Chapter 25 LILY
LILY
"This is a mansion."
The words come out before I can stop them, my voice echoing slightly in the vast entrance. I'm standing just inside the doorway of the villa, frozen in place, staring at the space around me like I've stepped into someone else's life by accident.
The ceilings soar overhead, impossibly high, making me feel small in a way that's not entirely unpleasant.
The floors are pale marble, veined with gray and gold, polished to a shine that reflects the light pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows.
And beyond those windows, impossibly blue and calm, is the lake, stretching out like glass, the Swiss Alps rising in the distance like something from a postcard.
"I wanted something with privacy," Artan says from behind me, his voice warm with barely concealed amusement. "Comfort. And large enough to house Erion's ego."
Erion shoots him a look, but there's no real heat in it. "It's best if you leave the jokes to me, vella."
I can't stop looking around. Can't quite process that this is where we're staying.
That we flew here on a private plane like it was nothing, like boarding a jet with leather seats and a full bar and no other passengers was just another Tuesday.
No security lines. No waiting. No fighting for overhead bin space or sitting in middle seats between strangers.
Just walking onto a plane like wealth was normal. Like this was how people lived.
And now we're here. In Switzerland. In a villa that probably costs more per night than I made in a year at the grocery store.
How is this my life now?
The thought circles through my mind on repeat, disbelief mixing with something that feels dangerously close to wonder.
A month ago I was packing boxes in a house I was losing, working two jobs to stay afloat, facing the possibility of having to sleep on Jess's couch because I had nowhere else to go.
Now I'm standing in a Swiss villa overlooking a lake, wearing a ring that catches the light every time I move my hand.
I think about the lunch before we left. About what Erion said, his voice casual but his eyes intense, watching for my reaction. About all three of them. At the same time.
I've been thinking about it ever since. More than thinking. Fantasizing
But actually acting on it feels different. Bigger. Real in a way fantasy never has to be. Fantasy is safe. Fantasy doesn't require courage or choice or consequences.
Reality does.
Since that lunch, they've been nothing but charming.
Patient in a way that should feel reassuring but somehow makes the tension worse.
A few kisses stolen in hallways and quiet moments.
Erion's mouth on mine, hot and demanding, his hands possessive on my waist. Artan's lips pressed to my forehead before saying goodbye, gentle and reverent.
Luan pulling me close in the kitchen, his breath warm against my neck.
But nothing more. No pushing. No demands. No pressure.
They're waiting for me to decide. To choose.
And I'm paralyzed by the enormity of that choice, too afraid to reach for what I want because reaching makes it real, makes it something I chose instead of something that happened to me.
We settle into the villa, each of us claiming a bedroom. The space is excessive. Fourteen bedrooms total. Each of us gets our own, with private bathrooms and views of the lake.
"I have my appointment in half an hour," Luan says, checking his watch. His voice is carefully neutral, but I can hear the tension underneath.
I turn to him immediately, "I want to come with you."
"It's not necessary." He's already shaking his head. "Just routine exams. Vision checks. Follow-up."
"I want to come," I insist. Something in my chest tightens at the thought of him going alone, of sitting in sterile waiting rooms without anyone there who cares whether the news is good or bad.
He studies me for a moment, his green eyes clearer than they've been in weeks, focused with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. Then he nods, something softening in his expression. "Okay."
We all pile into the rented SUV. Artan drives, his hands steady on the wheel. Erion claims the front passenger seat, sprawling like he owns the space. I slide into the back with Luan.
I can see he's nervous. His jaw is tight, muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hands rest on his thighs, fingers tapping out a rhythm only he can hear, restless in a way he rarely lets show.
I reach for his hand without thinking.
He grabs it immediately, his fingers threading through mine, grip almost tight enough to hurt. His thumb strokes over the engagement ring I started wearing again, the metal warm from my skin.
A small smile crosses his face. Brief. Genuine. Like that simple touch of gold and diamond means something more than it should.
The clinic is nothing like I expected. It looks more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility, all glass and clean lines. Modern art on the walls. Fresh flowers in elegant vases. The kind of place where wealth whispers instead of shouts.
A nurse greets us at the entrance. Young, professional, her smile practiced and perfect. She speaks English with a crisp Swiss-German accent. "Mr. Krasniqi? Right this way, please."
She guides us inside and I feel it the moment we cross the threshold.
The smell.
Faint but unmistakable beneath the luxury and the fresh flowers and the expensive air purification systems. Antiseptic. Sterility. The particular scent of medical facilities that no amount of money can completely erase.
It hits me like a physical blow, dragging me back to memories I've tried to bury.
My aunt. The last months of her life when cancer ate through her body faster than treatment could stop it.
The appointments that became more frequent, more desperate.
The waiting rooms where we sat in silence because there was nothing left to say.
The quiet conversations with doctors who tried to be gentle when delivering news that felt like violence.
I drag in a deep breath, force myself to stay present. Fortify myself against the wave of grief that threatens to pull me under.
I'm here for Luan. I need to be strong for him.
The nurse leads us to a waiting room. Luan goes with her through a door marked "Private," leaving the three of us behind.
Artan, Erion, and I sit in uncomfortable silence. The chairs are expensive and ergonomic and somehow still manage to be deeply uncomfortable. Minutes stretch. The clock on the wall ticks too loudly.
I can't stop fidgeting. My leg bounces. My fingers twist together in my lap. I'm aware of Artan watching me from the corner of his eye but I can't make myself stop.
The nurse returns after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes.
"Everything is progressing well," she says, her smile professional and meaningless.
"But the doctor has decided to perform a minor procedure.
It will ensure optimal recovery. It will take longer than anticipated.
Perhaps overnight. One of you is welcome to stay with him. "
"I can stay," I say immediately, the words automatic.
Artan looks at me. His brown eyes see too much. "You're not coping well, Lily."
"I'm fine," I protest, but the words sound hollow even to me.
"You're pale. You haven't stopped fidgeting since we walked in." His voice is gentle, not accusatory, but the observation still stings. "I'll stay. You and Erion should go explore Zurich. Get some air. I'll keep you updated. I'll join you as soon as I can."
"I should stay," I argue, even though the thought of spending hours in this place makes my chest tighten.
"You should go," Artan says firmly, but his expression is kind. Understanding in a way that makes my throat tight. "Luan will be fine. And you need to get out of here."
I want to argue more. Want to insist that I'm strong enough, capable enough, that I can handle sitting in a medical facility without falling apart.
But Artan's right. I'm not coping. The smell alone is making my hands shake.
Erion extends his hand to me, palm up, an offering. I grab it like a lifeline.
"Come on, dashuri," he says, his voice softer than usual. "Let's get lost."
And we do.
We wander the streets of Zurich for hours, aimless and unhurried.
The old town is beautiful. Buildings that are centuries old, their facades carefully preserved, narrow cobblestone alleys winding between them like paths through a maze.
Shop windows display watches that cost more than cars, chocolate arranged like fine art, clothing with price tags I don't let myself look at too closely.
We don't talk much. Just walk hand in hand, his palm warm and solid against mine, his fingers occasionally squeezing like he's reminding himself I'm real.
We find a small pastry shop tucked into a side street. The smell pulls us inside before we consciously decide to enter. Chocolate and sugar and butter, warm and rich and impossibly inviting.
The interior is tiny, just a handful of tables with mismatched chairs, a glass case displaying pastries that look almost too beautiful to eat.
We sit at a table by the window. We order something to eat now and something to bring back to Artan and Luan.
The woman behind the counter smiles indulgently and brings us coffee and pastries that taste like heaven.
My phone buzzes against the table. A message from Artan.
Procedure finished. Luan's in recovery for a few hours. Everything went as well as the doctor hoped.
Relief floods through me so suddenly my eyes sting with tears I refuse to shed. I show Erion the message, my hand trembling slightly.
"See?" he says, his voice warm. "All good. I told you he'd be fine."
We finish our coffee slowly, savoring the sweetness and the quiet and the simple pleasure of sitting together without urgency. When we finally leave, the sun is beginning its descent toward the horizon.
We walk alongside the lake. The light is golden now, the kind of light photographers chase, turning everything soft and warm and impossibly beautiful. The water reflects the sky, smooth as glass. The air is cool against my skin, carrying the faint scent of water and flowers.
The atmosphere is romantic in a way that feels almost too perfect, like someone staged it deliberately.
Then we see it.
An area near the water decorated with flowers and candles, white roses and soft candlelight creating a circle of beauty that draws the eye.
A man kneels in the center, a small box open in his hand.
A woman stands in front of him, her hands over her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
Friends cluster nearby, phones out, capturing the moment.
A proposal.
We stop automatically, drawn by the intimacy of the scene playing out in public. Watch as the woman nods, her yes lost in the sound of friends cheering. The man stands, slips the ring onto her finger, and they kiss while everyone applauds.
It's joyful. Pure. The kind of moment that reminds you that love exists outside of complications and consequences, that sometimes people choose each other simply and completely.
I watch the woman laugh through her tears, watch her friends swarm them with hugs and congratulations, watch the man hold her like she's the only thing in the world that matters.
Something shifts in my chest. Settles. Becomes clear.
I turn to Erion. My pulse is racing, my mouth dry, but my voice comes out steady. Certain.
"Let's go back to the villa."
The words are breathless. Deliberate. Heavy with implication.
He looks at me, and I watch understanding cross his face, watch his eyes darken with heat and something fiercer. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."