Chapter 82 Lee
Lee
Lee settled into her First-Class seat. She tucked her shoes in the little pocket to the left of her feet.
In the storage cabinet to her right, she put her pills.
She took rosemary-scented hand lotion from the amenity kit and rubbed it into her fingers, then applied the tiny lip gloss and pulled an airplane-logo pen from its plastic bag.
She considered writing something down, but in the end couldn’t come up with anything to say.
Lee scrolled Instagram mindlessly, hunching low in her seat—she didn’t want to be recognized.
She spotted a story posted by Isabelle and touched her thumb to the screen to watch her niece’s latest inappropriate, borderline-pornographic snapshots: a selfie of Isabelle in a low-cut dress, posing with a grown man at least Lee’s age.
Lee shook her head: She knew the look on Isabelle’s face—the preening need to seem older than she was.
And the guy looked like bad news for sure.
Lee stared at the photos—Isabelle posed and overeager, trying to seem sophisticated. It was like looking at her teenaged self, learning to weaponize beauty before understanding the cost. Had Lee taught Isabelle this? Had she shown her niece that being desired was the same as being loved?
Lee texted Regan: Isabelle just posted a worrisome Instagram. Do you know where she is?
The message showed “Delivered” but not “Read.”
“Goddamn it,” Lee muttered.
She called Regan.
Straight to voicemail. She remembered that Regan had been planning a ladies’ night at the ballet, and must have turned off her notifications during the performance.
Lee tried Flora, then Isabelle.
Both phones were off. Now this was unnerving—the girls were never, ever offline.
Lee inhaled. She had done her part! She was ready to escape this family and this world. Still, Flora turning her phone off was especially strange. Lee opened her Find My app, as Flora had shown her how to do.
Flora had disabled her Find My app.
Lee stood and gathered her things.
“Do you understand that once you step off this plane, you cannot return?” asked the perky bitch guarding the jet-bridge.
“Yes,” said Lee.
On the way to the address where Isabelle had tagged her photo, a place called Atelier Nyx, Lee tried calling Regan one more time.
No answer. Bitterly, Lee hoped she was enjoying the hell out of Giselle.
The taxi reached a modernist mansion set back from the street behind high walls draped with bougainvillea. “I’ll be right back,” said Lee.
“Oréa oréa,” said the driver.
Lee stepped from the car onto the narrow street.
A gate stood slightly ajar, and Lee walked through, crossing cement tiles to reach the entranceway.
From inside came the distant sound of classical music and a man’s voice giving directions: “Perfect. Now turn your head slightly. Beautiful. Show me more.”
What the hell? Lee pressed the doorbell.
Shuffling footsteps approached, followed by the metallic slide of a lock being disengaged.
The heavy oak panel swung inward. There he stood—the older man from Isabelle’s Instagram post. He wore an Egyptian cotton shirt tucked into tailored trousers and no shoes.
A Patek Philippe watch. Professional camera equipment hung around his neck.
“Hi,” said Lee. “I’m here to pick up my niece? Isabelle Willingham?”
“Of course,” said the man in an overly smooth baritone. “Parakaló, come in. I’m Spyros Alexandros. I’m a photographer. We’re having a little…artistic session tonight.”
He led the way through a hallway lined with framed photographs—all young women in various states of undress, all with the same pick-me-please expression. Lee’s gut tightened, thinking of skeevy, predatory Mr. Ragdale.
They passed a dining room where several too-young girls sat around a table with wineglasses, looking bored and drunk.
“Isabelle is just finishing up,” said Spyros. “Would you like to see some of my work? I’m documenting the transition from girl to woman. It’s quite…profound.”
“No. Take me to Isabelle now.”
From down the hallway, Lee heard the sound of a camera shutter clicking rapidly, accompanied by a male voice: “Gorgeous. You’re a natural. Now look at me like you want something. Like you’re hungry for it.”
Jesus Christ. Lee knew she should dial 911, or whatever the Greek 911 was called.
She pivoted, turning from Spyros and moving toward the man’s voice.
Through a partially open door, she saw a room set up like a professional studio—lights, reflectors, a backdrop.
An older man wielded a camera. Next to him, a videographer.
“Perfect,” said the man behind the camera.
“Now slip the shirt off your shoulders. Show me you’re ready for this. ”
“Close set!” yelled Spyros from behind Lee. The door was thumped shut before Lee could get inside. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Spyros, his wrist tight on Lee’s upper arm. “Art is complicated.”
Lee pulled free and threw her shoulder against the door, mercifully unlocked. She wedged her way inside.
In the center of the room, Flora stood in her underwear, eyes pressed closed, her face a mask of effort to stay still. Lee could see strain in every line of her body.
Lee froze, witnessing Flora—the smart one, the overlooked one—trying to transform herself, desperate to be seen at any cost.
This was the moment she’d been hurtling toward, the reason she’d never been able to rest, the danger Lee had always known was going to come.
Flora was performing for love, just like her Auntie Lee. Depression’s voice roared in Lee’s head: You can’t save her. You’ll make it worse. You always make it worse. Just go.
But something stopped her from leaving, something quiet and simple. She just…loved Flora. Flora—a young woman who mattered.
Lee walked toward her niece.
The photographer moved to block her path. “You’re trespassing. Security!”
Lee heard footsteps approaching fast. “Flora, we’re leaving.”
Flora’s eyes snapped open. She saw Lee and immediately tried to cover herself, humiliation flooding her face. “Auntie Lee! I—this isn’t—”
“She signed a contract,” the photographer said, clutching Flora’s shoulder. “She can’t just—”
“Let go of her.” Lee’s voice was deadly quiet. “Or every tabloid in the world will know exactly what Spyros Alexandros does with underage girls.”
The photographer’s grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t release Flora. Spyros and another man entered the room. “Flora, you don’t have to do this,” Lee said simply. Not angry or dramatic. Just true.
“But I—he said I could be—”
“You’re perfect.” Lee’s voice was steady. “And I love you.”
Flora’s facade dissolved completely, revealing the scared sixteen-year-old underneath. The photographer finally let go of Flora’s arm, and she pulled on her tiny sequined top, stepped into her skirt and tugged it up to cover her thighs.
“She’s here voluntarily. She wants this,” said the photographer, stepping between Lee and her niece.
Lee looked at him with deadly calm. “She’s sixteen. Get out of my way.”
“The drama is unnecessary,” said Spyros, approaching. “The girls are exploring their artistry—”
“I know exactly what this is.” Lee’s voice was quiet but powerful. She knew this script. She held up her phone, already recording. “And so will everyone else if you don’t move. Now.”
The men exchanged glances. Spyros muttered something in Greek to the photographer, who stepped aside. When Flora was dressed, Lee extended her hand.
Flora looked at it, then at Lee, but kept her arms wrapped around herself.
Lee nodded, accepting.
Flora nodded back, and together they moved toward the door.
Isabelle was smoking and sipping wine in the dining room. As they walked past, Lee paused, and Isabelle stood, spoiling for a fight. “We’re going home,” said Lee. “Are you coming?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself,” said Lee. “I love you.”
Something changed in Isabelle’s defiant expression—exhaustion making her shoulders fold inward. “Fine,” said Isabelle. She set down her glass sharply. “Fine, I’ll come.”
They walked out together, Lee between the girls.
Spyros and two other men blocked their path. “This is a misunderstanding,” he said. “The girls came here willingly. They wanted—”
Lee held up her phone, still recording. “Smile for my millions of Instagram followers.”
The men exchanged glances. One muttered in Greek.
“You’re making a mistake,” Spyros said quietly. “I have lawyers. I have friends in—”
“As do I,” Lee lied, her limbs trembling but her voice steady. “I’m expected on set tomorrow. If I don’t show up, my director knows exactly where I was tonight.”
A long moment passed. Finally, Spyros stepped aside.
In the taxi, Lee said, “Drive. Fast.”
Through the rear window, she saw Spyros on the street, phone pressed to his ear, watching their car merge into traffic.
“Are they following us?” Flora whispered.
“No,” said Lee. There were no headlights behind them.
Not yet. “I won’t leave tonight,” said Lee.
Neither Flora nor Isabelle responded. The driver headed toward Plaka, the streets of Athens blurring past: neon pharmacy crosses, Orthodox churches with golden domes, walls covered in ancient and modern graffiti.
Flora’s breathing slowed. The pills were still in Lee’s purse, but when Depression said, They’re better with you gone, Lee knew that this was wrong.
You hurt everyone you touch, said Depression.
Yet there was Lee—Auntie Lee—safe, alight, moving within the luminous currents of a city she had come to love. Isabelle rested her head on Lee’s shoulder, heavy and warm. Lee found Flora’s hand in the dark. Flora opened her damp palm, and Lee held on.