2

Roman pulled away, resting his weight on his knees for a moment before standing. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t speak. Vera kept her eyes on the ceiling, staring at the faint glow of the lights as if some answer would appear from the empty air.

He dressed in silence, his back turned to her the entire time. No glance. No words. No sign that he even remembered she was there. Once fully dressed, he walked to the door and left, shutting it behind him without a sound.

She lay there, bare, staring at the ceiling. Used. Empty. Wondering how much longer she could survive this loveless marriage.

She had been foolish. Even after everything, a small, stubborn part of her still hoped. Hoped that Roman would change. That maybe, just maybe, he would see her. Care for her. But every time he touched her like this, that tiny flicker of hope shattered into dust. Vera turned onto her side, curling into herself, trying to hold the broken pieces together.

What did I do to deserve this? she asked herself, but no answer came. Only silence—and a bitter, gnawing ache inside her chest.

The name still remained in the air, like a ghost.

 "Lillith." She hated it.

 Hated how he whispered it like a prayer.

 Hated how it made her feel like nothing. Like a body, a substitute, a mistake.

Love had no place in their marriage. She was here for one reason: to bear an heir and stay invisible otherwise.

A flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. For a brief second, the light caught on the cold steel of a gun resting on the table by the window.

Her eyes locked onto it—and memories she had buried clawed their way back. It had been a night just like this. The sky rumbling, the air thick with the smell of rain. She had worn a simple gown, her heart heavy with the news her father had delivered without feeling. She was going to become Roman Benedetti’s bride. Her life, her future, her dreams—all signed away behind closed doors.

Still, before everything slipped from her grasp, she had wanted to see him. The one person who had ever looked at her like she was more than a pawn. The one who had treated her like she mattered, not because of her family name, but because of who she was.

She had gone to him, hoping to find a way to hold onto herself for just a little longer. To say goodbye... to confess what was in her heart.

When she tried to tell him, her voice trembling, she hadn’t expected him to lean in and kiss her.

Her first kiss. She had been terrified and exhilarated all at once. Her fate had been decided, but for that one moment, she was free. And then, before she could even breathe it in, a gunshot tore through the night.

The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, rain washing it across her lips.

She opened her eyes to find him collapsed at her feet, lifeless, his blood mixing with the muddy water. Her heart stopped.

And when she looked up—through the haze of shock and terror—she saw Roman.

Roman, standing there, gun in hand, his face blank, untouched by regret.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness, leaving her alone with the broken body of the only man who had ever made her feel human. Roman hadn’t just taken her freedom.

He hadn’t just claimed her body. He had stolen the one piece of her soul that could have survived this life. And as the storm raged outside, Vera lay in the darkness, knowing one thing with a certainty that chilled her to the bone— She would never forgive Roman Benedetti for what he had done to her. Not in this life.

Vera got up from the bed, her body aching with every step as she made her way to the bathroom. She turned on the tap, the cold water splashing against the sink. Without looking at herself, she scrubbed away every trace of him, every reminder of what he had done. She kept going until her skin stung from the roughness of her hands.

When she was done, she finally lifted her gaze to the mirror.

A different woman stared back at her.

There were no tears. No cracks. Only a cold, steady confidence she hadn't known she could still summon. Slowly, she smiled—a sharp, bitter smile meant for no one but herself.

"I will never give you what you want, Roman Benedetti," she whispered, her voice low and sure.

Without breaking eye contact with her reflection, she pulled open the drawer beneath the sink. Her fingers reached down to the very back, where she had hidden pills months ago. Without hesitation, she popped it into her mouth and swallowed it dry. No regret and fear. Then, she turned off the bathroom light, walked back to the bed, and lay down, curling beneath the sheets. For the first time in a long time, sleep came easily.

The next morning, Vera woke up and went through the same routine she had perfected over the past two years. She dressed neatly, tying her hair back, and headed downstairs. The house was silent, cold in a way that had nothing to do with the weather. She had long since stopped expecting warmth or kindness within these walls. The handmaid was the only person who ever offered her a simple good morning, and Vera returned it with a polite nod and a faint smile, clinging to that small exchange more than she cared to admit.

After her marriage, Vera had spent the first year barely surviving. The loneliness was suffocating, and the silence of the grand house only made her feel smaller, more invisible. She realized quickly that if she didn’t find something to hold on to, she would lose herself completely. That was when she found the NGO. She asked Roman for permission to work, and surprisingly, he agreed—probably because it kept her away from him, tucked neatly out of sight.

The NGO became her only escape, the only place she felt remotely human. Working with orphans, with children who knew what it was like to be unwanted, gave her a purpose. In a way, she was just like them—an orphan herself, only hers had come not from death, but from betrayal. She was nothing more than a bargaining chip, bartered away for her family's survival.

Vera stepped into the car Roman had assigned for her, and the driver took her to the NGO without a word. As soon as she entered the modest building, one of the workers rushed over, her face tight with concern.

"Someone abandoned a baby at the gate this morning," the woman said. "We just found him."

Vera’s heart squeezed painfully. She followed the worker to the nursery where a tiny baby lay wrapped in a worn blanket. His skin was marred with bruises, his cries weak and exhausted. Vera approached slowly, kneeling by the crib, and reached out with trembling fingers, careful not to startle him.

He was beautiful, innocent—and already broken by the world.

As she gazed down at him, her mind wandered to the decision she had made months ago. She didn’t want to bring a child into the loveless prison she was trapped in. She didn’t want her child to grow up in a house where warmth didn’t exist, where power and blood mattered more than love.

When Roman and his father grew restless, frustrated by the fact that her belly wasn’t showing signs of pregnancy, Vera felt nothing but silent relief. She had made her choice long ago. She would never give Roman what he wanted. It was better this way—for the unborn child, and for herself.

She was still lost in her thoughts when she heard a voice behind her.

"Miss Vera."

She turned, blinking away the heaviness in her chest. A man stood there, holding a bouquet of fresh flowers. His smile was warm, and genuine, and his eyes shone with a kindness she had almost forgotten existed. He stepped forward and extended the bouquet toward her. "You’re looking like the first light of the sun, Miss Vera," he said, a soft, genuine smile tugging at his lips. For a long moment, Vera just stood there, staring at him. She could feel the sincerity radiating from him, something so different from the coldness she had grown used to. Slowly, she reached out and took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly, sending an unfamiliar warmth through her chest.

"Thank you," she said, her voice light but guarded. "But you don't need to come up with a new line every day, Doc."

He chuckled, the sound easy and natural. "It's Darien," he corrected, his eyes holding a playful glint. Vera allowed herself a small smile, the rare kind she reserved for the few moments that still felt human in her life. She tucked the bouquet closer to her chest, feeling its soft petals against her skin, a small reminder that there were still parts of the world untouched by cruelty. She turned to leave, but Darien’s voice caught her, soft and almost too quiet to hear. "You’re fire, Vera... and I’m the moth," he murmured. "I can’t seem to think straight when you’re near. And when the time comes, I’ll make sure you never have to wonder if you’re truly wanted."

His words hung in the air, heavy with something Vera couldn’t quite place. But she didn’t turn around, didn’t ask him what he meant. She kept walking, her mind already somewhere else, already somewhere far away. In her world, a man getting too close didn’t just risk pain—it guaranteed a grave. Roman didn’t do warnings. He did funerals.

She was already claimed by the man who would never love her.

And the one who dared to think about her? He’d be dead before he touched her hand.