Chapter 35 LILY
LILY
"Are you trying to restock a shelf that's already full?"
Mr. Hamilton's voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade, sharp and annoyed, with that particular edge of irritation he reserves for employees he considers incompetent.
I look down at my hands. At the box of cornflakes I'm holding, its bright yellow packaging suddenly garish under the fluorescent lights.
At the shelf in front of me that is, in fact, completely and meticulously stocked.
Every box lined up with military precision.
No gaps. No spaces. Nothing that needs filling.
"Sorry. I wasn't paying attention."
The apology comes out automatic, practiced from years of making myself smaller for men who demand deference without earning it.
"Clearly." He shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, the gesture theatrical in its contempt. Walks away muttering about useless employees who can't handle basic tasks, his voice carrying just loud enough for me to hear every word.
I set the box down on the metal cart with a soft thud.
Take a breath that tastes like cardboard and industrial cleaning solution.
Chastise myself for daydreaming again when I should be focused.
When I should be present in this fluorescent-lit reality instead of lost in memories that felt too real to be lies.
I'm lucky Mr. Hamilton gave me my old job back at the grocery store.
This will have to do until I can find something better. Until I can save enough money to get off Jess's couch and into my own place again. Until I can rebuild some version of the life I had before.
Mr. Hamilton is mean in that casual, everyday way that some people are mean. Ungrateful for effort that goes unnoticed. The kind of boss who sees employees as replaceable parts in a machine instead of actual human beings with lives and feelings and limitations.
I think back to my conversation with Jess last night. About survivor's guilt. About how I give too much to people who don't deserve it. About patterns I repeat without examining why.
She's right. I hate that she's right, but she is.
I did feel guilty when I was succeeding in my culinary career while Henry was struggling with his gambling addiction, watching him spiral while I got offers and opportunities.
I am overgiving in this job, making myself smaller than I need to be, working harder than necessary for someone who barely acknowledges my existence beyond criticism.
But right now, I need this job. Need the money however meager. Need the routine that keeps me moving through days that otherwise feel too empty. Need something to fill the hours so I don't spend them all thinking about three men I'm supposed to be staying away from.
Except I keep messing up the simplest things. Tasks I could do in my sleep when I worked here before. Restocking shelves. Running the register. Organizing inventory.
Because my mind is elsewhere. My heart is elsewhere. My entire being feels split between the person standing in this grocery store wearing an ugly green vest and the person who fell in love with dangerous men.
I know it was them who attacked Marcus. What are the odds that other Albanian mafia men would have a beef with my former boss?
I just don't know when they found out about him. When they learned what he'd done. How they knew to connect him to me.
I must be losing my mind because part of me, some dark shameful part I don't want to examine too closely, thinks cutting off Marcus's thumbs is romantic.
Like those spicy romance books I read where the dangerously protective hero says "touch her and you die" and then actually follows through with lethal precision.
I laugh at myself quietly, the sound bitter and slightly unhinged even to my own ears.
Life isn't a book. Violence isn't romantic when it's real, when there's actual blood and actual consequences that ripple out into the world. This isn't fantasy where everything works out and the morally gray actions are justified by true love.
But still.
The thought persists despite my attempts to dismiss it.
They must feel something for me to do a thing like that. To commit violence on my behalf without being asked. To exact revenge for discomfort I barely acknowledged to myself. To care enough about my dignity that they'd destroy a man's livelihood to protect it.
I'm struggling with these ambivalent feelings, trying to sort through the tangle of horror and gratitude and fear and something dangerously close to pleasure, when I hear my name.
"Lily."
The single word freezes me in place.
I'm facing a shelf of cereal boxes, my hand still resting on a box of granola. Too afraid to turn around. Too afraid to confirm what my body already knows with absolute certainty.
Because I recognize that voice. Would recognize it anywhere, in any crowd, after any amount of time.
Artan.
My heart immediately hurts with that sharp ache that comes from wanting something too much. Afraid I might be mistaken. Afraid I'll have to survive the crushing disappointment of false hope.
Slowly, so slowly it feels like moving through water, I turn around.
Artan.
Relief floods through me so powerfully my knees go weak. Elation that makes my chest expand and my breath catch. Then immediately, before I can fully process the joy, I notice the details that temper it.
The dark circles under his eyes, purple-gray shadows that speak of sleepless nights. The strain in his face, tension pulling at the corners of his mouth and eyes. The way he's holding himself, shoulders tight with exhaustion.
Is he suffering too? Does he hurt the way I hurt? Does he lie awake at night thinking about me the way I lie awake thinking about him?
"Lily," he repeats. The word comes out different this time. Softer. Almost like a prayer. Like my name is something sacred he's been forbidden to speak and is now finally allowed to voice again.
He takes a step closer. Just one. Careful not to invade my space but closing the distance enough that I can smell him. That cologne I remember, woodsy and clean. That scent that's uniquely him underneath it.
We're almost touching. Our breath mingles in the small space between us. Our hands hang at our sides, inches apart, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"Get back to work! Those shelves aren't going to stock themselves!"
Mr. Hamilton's voice shatters the moment like glass breaking. Harsh and intrusive and completely oblivious to what he's interrupting.
Artan's jaw clenches immediately. I see the muscle jump beneath his skin. See the effort it takes him to restrain whatever instinct is rising in him. To not turn and respond to the disrespect in my boss's tone with the kind of violence I know he's capable of.
But he controls it. Holds himself still through visible force of will.
"I don't mean to disturb you at work," Artan says quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "But I have a request. Something I need to ask you."
He pauses. Swallows hard enough that I can see his throat work.
"We want to talk to you. All of us. Would you meet with us? For a conversation? Just a conversation..."
"I don't know if that's a good idea," I start to answer. The words come out uncertain, hesitant, because I genuinely don't know. Don't know if seeing them again would help or hurt. Don't know if I'm strong enough to face all three of them at once.
Artan raises his hand in a gentle wait motion.
Not commanding. Just asking for a moment more.
He reaches into his coat with careful movements, like he's afraid of startling me.
Pulls out his wallet, well-worn leather that's been shaped by years in his pocket.
Takes out a piece of paper that's been folded carefully into quarters, the creases white and soft from repeated handling.
"When I read this, it was the first time I knew you were in my world," Artan says.
His voice is rough now, emotion making it unsteady.
"I didn't understand why it felt so significant at the time.
I went to Luan's apartment to check on him.
Found banana bread on the counter, with this note tucked beside it. "
He unfolds it carefully, reverently even, like it's something precious instead of just paper and ink. Shows me.
My handwriting. Looped and slightly messy. "Hope you enjoy the bread. Welcome home."
Words I'd written without thinking. Just a friendly gesture. Nothing profound or romantic or loaded with meaning.
But looking at it now, seeing how carefully he's preserved it, I realize it meant something to him.
"I had the notion then that my life was about to change," Artan continues. His dark eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity. "So I kept it. Carried it with me. Like a talisman or a promise or just proof that you existed and weren't something I'd imagined."
He pauses. Takes a breath that makes his chest expand.
"That's how I feel about you now. Like you're my home.
The place I return to. The thing that makes everything else make sense.
" His voice drops even lower, becomes almost intimate despite the fluorescent lights and the smell of produce and the distant beep of scanners. "Dashuria ime. My love. I love you."
The words hit me like a physical thing. Like something solid and undeniable that I can't pretend didn't happen or didn't matter.
I open my mouth to respond. To say what, I don't know. Maybe that I love him too. Maybe that loving him isn't enough. Maybe nothing at all because words feel inadequate for what I'm feeling.
"Please don't say anything yet," Artan says quickly, urgently, before I can form whatever response was trying to emerge.
He takes my hand in his, the contact electric and achingly familiar.
His grip is warm, firm but gentle, his calluses rough against my palm.
"I'm not saying I love you to force you into something you don't want.
I'm not trying to manipulate or pressure or make you feel obligated. "
He squeezes my hand once.
"But we would really like to have a conversation with you.
To explain. To answer questions. To let you see all of it, not just the parts Valentina wanted you to see.
After that, we'll accept whatever you choose to do.
If you want to walk away, we'll let you go.
If you never want to see us again, we'll respect that. Fjale nderi. Word of honor."
He leans forward slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. Presses his lips to my forehead in a kiss that feels like benediction and goodbye and hope all mixed together. The contact lasts just seconds but burns itself into my memory with painful clarity.
Then he releases my hand. Steps back. And walks away without looking back.
I stand there in the cereal aisle, stunned and motionless. The note still in my hand where he placed it. My skin still warm where his lips touched.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The store's muzak plays something bland and forgettable. Somewhere behind me I can hear Mr. Hamilton berating another employee.
Everything is exactly as it was five minutes ago.
But everything has changed.
I look down at the note in my hand. At my own handwriting. At the words I wrote without understanding their weight.
Welcome home.
And suddenly I know exactly what I need to do. The certainty settles into my bones with quiet finality. Not a dramatic revelation. Just a simple truth that's been waiting for me to acknowledge it.