorite oversized t-shirts. My cheeks are still warm from earlier. From the way he kissed me, and the way he looked at me like I was something soft and sacred. Like I was his.
I make some sleepytime tea and let it steep while I clean the few dishes from this morning and wipe down the counter. Then I sip slowly, pacing the apartment, turning off the lights one by one.
Everything’s in its place and tidy.
I pad into the bathroom and pull my fluffy headband on. Brush my teeth for exactly ninety seconds. Swirl minty mouthwash and hum through the burn.
I pump a few drops of cleansing oil into my hands, smooth it over my face, and rinse it off with warm water. Then comes my favorite foaming cleanser. I lather it into soft white clouds and massage it in gentle circles until my face feels light, clean, and new before rinsing it off.
I pat my face dry with a white towel and finally look up at the mirror.
My reflection smiles back at me—rosy cheeks, dewy skin, bright green eyes still a little too wide with joy.
“Perfect,” I whisper, echoing what he said.
My fingers drift across my lips like I can still feel his kiss.
“He said I was?—”
Emerald green eyes bleed into a deeper hazel.
My spine straightens and I grin at myself. It’s always strange seeing my fresh face. I prefer the war paint.
I run a hand through my hair—ugh, it’s a mess. Wonderful. I love that for me. I slick it back with my fingers and water before twisting and tucking it into a tight braid. I want to be able to slap a bitch with if I need too.
Preferably Wraith.
I crouch in front of the sink and open the cabinets. Reaching in for the star of the show.
“Hello, beautiful,” I say to the flat black tin. Shiny. Heavy. Still smells like victory and bad decisions. Although, I don’t really think any of my decisions are bad, they’re just misunderstood.
I unscrew the lid and dip two fingers into the white, creamy paint. It goes on cold, and feels like painting a blank canvas. First my cheeks, then my chin, and finally my forehead.
Then I pull out my favorite weapon—the black grease stick.
She’s a bit stubby now. But she’s a real one, and never lets me down .
I cover my eyes and then draw two vertical lines—one over each eye, and then one side gets an exaggerated smile while the other gets a frown.
I lean in—real close—inspecting my handiwork. I have to say, I’ve gotten damn good at this over the years.
“Damn,” I whisper, tilting my head. “Look at you.”
Performance violence is on the menu tonight, and I definitely look the part. Per usual.
My smile spreads—too wide. Too sharp.
“If I were anyone else, I’d be scared of me too.” I cackle manically. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall… who’s the baddest bitch of them all?”
Well that’s easy.
Obviously it’s me.