Murdered his own father.
The ultimate betrayal of blood and trust and everything that should be sacred.
What kind of man kills his own father?
What kind of man helps him do it?
I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't process what she's just told me. The elevator seems to tilt beneath my feet, the world shifting on its axis into something unrecognizable and horrifying.
The elevator pings cheerfully, oblivious to the devastation happening inside it.
The doors slide open.
The lobby spreads out before me. Bright and elegant and completely surreal. Marble floors gleaming under soft lighting. The murmur of other guests moving through their ordinary evenings.
Artan suddenly erupts, right in front of the elevator. Out of breath, chest heaving like he's run a marathon. He must have sprinted down multiple flights of stairs trying to beat the elevator.
His eyes are wild with concern. With fear. With something desperate and raw.
"Lily." My name comes out urgent, ragged. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you?"
I look at him. This man I thought I knew. This man I trusted with my body and my heart and my safety. This man I love with an intensity that makes my chest ache.
This man who helped Luan kill his own father.
"No," I say. My voice sounds distant, hollow, like it's coming from somewhere very far away. Like it belongs to someone else entirely. "Valentina didn't hurt me."
I pause. Force myself to meet his eyes even though looking at him hurts worse than anything Valentina could have done with her hands.
"You did. You all did."
34
LILY
Jess stands at her apartment window, one hand resting on the frame, looking down at the street three stories below. The afternoon light catches the dust motes floating in the air between us, makes them glow like tiny stars suspended in ordinary space.
"The car is still there."
Her voice is neutral. Factual. But I can hear the concern underneath.
It's been a week since I left Luan's apartment. A week since I showed up at Jess's door at two in the morning with a small bag of hastily packed clothes and a face that must have told her everything she needed to know without words. She took one look at me, eyes red and swollen from crying, and pulled me inside without questions. Just wrapped me in her arms and let me break.
A week since I learned that the men I love are capable of cold-blooded murder. Of patricide.
A week since there's been a car stationed outside Jess's apartment building. Always there when I look.
Jess turns from the window. Her expression is worried, the lines between her eyebrows deepening. Careful in the way people get when they're trying not to spook something wounded.
"I want to respect your privacy," she says slowly, choosing each word with deliberate care. "I'm not going to pry about what happened. But I'm worried, Lily. This looks like stalking. Should I call the police?"
"No. It's not necessary."
The words come out automatic, definitive, before I've even finished processing the question.
I know what that car means. This vigilance, this constant presence, is their way of making sure I'm safe. I can't quite explain how I know it with such certainty. Can't justify it logically or defend it to anyone who might ask. But deep down, in a place that defies reason and refuses to be swayed by facts, I know they would never harm me.
This is their way of looking out for me even when I've told them to stay away.
