31. Lilian
Chapter 31
Lilian
T he sheets are warm when I wake up—warm and smooth and perfectly tucked, the way they always are when I’ve done them right, and the air in the room smells like lavender, which means I probably lit the candle before bed, and that means I had to have come home, doesn’t it?
I blink at the ceiling, soft and familiar above me, and it takes a second for the silence to settle in my ears. It’s quiet the way a house gets when something’s gone wrong but no one’s said it out loud yet. Like the silence is pretending to be normal, and I’m supposed to pretend with it.
I sit up slowly, like if I move the wrong way, whatever I’ve forgotten might disappear for good.
I must’ve gotten home late. That’s probably it.
I was just very tired, that’s all, and when I’m that tired I sometimes forget little things, and forgetting little things isn’t the same as forgetting big things, and anyway, the important part is that I’m here now, safe in my bed, in my home, with my things all around me exactly the way they should be.
It’s not like anything’s wrong.
Everything’s fine.
My robe is folded at the foot of the bed, just the way I always fold it. I slide my arms into the sleeves—soft pink fleece, with little satin bows stitched at the cuffs, and the ribbon’s a bit frayed on one of them but I don’t mind because I like when things are a little worn. It means they’ve been loved.
My slippers are where they’re supposed to be too. Right by the nightstand, toes pointed out like I placed them there with care, which I probably did, because I always do.
I tighten the belt on my robe with the same kind of care I use when wrapping gifts, the ends falling neatly even though I’m not paying much attention, and as I walk to the door I start to hum—nothing in particular, just a soft, tuneless sort of thing that I think I’ve heard before but couldn’t name if someone asked, which is silly because I always know what I’m humming, don’t I?
It doesn’t matter. I’m probably just tired.
I tell myself I’ll feel better after I make some tea, because tea always helps, even if it’s not quite the right blend, even if it’s just something warm to hold while the world gets itself sorted out again.
Peppermint today. Or chamomile. Something soothing.
Something safe.
Because everything is fine.
When I open the door, the hallway feels colder than it should be for this time of day, like someone left a window cracked somewhere or maybe the heat just hasn’t kicked in yet, and I don’t think anything of it until my eyes catch on something soft and pink at the far end of the hall, near the corner where the light never quite reaches—near the closet I don’t use, right where I’ve always thought the shadows feel a little too still.
And at first I don’t realize what I’m looking at because it’s just fabric, just a shape on the floor, but then the light catches a shimmer and I know—it’s my dress.
The one I wore last night.
The one with the bows.
You’re lethal in bows. That’s what he’d said.
I don’t remember taking it off out here. I always hang my dresses, especially that one—it’s delicate and it wrinkles if you so much as look at it too long, and I know I wouldn’t have left it here like this, crumpled in a heap like it just gave up trying.
That’s not like me.
I walk toward it slowly, the kind of slow that feels like dreaming, and I crouch down and reach out—careful not to snag it—because I love this dress, I really do, and it deserves better than the floor.
The hem is stained.
Not just dirty. Stained.
Dark.
Red.
Like—
No. No, that’s?—
That’s not right.
Blood ?
But—
How?
I–what?—
That’s not right.
No, no, no, no?—
Everything is fine.
Every—
Tea—yes. Tea would be nice.
I need something warm, something gentle. Peppermint. Chamomile. One of the ones with rosehips, maybe, or lemongrass. The one that smells like a sleepy meadow, even though I’ve never been to a meadow that didn’t have bugs.
I should wipe the counter. And light a candle. The cinnamon one. No—the sugar cookie one. It’s friendlier.
I tighten my robe with a little tug and pad into the kitchen, careful not to step on Oley’s favorite spot near the heating vent. He’s not there. That’s okay. He’s probably off being a cat in a different room. That’s a thing they do. They move. They vanish. They reappear like little furry magicians with commitment issues. I think I read somewhere that cats don’t believe in object permanence. Or was that toddlers?
Anyway.
The kettle goes on. It’s routine. It clicks into place like a puzzle piece I forgot I had.
I don’t look at the counter yet. Or the floor. Or the shadows under the fridge that flicker wrong?—
I hum the way some people pray. Not because it helps, but because not doing it feels worse. Just a few notes strung together until the water starts to sing.
There’s my little purse, sitting on the table like it never moved. Gold and glittery and far too small for anything useful—but pretty. And that counts for something. I reach for it, thumb already grazing the snap when a thought trips in the back of my head like a loose shoelace.
I didn’t bring that in last night.
Did I?
No. I did. Of course I did. Didn’t I?
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen like it might tell me all of last night's secrets.
Three missed messages.
From Dominic.
My thumb hovers.
And for a second, just a second, the whole room tilts. Not in a dizzy way. In a missing a stair way.
I open the message anyway.
What happened?
Angel?
Happy New Year.
Happy New Year! I’m so sorry I didn’t text?—
I think I got in late last night.
I don’t really remember to be quite honest.
There was champagne, I’m pretty sure.
Everyone was very festive. So much sparkle. And you know I love sparkles!
It tastes sharp. Like copper and old nickels pressed against the roof of my mouth.
The man daddy wanted me to meet called me his fiancée.
Isn’t that funny?
That’s not right, though.
I’m yours and you’re mine. I told them.
They weren’t listening
My chest tightens. I scroll up. Check what I sent. My fingers hover like they’re waiting for permission.
I told them I belonged to you.
That was okay, right?
I didn’t say too much, I was trying to be careful.
You told me to be careful. I remember that.
I read it over. It’s sweet. Too sweet. Something about it feels wrong, but I can’t name it.
It’s all a little blurry.
But it was nice.
I wore the dress with the bows.
I remember you said it made me look like a gift.
I wanted to be a gift.
I’m not sure I was very lethal though.
Then again… there was red on my dress.
Something stings. Behind my eyes. Under my skin.
I blink hard. Swallow it.
Anyway.
I’m home.
I made tea.
I miss you.
I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
I tell myself it’s fine.
If I say it’s fine, maybe it will be.
If I’m polite—if I’m perfect—if I keep smiling with my whole face and not just the parts that still work…
Then nothing is wrong.
Nothing is ever wrong.
Everything is fine.
“Tea,” I whisper. “That’s what I was doing.”
Back to the familiar. The warm. The soft.
I lift the kettle. The water’s just shy of a rolling boil, but that’s alright—I don’t mind waiting. Two more minutes. I reach for one of my favorite mugs—pink, with a little strawberry decal that’s mostly rubbed off—and pull a peppermint chamomile sachet from the drawer, my fingers moving with practiced care.
“I think I’ll bake later,” I murmur, like the idea has always been there. I think I woke up with it. Perhaps I dreamed it. “Maybe something cinnamon. He likes cinnamon.”
I set the mug on the counter. Smooth my robe. Tuck my slippers under me a little more snug. Finally the whistle of the kettle.
Everything is fine.
Tea.
The front door explodes inward—hinges torn, frame cracked, the air sucked clean out of the room.
My hands jerk.
Water sloshes.
My hand burns.
The kettle crashes into the sink with a clang.
“Oh,” I breathe, blinking at the men storming into my apartment. “That’s… very loud. You frightened me.”
They move without words—silent, gloved, dressed like shadows. Their boots don’t stomp. They land.
They move like decisions already made.
I take a step back. Lift my hands.
“I think you might be confused,” I say gently. “This is my home. My name is Lily. You must be looking for someone else.”
They don’t slow.
“Are you with Dominic? He didn’t say anyone was coming. I would’ve cleaned more if I’d known?—”
One of them grabs my wrist. Another clamps around my arm. My robe slides off one shoulder as they twist me toward the hallway.
“Ow—no, please—wait. You’re hurting me. I don’t think this is funny. I really don’t think this is funny.”
They drag me into the hall.
“I didn’t do anything,” I gasp, trying to keep my voice polite. I can fix this. I can still fix this. “You can’t take people. I’ll tell my father, and you’ll be in so much trouble.”
Everything’s fine.
My slippers skid against the tile. The floor is cold. My breath starts to fog.
They don’t speak.
A black car waits downstairs. The door is already open.
And inside?—
“Daddy?” I whisper, voice breaking for the first time. “What’s going on?”
The car’s just shy of warm—too cold to be comfortable, too hot to call it freezing. I wrap my robe tighter, smoothing the fabric with my fingers like that might make everything settle.
My slippers are damp. The heat hasn’t reached my toes.
The windows fog gently with our breath, the city behind us a blur of frost and asphalt. Daddy doesn’t speak.
I watch him for a moment. The way his jaw works. The way his eyes don’t move.
“Daddy?” I ask softly. “What’s happening?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Those men came into my apartment,” I say, gentler now. “They were very rude. You should file a complaint.”
Still nothing.
I swallow and fold my hands in my lap.
“Are we going to the labs?” I ask. “Is it a surprise? You know I don’t like surprises.”
His voice cuts through the quiet—cold and inflectionless.
“You didn’t think I’d hear about your little adventure last night?”
My heart flutters.
“Adventure?” I blink. “No—I was home. I made tea. I was thinking about baking. I… I wanted to try snickerdoodles.”
“Enough.”
The word hits like a whip.
I flinch. Blink fast. My voice thins, breathless, reaching for soft reason.
“I just don’t understand. Why are you mad?”
He turns. His gaze is a scalpel—cold, clinical.
“You were caught snooping. You assaulted a guard. You ran out the servants’ exit like a common thief.”
I laugh—just barely. It comes out like a hiccup stitched in silk.
“No, that’s… that can’t be right. I think… maybe you’re confused. Or tired. You’ve been working so much, Daddy.”
His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t have to.
“And then I hear you were seen. Covered in blood. Leaving a restricted building several weeks ago.”
I’m smiling too hard now. Too wide. Too still.
“You must be thinking of someone else. I think… I think you’re very tired.”
“Be quiet.”
I stop.
My lips part. Then close again. My fingers tighten in my lap.
The windows blur further. The world outside becomes nothing but trees—snow-painted branches and shadows. The hum of tires on a frostbitten road.
I lean forward slightly. My voice trembles at the edges of pleasant.
“Where are we going?”
“To get you help,” he says.
I sit straighter. My tone lifts like I’ve found the answer in a fairytale.
“Oh! Are we going to a doctor? I don’t need one. I feel perfectly fine. Everything’s been lovely, actually. You don’t have to worry.”
“You’re not well. ”
“That’s not true,” I whisper. My voice is brittle. “I feel—wonderful. I was just thinking about Dominic. He says cinnamon is his favorite. I was going to surprise him. Maybe with a cake. Or muffins. He’ll be back soon, you’ll see.”
Daddy lets out a soft, humorless laugh.
“You think anyone would want someone as crazy and broken as you?”
I freeze.
My smile catches.
Stretches.
Cracks.
“That’s not… that’s not a very nice thing to say,” I manage, but it sounds too small. Like I borrowed it from someone else and if you even breathe in my direction it might shatter.
He doesn’t respond.
The car keeps moving.
And the silence feels like it’s watching me now.
The world outside becomes a tunnel of snow and silence.
The road gets thinner. The snow keeps piling on the branches, bending them just a little too far. The city slips away like it’s embarrassed to have been part of this.
Up ahead, a squat gray building hunches at the edge of the woods. No sign. Just thin little windows with metal grids, and walls that feel too thick for something normal.
I press my hand to the glass. “Daddy?” I whisper, barely louder than the heater hum. “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer.
My reflection stares back—pink robe, fuzzy slippers, wide eyes—and the closer we get to the building, the less that face looks like mine .
“Daddy, please,” I try again, my voice too sweet, too tight. A ribbon pulled too far. “What is this place?”
Still no response.
His eyes stay forward. Unblinking. Like if he doesn’t acknowledge me, I’ll stop existing.
“I—I don’t understand,” I say again, a tremble curling under the words. “Is this… is this a new lab? You should’ve told me. You know I don’t like surprises.”
His silence is a sentence.
And then, finally—cold and careless—he says, “They’re going to help you. Or at least keep you out of my way.”
The car slows.
Two steel doors swing open like jaws. A team in scrubs waits by a gurney that looks far too ready.
My heart pounds.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, wait—I don’t want?—”
The car doors open.
Hands reach in and grab me—rough, indifferent, like it doesn’t matter where they touch.
“Daddy!” I cry as they drag me out. “Daddy, I don’t understand!”
The snow slushes under my feet—soaking my slippers, chilling my toes. I slip once, try to catch myself, but they’ve already got me.
“I was just having tea,” I say desperately. “I didn’t do anything wrong—I was thinking about baking—Dominic—Dominic will be worried?—”
“Thank you,” Daddy says coolly to the man in white. “I appreciate you taking her on such short notice.”
“No, no—please! Daddy! I was waiting for Dominic! I’m your daughter—I’m good! Daddy, I’m?— ”
My heels scrape across linoleum. The lights above blur into streaks of cold white.
They force me onto the gurney. Leather straps snap over my wrists.
“Daddy!” I scream. “Please! I don’t understand!”
He doesn’t come closer.
He doesn’t even look at me.
Instead, he turns to the woman in scrubs beside him. Calm. Precise. Like he’s placing an order at a restaurant.
“I want her scheduled for a lobotomy.”
The word lurches in my chest like a dropped dish.
The woman hesitates. “Doctor, those are no longer legal.”
He smiles faintly.
And then he pulls an envelope from his coat and offers it to her. Thick. Pale. Sealed.
“I’m sure you’ll make an exception.”
She takes it.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I don’t feel the next strap go across my ankle.
I’m still staring at them. At him. My lips move, but the words get lost somewhere between my throat and the air.
Lobotomy.
That’s…
That’s not…
What if Daddy’s right?
What if I never see Dominic again?
The final buckle cinches around my ankle.
And then?—
Stillness.
My breath stops.
My limbs still.
My eyes?—
Angry.
Sharp.
“I swear to God…”
I jerk against the restraints. The force of it rattles the gurney.
“What the actual fuck is this?”
A nurse rushes in—needle drawn, hands steady.
“Oh, you’d better think very carefully before you touch me with that?—”
The needle bites. Cold. Fast.
My head slams back against the cushion. My breath catches.
“Well fuck me.”