29. Lilian
Chapter 29
Lilian
T he night smells like tetanus and daddy issues. In other words—fucking awful.
Concrete’s still wet from whatever sad excuse for rain passed through earlier—just enough to slick the pavement and turn every streetlight reflection into an astigmatism’s worst nightmare. The river churns behind the chain-link like it’s hiding bodies. Which, statistically, it probably is. I may or may not be able to confirm that probably as fact.
For legal reasons that was a joke.
It’s quiet.
Not city-quiet. Not “I’m wearing noise-canceling headphones and pretending I’m emotionally stable” quiet.
Its unnaturally quiet. Like the city held its breath and forgot how to exhale.
I hate it.
Wraith’s packing for some off-the-grid hacker cult suicide-mission thing and I’m not invited .
Apparently, “blowing up a compound in the Deep South while dodging trigger-happy fanatics hopped up on devotion and koolaid” is “too high-risk” for me.
Right. Because strangling men with ethernet cords is so tame in comparison.
On top of that, it seems I’m not even qualified to be doing clean-up with his little cult-slaying squad of emotionally unavailable vigilantes. Apparently, Alabama exploded. Again. Imploded? I don’t know, maybe it was a cleansing. Or a summoning. Honestly, I stopped listening when he said I couldn’t come.
“It’s not your mess,” were the words he used.
Yeah? Neither was the trauma that built me, but here we are.
Let him think I’m playing nice while I spend my night hunting human garbage and a punchable face.
If I can’t go with him to burn a cult down, I’ll light my own fire.
So I’m here.
In this damp, depressing slice of concrete decay, trailing some misogynistic puke stain who gets off on hitting women in parking lots and posting motivational quotes about masculinity on social media. He’s not a challenge. He’s not even a warm-up. He’s a goddamned Tate-er-tot.
I mean honestly, who pays someone to coach them to be an “alpha” man? Like how dumb can you be? They’re just rollin’ in the cash off your ridiculous insecurities.
But I digress.
He’s available—and tonight, that’s enough.
The industrial district is dead tonight. But the tension is thick, the kind that hums between your shoulder blades while daring you to break it.
I do love a good dare—and there’s my target.
He doesn’t know I’m here yet.
Ten paces behind him. Calm. Focused. Already mapping out the alley I’ll drag him into. The insult I’ll whisper before the first snap. The way he’ll try to scream before I cut the breath out of him.
It’s not revenge. Not even justice.
I’m just bored.
And then?—
“Oh…”
The word slips out before I even know I’ve said it. A soft, startled sound—like the kind that comes when you wake up somewhere strange and aren’t sure whose dream you’ve fallen into.
The air tastes… sharp. Like rusted pennies and old rain.
I blink up at the sky—no stars. Just a streetlight buzzing overhead, haloed in fog. The ground is wet beneath me, slick asphalt reflecting muted amber light like spilled syrup. Everything looks… like the word is stuck in a dream, trying to wake up.
“Where—-how?” I murmur, breath catching on the words.
My arms are wrapped in black—tight sleeves, unfamiliar fabric. My boots are wrong. Big, clunky things that thud when I take a step—all things I don’t own.
I touch the side of my cheek—there’s something creamy and sticky covering it. When I pull away, looking at my fingers, there’s a faint white residue—something like face paint of all things .
“I must’ve… walked in my sleep,” I whisper.
Nothing feels real—but it doesn’t feel exactly like a dream either. More like I’ve wandered into someone else’s nightmare wearing the wrong costume.
“What was I doing before this?”
I can’t remember. I thought I’d gone to bed, snuggled warm with Oley. But then… how?
“I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
I wrap my arms around myself, holding tight.
“I just want to go home.”
The words are barely out when?—
“Hey!”
A shout slams through the quiet like a brick through stained glass.
I turn toward the voice, heart stuttering in my chest.
There’s a man—broad, an ugly pull around the mouth. The kind of ugly that isn’t about looks but about the person behind the eyes. He stalks forward, boots splashing through the puddle between us. His face is twisted like I’ve insulted him just by existing.
“You been tailing me, bitch?” he spits.
My breath catches. “I—I don’t?—”
“You think this is funny?” he growls. “You think you can follow me with your ugly ass face and not get fucked up?”
He raises a hand—ringed fingers curling into a fist.
“No—please, I didn’t?—”
He pulls his arm back and?—
A fist cracks across my cheekbone hard enough to snap my head sideways. Pain explodes in a white-hot flare that centers me, but it’s not the hit that pisses me off.
“What the actual—” The taste of blood blooms in my mouth. Metallic. Familiar. Annoying.
“Ohhh,” I breathe, wiping my lip with the back of my hand. “You fucked up.”
He’s already puffing up like he won something.
Which is adorable.
Because I wasn’t angry before. Sure I was annoyed, maybe a little on edge, and incredibly bored.
Now I’m all three with a side of violent clarity.
I lunge.
Knee to the gut—sharp and fast. He folds like a two-star Yelp review. My elbow catches him on the way down, cracking against his temple with a sound I want as my ringtone.
He stumbles back, shoes skidding across the slick asphalt, and I swear the whole street watches in silence. No car alarms. No sirens. Just me and this future morgue resident in a hoodie.
I grab the front of his jacket, drag him close, and punch him in the nose, the crunch of bone music to my ears. Then I slam his skull against the rust-stained brick wall behind him.
“Is this your idea of flirting?” I hiss. “Because I’ve had better meet-cutes with traffic cones.”
He tries to say something. It gargles out like a frat boy’s apology after throwing up on your shoes.
So I do it again.
And that one felt personal.
He slides to the ground in a pathetic little heap of “I’m a little bitch” and regret. I put my boot on his chest—it rises. Barely. So give his face one last introduction to the wall .
“Stay down,” I purr to the lifeless sack of disappointment. “You’re not even good enough for a montage.”
I stand there for a beat, chest rising, blood humming, knuckles still singing from the impact—and I’ve got no idea how the hell I got here.
Not like, existential crisis no idea.
Like literal, black hole in my timeline no idea.
I was following him. Ten paces back. Calculating bone angles and pun delivery. Planning a cathartic little alleyway therapy session.
Then bam—skip scene. I’m up close and personal with his right hook like I glitched through my own goddamn mission.
My pulse stutters. Not from fear. From rage.
“What the fuck just happened?”
Not rhetorical.
Not poetic.
Just a raw, growled question to whatever god, glitch, or parasitic brain worm thinks it can interrupt my hunt without consequences.
I glance down at my hands. Bruised. Smeared. Mine. But I didn’t get to start the fight.
I finished it—but missed the opening act.
This isn’t new. That’s what makes it worse.
I rub the heel of my hand over my temple, like there’s a reset button hidden there.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Cool. Cool cool cool. We’re losing it.”
I glance around like the city might cough up the missing footage.
It’s been happening more—these weird little edits. Like someone’s cutting my tape with a butter knife and taping it back together while blindfolded .
One second I’m me. The next, I’m… me but several minutes or even hours later. Last week I came to on 3rd and Cherry when I swear I was still on South.
“Cool,” I mutter, wiping my face again. “I’m living a Memento reboot no one asked for. At least he left himself notes.”
I stare down the alley like it owes me an apology. And you know what? It fucking does.
Whatever this is—it’s getting worse.
And if my brain wants to play dirty?
Fine.
I’ve got nails.
I’m already up when the light breaks through the blinds.
The sky’s still pale, dusted with soft pastels of sunrise. I light my peppermint candle on the dresser, while Oley’s still curled at the end of the bed like the little prince he is. The morning feels soft and fresh, like it's taking a moment to enjoy something lovely.
I hum as I step into the bathroom, brushing a bit of static from my curls. I pop the cap on my toothpaste and grab my brush?—
“Oh my,” I whisper with a gasp. There’s a bruise on the right side of my cheek. It’s a deep blue fading to violet and horribly ugly.
I stare at it for a long time.
I don’t remember getting hurt. Not even a bump in the night. No clumsy corner. No tripping and falling into something. It’s just… there. Like it appeared while I wasn’t paying attention.
I press my fingertips to it gently, just to see if it’s real. It is.
“Ouch,” I hiss.
I step back from the mirror, clutching the edge of the sink. Tea won’t cut it today, I’m going to need a hefty dose of caffeine to deal with this later.
The kitchen smells like lavender dish soap and freshly ground coffee. I fill the kettle, wait for it to boil, and then let the French press do its thing while I pull my phone off the charger and flick it on.
Leaving town today. Two, maybe three days. Owe some old colleagues a favor.
I frown—not because I’m upset. Not even because I wasn’t expecting it. Just because it feels like I should’ve known already. Like something got lost in the shuffle of dreams I don’t remember having.
Of course he has to go. He’s important. People need him.
Still…
My fingers hover above the keys longer than they should.
Oh, okay. I hope everything’s alright. I’ll miss you.
I press my fingertips to the spot under my eye again—half convinced I hallucinated the bruise—wincing just a little.
It’s rather painful, made worse by the dull throb in my head, and I don’t even know why. A bloom of something bluish on skin that was perfectly fine yesterday. At least I think it was .
I told myself not to worry about it until I had caffeine. But that plan’s unraveling.
My phone buzzes across the counter.
It will be.
How are you this morning, angel?
I hesitate, then open the camera.
The light’s too harsh in here. I tilt my head slightly, try not to flinch. The bruise shows. A soft mark just under my right eye—like a memory someone else left behind.
Well…I woke up with this and I don’t know where it came from.
Does it look bad?
The three dots pop up almost instantly.
You ok?
I wince before I type, fingers hovering over the keys like they might soften the answer.
Yes. I think so. It feels like someone hit me.
But wouldn’t I remember something like that? Lol.
It does hurt though.
I chew the inside of my cheek and glance at the French press, willing the minutes to speed up.
I must’ve been sleepwalking.
Maybe I hit the counter or something.
I pause. My fingers type on their own, like they’re remembering something I’m not.
I had a dream that this man was about to hit me.
But it was really weird because it didn’t feel like a dream.
I stare at the last line and don’t send it right away, feeling a bit strange about the whole thing. I bite my lip and send it before I can decide not to. Then quickly wish I hadn’t.
Nevermind. That’s silly. It was just a dream.
It’s not silly.
Pain sticks. Dreams just borrow it.
You might’ve hit something. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.
Just like that he’s able to alleviate my worries.
Yeah. You’re probably right.
That actually makes me feel better.
I’m not usually a worrier. Not really. But today feels… strange. Like someone changed the background music in a scene I’ve watched a hundred times.
The coffee is finally ready, hopefully it will bring a little caffeine and clarity. I grab one of my favorite mugs—one that always makes me giggle with its “Not today mugglefucker” phrase written across it.
I do typically prefer tea but the peppermint mocha creamer is finally back in season, and I’ve already gone through one bottle. This one’s half full or half empty—depending on how you look at it. I might have a bit of an addiction.
I always like to hold the mug in my hands for a few minutes while I let it cool. The warmth calms me—well, that is until I smile again.
Ow.
Ice it. Take some meds.
Don’t smile too hard.
Impossible. I know.
I laugh at how well he knows me and immediately wince.
Right. No smiling. I press the mug to my lips like maybe the warmth will soothe the sting blooming under my eye.
Okay. I won’t.
The screen goes quiet again—just long enough to lull me into peace.
Then another message lights up the screen.
From daddy.
Just a reminder—car will arrive at 5 and take you to Manhattan.
Wear something elegant.
Be agreeable tonight .
I blink at the message, rereading it once. Then again.
Oh… right. The New Year’s Eve party.
He told me about it on Christmas morning—after he opened the gifts I picked out for him. There was someone he wanted me to meet. Someone important. It’s their son I believe.
But then the rest of the day swept in—the pure happiness I felt with Dominic—By the end of Christmas the party had completely floated away.
I forgot.
I can’t believe it, I’m not one to forget things. Particularly when those things are for daddy.
My thumb hovers over the message like maybe it’ll change if I wait long enough, but it doesn’t. I don’t know why I’m feeling so peculiar about the party. I’ve attended dozens of these with daddy before.
I back out of daddy’s texts and open the one with Dominic.
Oh! I forgot to tell you—Daddy’s having me go to some New Year’s thing with him tonight.
I hesitate before sending it.
It doesn’t feel like a big deal. But it doesn’t feel… not like one either.
I take another sip and let the warmth settle low in my chest before I finally hit send. Coffee and phone in hand, I snuggle into the corner of the couch and contemplate reading for a while before I need to get read.
A furry face rubs against mine a few times before deciding my lap is where he will take his morning nap. But not until he made biscuits and spun in a circle several times—making it impossible to drink my coffee.
“Oh Oley, you’re such a funny boy,” I say, giggling at his antics—until my screen lights up with a new notification.
Where’s the party?
Somewhere in Manhattan. He didn’t tell me where exactly, but he’s sending a car to drive me all the way there. I can’t imagine how many people will be trying to get into the city today.
Before I can place my phone on the arm of the couch it vibrates.
I blink.
Who’s hosting it?
That was fast.
I’m not sure of that either. He did tell me there was someone he wanted me to meet. The son of someone important apparently.
Did your dad say anything else?
He told me to be very agreeable.
Which makes no sense.
I’m always agreeable.
Three dots dance at the bottom of the chat—then nothing.
Then again.
Still nothing.
I watch the bubbles fade. My chest tightens. Then the screen lights up with an incoming call—Dominic. My heart does a silly little flutter, it’s the first time he’s ever called me.
“Hello?”
“Angel.”
“Hi.”
“I don’t like it. This whole party sounds off.”
“Maybe. I do keep getting an unusual feeling about it.”
“Don’t go.”
“I can’t, daddy would be furious with me.”
I can hear Dominic’s deep sigh through the phone. “Alright. Just tell me if things get weird.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise. I’m sorry I’ve upset you.”
“You never upset me. You’re perfect. But listen, I gotta go. The plane’s about to take off.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll let you know when I land. Be good.” And then he was gone.
It’s strange, this sinking feeling I got when he hung up. I always miss him when he’s not with me but at least we’re always in the same city. We’re each moving in the opposite direction of the other today. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. But it does, and that’s strange.
Oley stretches beside me, completely unbothered by the emotional tornado building under my skin.
I set the phone down. My coffee’s cold now, and I didn’t drink much of it.
I glance at the clock and get up to grab my current read off the shelf. It’s a beautiful story about a missing goddess and the love that never gives up, not even when centuries go by.
I look at the clock again and somehow the entire morning and half of the afternoon has flown by. But that’s the power of a good book, and why reading will always be my favorite.
I check my phone and the last few hours aren't the only thing I missed.
Just landed.
I miss you already.
The party! Why do I keep forgetting about it?
Two hours to get ready.
That’s enough time. It has to be.
I pull the dresses off the closet hook—one blush, one white with little pearl buttons down the back—and snap a photo side by side.
Silly question… which one makes me look like the kind of girl you’d fly home for?
I hope he says the one with the bows, I really want it to be the one with the bows.
I hit send. Try to pretend the answer doesn’t matter even though it does.
The bows.
You’re lethal in bows.
Like a gift. Just make sure no one else is opening what's mine.
I feel my cheeks heat and so much fluttering in my chest, I’m close to flying away.
Blush and bows it is.
I know who I belong to.
I think about not sending the final text but I tell myself to be brave and do it anyway.
The rest happens on autopilot—bathwater steeped with lavender oil, shimmer dabbed under my eyes, the bruise vanishing under careful layers of pink-toned concealer and hope.
When I look in the mirror, everything’s in place.
Hair curled. Lashes long. Dress zipped. Heels waiting by the door.
With a few minutes till five, I grab my small gold crossbody bag, and add my lipgloss and concealer. I don’t usually bring my drivers license and credit card but I do this time. It’s already been a strange day, I better be prepared for anything.
I grab my phone and go to squeeze it into the little bag when I notice the missed text.
Might be off-grid for a bit.
Let me know if anything feels wrong.
I’ll be back late tomorrow or the next day.
My fingers hover. Then?—
I’ ll be your best girl.
Promise.
I watch for the dancing dots, but it’s still marked as unread.
That’s okay.
I grab my coat and give Oley a scratch under the chin.
“You be a good boy.” He meows as if he’s offended I leave him. “I know my love, I’ll be back before you know it.”
He meows again and I giggle. “Oh don’t be so dramatic,” I say as I kiss the top of his furry white head.
When the car pulls up, I’m ready to walk out the door.
I take one last look at myself in the hallway mirror.
“Just a party,” I whisper.
But that strange feeling hasn’t gone away.