“On it.”
I end the call and let the phone drop onto the table, pressing my palms into my eyes until sparks scatter behind my lids. My skull throbs with the weight of too many lies, too many moving pieces.
Lily flashes through my mind—her laughter bright and reckless, a wildfire no one could ever contain. The way she never bows, never breaks, even when the world claws at her. The way she believed in me, fiercely, stupidly, with a kind of faith I never deserved.
Then Gianna’s face follows, unbidden. Those empty, quiet eyes. A girl trapped in a life carved out for her, bones hollowed by expectation. A future already stolen.
The contrast slices me open.
Everything around me feels like it’s shrinking—walls tightening, time constricting, the air itself turning into a noose. This game of cat and mouse is tightening its grip, and options are vanishing by the second.
But beneath all of it—beneath the panic, the fury, the guilt—one truth stands unmoving, blazing through the noise:
I won’t let whoever’s orchestrating this keep pulling the strings.
And I’ll be damned—truly, sacrificially damned—before I let them anywhere near the woman I love.
Chapter 16
With the summer showcase closing in and the clock devouring days faster than we can sketch them, Jamie and Isabella decide we need a creative intervention. A brainstorming session at our favourite café—sketchbooks spread open, caffeine coursing through our veins, pastries flaking sugar over our work, the holy trinity of panic-fuelled creativity that keeps university students like us clinging to the illusion that genius is only one espresso shot or iced oat latte away.
So even though my entire body aches with exhaustion, begging for the refuge of my sheets and a few more stolen hours of sleep, I drag myself upright. My baby pink robe slips acrossmy shoulders as I shuffle to my vanity, eyes gritty, brain a fog of half-finished designs and intrusive memories.
I check the height of my tripod, drop my phone into the cradle, and adjust the lighting until it’s just right—cool-toned and diffused, backlit enough to catch the glint of highlighter tracing across my cheekbones. The camera will only see me from my cheekbones down, hiding my face, keeping me safe in the shadows, but I still want it to be perfect. The glow is artificial, but that’s the point. I hit record, and the little red light blinks to life, watching me the way hundreds of strangers will later.
It’s ridiculous, sometimes, how much money this kind of thing makes me. Mundane rituals broadcast for an audience desperate to feel close to me. Something as simple as getting ready in the morning becomes currency, traded for likes, tips, loyalty. I’d laugh if it weren’t so painfully true.
But I understand it. Loneliness has always been a commodity people are willing to pay to erase. Maybe it’s the illusion of connection, the comforting lie that someone out there gives a damn about the details of your day. Or maybe it’s just the balm of pretending you matter to someone, even if it’s only for the length of a video clip. Either way, I’m not complaining. Filming what I’d be doing anyway is the easiest cash grab I’ve ever stumbled into and it keeps my fans devoted.
Lily’s Loves isn’t just the streams that leave me flushed and breathless. It’s the teasing snapshots, the private glimpses into my daily life, the carefully curated “girlfriend experience” that makes them feel chosen, special. Like they’re the reason I keep going.
And maybe, in some twisted way, they are.
I blow a kiss to the camera, stop recording, and quickly skim the footage before uploading it. Notifications start exploding onmy phone before I’ve even changed out of my robe. By tonight, they’ll be rabid for more. Perfect timing for my next stream.
I swap the robe for a tweed skater skirt and a cropped baby tee screen-printed with a graphic I sketched out in a burst of insomnia last week. Every detail is intentional—the sheer over-the-knee socks with delicate lace trim, the vintage Vivienne Westwood choker that catches the light with each tilt of my chin, the patent leather Mary Janes that squeak softly with every step.
My tote’s stuffed with essentials—a sketchbook full of half-finished ideas, measuring tape, thread samples, scraps of fabric scribbled over with tiny notes about drape and finish. On top, a folded copy ofNuméro—my favouritefashion magazine—its corner’s dog-eared where designs have burrowed into my brain like a quiet obsession.
I catch my own reflection in the mirror one last time. It’s not merely an outfit; it’s a suit of armour, stitched together from aesthetic precision and an unspoken refusal to look like I’m crumbling on the inside.
Then I’m out the door.
The café is already humming with life when I arrive a little after noon, sunlight slanting through the big windows to turn the polished floor into fractured gold. Nestled just a stone’s throw from the university gates, it’s become our unofficial creative headquarters, a space where dreams get drafted on coffee-stained napkins and arguments over draping techniques dissolve into laughter.
Warm cheek kisses, overlapping voices askingHow are you?andWhat are you ordering?It all blends into a familiar, comforting din, like static tuned to the frequency of belonging.Thisis what I spent so many years longing for.
Spying Isabella’s dark head, I weave my way through the cafe until I reach the table she’s picked. Tucked in a back corner, it’s perfect for people-watching and ensuring none of our classmates can see our designs. It’s such a typical Isabella choice I share a look with Jamie as I drop my bag onto the table and join them.
Soon our table is an explosion of colour and texture—swatches of silk that catch the light like liquid metal, hand-dyed linen that breathes soft as a whisper, crushed velvet in twilight hues deep enough to drown in. Sketches spill across the table like tarot cards, foretelling possible futures in graphite and ink. Coffee rings bloom across tracing paper, and Isabella’s iPad glows with her mood board. Meanwhile, Jamie is elbow-deep in a draped tulle corset mock-up, blonde hair mussed from running his fingers through it and muttering curses about boning tension and ruching ratios as though the fate of the world hangs on a single seam.
It’s chaos, and there’s enough tension in the air to make you feel like it’ll snap at any second, but I love this. These quiet, tense hours pouring over designs and later fabrics is where I thrive. Something about the feeling of seeing my vision come to life in front of my very eyes makes the hours pouring over designs until my eyes are twitching.
Coffee gives way to wine, a plate of tapas half-finished sits between us, hours bleeding into one another like ink across wet tracing paper. The three of us slip into that rare, perfect rhythm where ideas spark like static, sharp and dazzling.
“I hate to admit it,” Isabella sighs, swirling what’s left of her white wine, “but your design might actually win.”
Mightis doing heroic work in that sentence. Isabella doesn’t lose, not even hypothetically. But our competition is the kind that sharpens rather than severs, the kind rooted in respect, in the knowledge that each of us is trying to become the kind of artist we dreamed of being when we first picked up a pencil or fabric.
