Chapter 19 LILY
LILY
I can't sleep.
The sheets twist around my legs no matter how many times I kick them loose.
The pillow is too flat, then too thick, then positioned wrong no matter which way I turn it.
I've been lying here for hours in the dark, staring at the ceiling and watching shadows shift across the smooth surface as clouds pass in front of the moon outside my window.
Everything that happened today plays on loop in my mind, unavoidable and relentless.
My carefully constructed plan to take a step back, to reassert professional distance, to protect myself from feelings that were getting too complicated and too dangerous.
The decision I made after a sleepless night spent analyzing every moment, every touch, every look until I convinced myself that distance was the only safe option.
It backfired spectacularly.
Not just backfired. Exploded in my face in ways I couldn't have predicted and definitely can't control.
Because of Henry and his text message asking for money, reminding me that I have responsibilities beyond my own emotional safety. Because of the baby coming, an innocent life that needs things I can help provide if I just stay in this arrangement a little longer.
And because of Artan.
That kiss.
My fingers drift to my lips without conscious thought, touching the place where his mouth claimed mine just hours ago. The memory burns through me with startling clarity, more vivid than it should be, more affecting than I want it to be.
The way he pulled me across that small table like the distance between us was intolerable, like he couldn't stand another second of separation.
The way his hand felt against the back of my neck, firm and sure and possessive in a way that made my brain stop working entirely.
The way his mouth moved against mine like he'd been holding back for years and finally, finally couldn't anymore.
Possessive. That's the only word that captures it. He kissed me like the idea of not kissing me was impossible to even consider.
It ignited something in me I've never felt before. Something fierce and desperate and entirely too complicated to examine too closely. Something that makes my chest ache and my skin feel too tight and my thoughts scatter in directions I shouldn't let them go.
And it's not just Artan creating this chaos inside me.
It's Erion too. The dressing room at the boutique. The way he made me come apart without hesitation or apology, like my pleasure was his to claim.
And Luan. That kiss at the club that started as performance and became something else entirely. Something that made me forget where we were, who was watching, what any of it was supposed to mean.
I'm walking a tightrope with all of this.
With my feelings that won't stay neatly categorized.
With their feelings that I can't quite read or understand.
With the growing certainty that if I don't get it all out in the open soon, if I don't force some kind of honest conversation about what's happening here, I'm going to fall.
And the landing is going to hurt.
I intended to do exactly that when Artan and I got back to the apartment this evening. But Erion was waiting for us. Leaning against the kitchen counter with that signature smirk, pale blue eyes tracking our entrance with knowing amusement.
Before I could gather my courage to say anything, before I could even open my mouth, Erion pulled Artan aside. They had a brief conversation in Albanian, voices low and urgent, words I couldn't understand but could feel the weight of.
Then Artan turned back to me, his expression apologetic and frustrated in equal measure. "We have to leave. Business that can't wait. But we'll talk soon. I promise."
And then he kissed me. Quick but intense, his mouth hard against mine for two seconds that felt like forever. Left me standing there stunned and breathless and entirely unable to form words.
Erion just smirked. Walked over and kissed my forehead with surprising gentleness, like I was something precious that needed protecting. And without another word, they both left.
I haven't seen Luan since this morning. When Artan and I got back from Pilsen, from tacos and kisses, Luan's bedroom door was already closed.
He didn't emerge for dinner. Didn't respond when I knocked softly to ask if he wanted food.
Just silence behind that closed door that felt deliberately final.
So now I'm here in the guest room that's become mine, tossing and turning, trying to settle racing thoughts enough to find sleep that refuses to come.
A loud crash echoes through the apartment.
The sound shatters the silence, sharp and violent and entirely wrong for this time of night.
Followed immediately by cursing. Low and vicious. Words I can't quite make out but can feel the anger in.
I'm out of bed before conscious thought catches up, adrenaline spiking through my system. Moving down the hallway on bare feet, the hardwood cool against my skin.
Luan stands facing the open freezer, his posture rigid with pain or frustration or both. Ice cubes are scattered across the tile floor around his feet, dozens of them catching the light and gleaming like scattered diamonds.
"What happened?" The question comes out breathless from my quick movement.
He turns toward my voice, his movements careful and controlled despite whatever chaos just occurred. "Migraine. Bad one." His voice is tight, each word clearly costing him effort. "Was trying to do what you did at the club. Ice on the back of the neck. Obviously didn't work out."
Now that I'm closer I can see the tension in every line of his body, the way he's holding himself too still like movement will make the pain worse.
"I'm sorry I scared you," he adds, the apology automatic.
"You didn't need to do this alone." I'm already moving, crouching down to gather the scattered ice cubes, the cold biting into my fingers. "Why didn't you call me?"
"Didn't want to bother you." A pause. Long enough that I look up at him. "Thought you'd still be mad at me. Because of the kiss at the club."
The words hit different than I expected. Vulnerable.
I stop gathering ice. Look up at him from my crouched position on the floor. "I'm not mad at you. At least not about the kiss."
The admission comes out shy, my voice quiet.
He moves toward me immediately. Reaches down with more certainty than someone with limited vision should have. His hand finds my arm, warm fingers wrapping around the cool skin, drawing me up until we're standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Then why did you react the way you did?
" His fingers trail down my arm slowly, deliberately, mapping the path from shoulder to elbow to wrist. Stopping at my hand.
He grabs it, not roughly but firmly, brings it up between us into the space that separates our bodies.
Presses his finger pointedly to the bare spot on my ring finger where the engagement ring should sit. "Why aren't you wearing the ring?"
I try to pull back, suddenly too aware of how close we are, of my thin pajamas, how his touch makes my skin prickle with awareness. "We can talk about this when you're feeling better. When the migraine—"
"No." His grip tightens, not painful but absolutely insistent. Not letting me retreat or deflect or avoid this conversation any longer. "Now. Tell me now."
I swallow hard, feeling the words stick in my throat. "I didn't like being used to make some other woman jealous."
Confusion crosses his face, genuine and unfiltered. "What woman? What are you talking about?"
"The gorgeous one from the club last night." The words come out sharper than intended, edged with jealousy I don't want to feel and definitely don't want to admit to.
He chuckles, the sound low and amused despite the pain he must be in.
I try to pull my hand free but he holds tighter, not letting me escape.
"That woman," he says, all amusement draining from his voice as he sobers completely, "is my father's widow. Valentina. She's been stalking me ever since he died because she believes she's entitled to more of his estate than she actually got."
He pulls me closer, eliminating the last few inches between us. His mouth drops to my ear, breath warm against sensitive skin. "Were you jealous, Lily?"
I bristle immediately, defensive instinct kicking in hard. "I thought I was being used as a pawn in some game I didn't understand. I didn't like it. That's all."
The lie tastes bitter but I force it out anyway.
I pull open the kitchen drawer, pull a kitchen towel, wrap fresh ice from the still-open freezer in it with movements that are too sharp, too aggressive. "Now sit down or lay down somewhere so I can actually help with this migraine instead of standing here arguing."
"Will you do what you did last night?" His voice has changed, the challenge draining out of it and leaving something more vulnerable behind. "I need to lay down. It's getting worse by the minute."
The admission of need costs him something. I can hear it in his voice, see it in the way his shoulders have hunched slightly inward.
"Of course," I say, gentler now. "Come on."
We move through the dark apartment toward his bedroom. His room is exactly what I expected. Dark and cool and impersonal in a way that feels deliberately chosen. Minimalist furniture. Nothing decorative or unnecessary. A space designed for function rather than comfort.
"Lay on your side," I tell him.
He does, moving carefully onto the bed. I sit beside him on the mattress, feeling it dip under my weight, feeling the heat of his body even through the space that separates us.
I place the cold cloth against the back of his neck.
He moans in relief. The sound is low and unguarded and goes straight through me, settling somewhere it absolutely shouldn't.
I start to caress his head gently without thinking about it, fingers sliding through dark hair, tracing small circles against his scalp. A soothing massage meant to ease the tension I can feel radiating through every line of his body.
We stay like that for a while. Silent. Just the sound of his breathing gradually evening out, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders and neck as the cold and the touch do their work.
The room is so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the heating system, the distant sound of traffic far below.
I think he's fallen asleep when he speaks, his voice soft and slightly slurred with approaching unconsciousness.
"Did you always know you wanted to be a chef?"
I laugh softly, the sound barely disturbing the quiet. "I'm not a chef. I'm just a cook. But yes. Since I was little, the kitchen was my safe space. I loved the idea that people would enjoy what I made. That I could make them happy with something as simple as food."
"People?" The question is gentle. Curious.
"My brother and my aunt mostly. They fought constantly about everything.
She tried to give him structure and discipline.
He fought her every single step, rejecting everything she offered.
But at dinner, when we all sat down at that table together, we were a family again.
Whole. Connected." I pause, remembering those moments with a clarity that hurts.
Silence settles for a moment before I work up the courage to ask what I've been wondering. "Did you always want to be a businessman?"
The pause is long enough that I think he might not answer.
"I didn't have a choice," he says finally, each word carefully selected. "My father forced it on me from an early age. Made it clear there was no other option. Sometimes he used words. Sometimes he used force when words weren't enough."
The implication hangs heavy in the air between us. Abuse. Violence. A childhood shaped by fear and pain and expectations impossible to meet.
I keep my hand moving through his hair, offering what comfort I can without words that would only make him feel exposed or vulnerable in ways he wouldn't welcome.
"Can I ask what happened?" I venture carefully. "With your vision, I mean."
Another long hesitation, longer than before. The kind of pause that suggests he's deciding how much truth to offer.
"I fell," he says finally. "Hit my head on something. That caused the damage to my retinas."
Something about the answer feels incomplete. Not quite a lie but not the whole truth either.
But I don't push. Don't demand more than he's willing to give.
"Do you feel like you're getting better?" I ask instead.
"Every day there's improvement. Small but measurable. I have a doctor's appointment in a few days. Then I'll know for certain if I'll fully recover or if this is as good as it gets."
The uncertainty in his voice breaks something in my chest.
"It's awful," I say quietly, my fingers still moving in gentle circles against his scalp. "That your family isn't supportive. That they force you to live this lie instead of just accepting what happened and helping you through it."
He's almost asleep now, I can tell by the way his breathing has deepened and slowed, by the complete relaxation of muscles that were rigid with pain minutes ago.
"You make it easier to bear," he murmurs, the words barely audible.
Then his breathing shifts completely. Deep and even and unconscious.
He's asleep.
He's asleep and I'm awake.
And his words sit between us. Unanswered. Unresolved.
You make it easier to bear.
But I don't know what that means. Don't know if it's gratitude or something deeper.
Don't know if I'm helping him or just making everything more complicated.
I stay there. Watching him sleep. Knowing I should leave but unable to make myself move.
Knowing that whatever is happening between us, it's not professional anymore.
It's not fake anymore.
And I have no idea how to navigate that truth.