Chapter 8: Lillian

“Miss Caraway,” Dylan nodded politely as I stepped out of the elevator, the gleaming chrome doors sliding shut behind me with a soft hiss.

“Hello, Dylan, how are you?” I asked, offering him a soft smile while slipping my sunglasses into the designer purse Robert had given me last month—a sleek black leather piece, elegant and far too expensive for everyday use, but here I was, using it anyway.

Dylan returned the smile easily, a natural charm in his expression. “I’m doing good. Finals are slowly approaching—but you know that.”

He was one of the firm’s temps, currently working his way through law school while gaining real-world experience. His name had become somewhat of a staple around here. He had earned a fixed spot on Robert’s team, something rare for a temporary hire, but not surprising. Dylan put in more effort than most, staying late, volunteering for the grunt work, and showing up early to prepare for meetings that didn’t even require his presence. I had overheard Robert praising him after they’d secured a particularly difficult case, and from what I gathered, Robert would be lucky to keep someone like Dylan on board once he graduated.

“Uh, I know,” I sighed, trying to keep the mood light despite the heavy weight of my own thoughts. “Just waiting for June to come, am I right?”

He grinned at me, flashing a perfect row of pearly white teeth. Dylan really was handsome in that effortlessly clean-cut way: neatly styled blonde hair, warm green eyes that lit up when he smiled, and that suit—tailored, crisp, with the slightest hint of cologne—only added to his appeal. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a promotional poster for a legal drama.

“Is Clara coming up to see you graduate?” I asked, doing my best to make small talk. I was a little early, and honestly, I didn’t mind chatting.

“She is,” he beamed, his chest puffing slightly with pride. “We’ve made plans for her to transfer up here, and then hopefully find a place to live next year while she finishes her degree. I’m just waiting to hear back about some job opportunities before we start apartment hunting.”

“I’m really happy for you, Dylan,” I said warmly, reaching out to give his forearm a small, supportive squeeze. “The job stuff will sort itself out. You’re great at what you do. They just need a little time to realize they’re lucky to have you.”

He chuckled, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. “Thank you, Miss Caraway.” He always called me that. I’d told him to just say Lillian, but I suppose being engaged to his boss complicated things. Formalities stuck harder when hierarchies were involved. “And congratulations again on getting engaged.”

“Thank you, Dylan,” I replied, smoothing a hand down my dress, checking that the fabric hugged me properly. “I better head back there.”

“Of course,” he said with a smile, nodding once as he returned to his desk, already engrossed in a manila folder brimming with legal documents, the kind filled with tiny print that made my eyes blur just looking at them.

As I walked further into the office, I nodded at familiar faces. Robert had introduced me to most of his team at one point or another, but I still struggled to match all the last names to the correct people. There was something impersonal about last names—they didn’t stick in my memory as easily as first names did. And in a place like this, where formality reigned, it was last names I got most often.

The door to Robert’s office was closed, the glass panes covered by drawn curtains, which immediately gave me pause. Usually, I’d walk in and wait if he was alone, but now I couldn’t be sure if he was in a meeting or handling something confidential.

I stepped closer and leaned my ear gently against the door, careful not to draw attention. If he was alone, I could wait inside. If not, I didn’t want to intrude.

“I know,” I heard his voice through the door. It was faint, muffled by the thick wood, but unmistakably his. “It’s hard for me too, sugar.”

My brow furrowed instinctively. Sugar? That wasn’t a nickname I had ever heard him use with anyone. As far as I knew, I was the only one he referred to with anything resembling affection—aside from his mother, of course. And certainly not like that.

“We’ve been over this before,” he said, sounding tired. Worn out, even. Like this was a conversation he’d had multiple times.

My fingers stiffened around the strap of my purse. I shouldn’t have been listening, I knew that. It wasn’t fair—it wasn’t respectful. But something in his tone… something in those words... made me uneasy. Maybe it was a surprise, I tried to tell myself. Maybe Sugar was a code name or even an actual name. People named their children all sorts of wild things these days. I could almost picture a Southern woman with big hair and a bakery business, possibly designing our wedding cake.

But then came the words that made my stomach drop like a stone.

“Of course I don’t love her,” he said.

My breath hitched, head jerking slightly at the shock of it. That was no innocent nickname. That wasn’t a conversation with a wedding planner or an eccentric cake decorator. My heart started pounding as I pressed my ear closer, straining to hear more.

“No, sugar, I haven’t touched her like that. You know that. I only want you,” he continued, his voice lowering, taking on a sultry note that turned my stomach. “You know how much I love your body. Those perfect curves…”

Something shattered inside me as I looked down at my own body, trying to make sense of the hollow ache blooming in my chest. Didn’t I have perfect curves? He had told me so, over and over again. Told me how much he wanted me, how beautiful he thought I was. He used to whisper it into my ear in the quiet moments, when we lay curled together deciding to stay in and watch a movie on the couch. He’d said I was delicious, irresistible. A dream.

But now I was hearing something entirely different.

“You know that—I’ve told you that,” Robert muttered, continuing the conversation I should never have overheard. “Besides, she wants to wait until marriage,” he added with a low, cruel chuckle. “So pathetic. Like I’d actually marry someone without taking them for a test drive first.”

My heart began to race, thudding violently against my ribcage. A cold sweat broke out across my palms, the skin slick with anxiety. My breath came in short, uneven bursts as my body wavered between fight and flight, unsure of which survival instinct to obey. The hallway around me suddenly felt too quiet, too narrow. My skin prickled with the realization of what I was hearing. I was gearing up for war—or for escape.

“You know I’m only marrying her for the publicity, sugar,” Robert said next, his tone softening, as if trying to soothe the person on the other end of the call. “Dad’s convinced she’s perfect for the tabloids. Like a modern-day Cinderella story. That’s exactly the image he wants. And if I can get her pregnant too, well, then everything would be amazing.”

The words punched the air from my lungs. I blinked hard, trying to hold back the sting of tears, as if by doing so I could deny what was being said. But there was no mistaking it. No way to twist the words into something else. Robert—my Robert—was using me. I was just a pawn in some publicity stunt, a tool to help elevate his public image and win his father’s approval.

“And don’t worry, sugar,” he added, a smirk evident even through the muffled barrier of the office door. “I’ll make sure it happens through a doctor or something. When she’s pregnant, I’ll tell her about you. I’ll get her set up somewhere, and then we can go back to how things were.”

Tears welled fully now, clouding my vision, and one finally slipped down my cheek, falling with a silent finality that felt like a betrayal of its own. The audacity. The cruelty. My mind was screaming at me, shouting a single word over and over like a siren: Jackass! Over and over, the insult echoed in my skull. How could he do this? How could he say these things? How could he talk about me like I was nothing? Like I was disposable?

“Don’t move, sugar,” he whispered now, his tone lower, almost reverent. “You know how much I love coming home to you every day.”

That was it. That was the final straw, the blow that broke the camel’s back, the cut that shattered any last sliver of illusion I had left. My knees weakened beneath me, and I stumbled backward, away from the door like it had burned me. Another tear fell, then another. I wasn’t just heartbroken—I was humiliated. I had believed in him. I had built a future in my mind, a story where we were happy, where I had finally broken the cycle I’d grown up in.

But suddenly everything made sense.

Every little thing I had brushed off now slid into place like pieces of a cruel puzzle. Why we never went to his place. Why he always had an excuse when I asked for more of his time during the week. Why he couldn’t drop everything when I needed him. He was with her. Or them. Whoever sugar really was. He was busy living a double life while promising me the world.

Without another thought, I turned and made my way back through the office, this time avoiding eye contact with everyone. I didn’t stop to greet anyone. I didn’t even glance at Dylan as I passed his desk. I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, willing my legs to move quickly, to carry me far away before Robert saw me. Before he could see my tear-stained face, before he could see that I had heard it all. Before he could see me broken.

Once inside the elevator, as the mirrored doors slid shut behind me, I caught my reflection. There I was: a woman with puffy eyes and trembling lips, standing alone, completely and utterly destroyed. I stared at that image, hollowed out by betrayal, and a bitter thought crossed my mind—maybe this is just my life. Maybe this was always how it was going to be. Maybe no matter how shiny the ring on my finger was, or how expensive the car he drove, I was always meant to end up like this. Wasn’t that what social reproduction was? The cycle of repeating your roots, of reliving the same heartache your parents once lived? Like mother, like daughter.

As soon as the elevator doors opened, I rushed out, steps brisk and purposeful. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to escape the weight of that office, of that man, of his lies.

Outside, I yanked my phone from my purse with shaking fingers. I just needed to hear a familiar voice—someone real. Someone safe.

I scrolled to the contact I knew by heart and pressed it: my brother. Jeremy.

The phone rang once, then twice, then clicked as the call connected. I didn’t wait for a greeting. The words tumbled from me in a breathless ramble.

“Jer, I need you. I’m in the city, right by Robert’s firm. Could you come pick me up? Please? It won’t take long, I promise. I just... I just need you right now.”

But the voice that answered wasn’t Jeremy’s.

“Tell me the exact address, Lilliana,” came a deep, familiar voice with a rich Italian accent. My heart stuttered in surprise.

“Oh, Dante,” I breathed, trying to steady my voice, trying to hold it together. “You don’t have to... Where’s Jeremy?”

There was a brief pause, the sound of shifting fabric or movement, and then his voice again, quiet but commanding. “I have your location, fiorellino. Don’t move. I’ll be there in five.”

The line went dead before I could respond, and I stared down at the phone in my hand, stunned.

Dante Gallo was coming.

And when he said five minutes, he meant five.

There would be no stopping him now.