Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
When I peered up at him, he wasn’t angry anymore.
He looked almost...heartbroken for me. His whole body leaned toward mine, like some instinct in him wanted to pull me back into his arms, to comfort me the way he had last night.
The kindness in his eyes was too much—too intimate, too earnest, too dangerous.
I wasn’t used to anyone being so protective of me. I’d spent my entire life growing my own voice, carving my own backbone, teaching myself how to fight battles no one else ever bothered to notice. And that was fine—of course it was. Survival had its own kind of pride.
But it felt strangely...nice—unsettlingly nice—to know someone was in my corner. Someone who would go to such ridiculous, stubborn lengths to make sure I was safe. Someone who felt my pain like it was their own.
“Lillian,” he repeated, almost desperately. “Are you okay?”
I opened my mouth to brush it off—to make it small, manageable, nothing worth gnawing on—but the words stalled somewhere on the way out, my vision suddenly blurring.
“It happened so fast,” I whispered. “One second I was standing there, trying to tell him they didn’t make it, and the next he—he grabbed me. He ripped my hijab down, around my neck, and I—” My voice broke, thin and uneven. “I couldn’t breathe.”
The room felt too quiet. Too still.
“No one tried to help me,” I went on, softer now, like saying it any louder might make it worse.
“Other than Robert, no one stepped in. Everyone in the waiting room just...watched. Like I was the problem. Like I deserved it.” My fingers curled into my palm, nails burrowing in hard enough to ground me.
“They all saw my hair, saw me in a way they had no right to.” My chest rose unsteadily.
“It feels like something was taken from me, like a choice that was never his to make is just...gone. Stolen.”
Khalifa squeezed his eyes shut, dragging in a shaky breath, and braced his forehead against the wall. His fists came up, knuckles digging into his closed lids.
“Whatever,” I said quickly, forcing my shoulders back, my voice steady. “I already feel like a fraud most days, but I’ll be damned if I let some racist white man think it too.”
Khalifa’s head jerked slightly, confusion slicing through his frustration. “Fraud? Why would you feel—?”
“It’s none of your business,” I snapped, defensive reflex discharging in place of reason. “You’re not the only one who’s allowed to keep things to themselves.”
The second my bitterness landed, I winced, already regretting it. Much to my reluctant relief, he didn’t argue. “I know. But...you can tell me.” He paused, eyes searching mine with unbearable softness. “If you want.”
For a long moment, I couldn’t look at him.
I wasn’t typically a believer in bottling things up.
Human bodies were already crowded real estate—organs, blood, water, bones—there was barely room for dessert most days, let alone emotional clutter.
It didn’t seem fair to cram my ribs full of unspoken feelings like some tragic Victorian heroine.
But this? This was something I had zero intention of ever voicing because it was stupid. Feeling the way I felt was stupid.
People dealt with actual problems, unbearable grief, life-and-death heartbreak, and here I was, whining in my fancy office about not being able to taste the sweetness of my own success despite the degrees on my wall and the six-figure salary that screamed I’d “made it.”
In the medical world, we called it imposter syndrome. But it wasn’t even a formal disorder, it didn’t make the cut in any diagnostic manual. Even the people who invented mental illnesses for a living had essentially looked at this one and said, Eh, that doesn’t count.
It was more like a side effect—the psychological equivalent of the fine print on a prescription label: Warning: May cause self-doubt, chronic overachievement, and a persistent belief that you’ve tricked everyone into thinking you’re competent.
Which was why, in Lilly World, I liked to call it: Mommy didn’t give me enough attention.
She’d spent three decades making me feel like I wasn’t enough, and that kind of thing settles into you, becomes part of your internal architecture, a slow-growing, invisible sickness. Real, but not really—a condition without a billing code, a diagnosis without a cure.
So of course, I couldn’t admit it out loud.
And of course, the words swelled against my throat anyway, sour and humiliating.
His promise hung in the air like an open door, and I sat there refusing to walk through it.
“Come on,” he said suddenly, grabbing his keys from my desk. “I cancelled my classes for the day. Let’s go somewhere.”
“Oh, no,” I said, rolling my eyes, “whatever will people do with all that extra brain storage now that you’re depriving them of your precious history knowledge?”
“Don’t worry—they’re still required to go over the lecture slides I posted.”
I let out a groan. “I almost feel worse for them than I do for myself. So, where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I gave him a suspicious look. “You hate surprises.”
“I know. And if you keep giving me a hard time, I’m going to hate them even more.”
Without meaning to, the corner of my mouth tipped upward.
“Wow,” he said with mock awe. “The first smile of the day.”
I scowled immediately, snatching my bag to hide it. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
From across the hallway, Kevin called after us, grinning like an idiot. “Bye, Dr. T! And Dr. T’s rude, stubborn, emotionally unavailable but extremely attractive husband!”
I spun around. “Kevin.”
Khalifa raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that what you call me behind my back?”
“I’m pretty sure I call you that to your face,” I said. “Minus the attractive part. I have never called you that in secret or in public.”
He smirked, holding the door open for me. “But you think it.”
“Oh, barf.” I brushed past him, cheeks flaring.
“Your face says otherwise,” he murmured as we stepped outside.
And maybe it did—because despite everything, despite the lawsuit and the death of three people that still clung to me like smoke, I found myself smiling again.