Chapter 4: The Funeral Lie

I replied obediently, but Victor still seemed insecure. He tore off my dress and pulled me close, his hands urgent and desperate. I let him, knowing resistance would only make things worse. In the darkness, I closed my eyes and tried to disappear into the music still echoing in my mind.

...

I have to admit, I’m luckier than Mariah. Mariah just likes to spend money. The pleasure I get is a bit more... intense. Sometimes, the lines between fear and desire blur until I can’t tell them apart.

There were moments, in the quiet after, when I almost believed he loved me. Almost.

...

But I can’t let Victor know.

If he sensed even a hint of real affection, he’d tighten his grip. I had to keep up the act—always just out of reach, never letting him see the truth.

When he held me, still a little sweaty, and kissed my cheek, the tears started without warning.

The tears came hot and silent, tasting of salt as they slid down my cheeks. I turned my face away, embarrassed by my own weakness.

Victor kissed away my tears, his voice low: "Why are you crying?"

His thumb brushed my cheek, gentle for once. I swallowed hard, searching for words I didn’t have.

I asked, "Do you love me?"

The question hung between us, heavy and dangerous. I regretted it the moment it left my lips.

Victor’s face turned cold.

His eyes shuttered, the warmth gone in an instant. I knew I’d crossed a line.

For three years, he’s given me everything I wanted, spoiled me rotten. But when it comes to status, neither of us ever brings it up.

We danced around the truth, pretending this arrangement was enough. But deep down, we both knew it wasn’t.

I’m just a stand-in. The most important thing for a stand-in, besides looks, is being sensible. Pestering your patron about whether he truly loves you is the dumbest thing you can do.

I’d read enough advice columns to know—never ask a question you don’t want the answer to.

Victor was silent. That silence was already the best answer I could get.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. The silence stretched, suffocating.

But I just couldn’t help myself. I pressed further: "Victor, am I the woman you love most?"

My voice trembled, barely audible. I knew I shouldn’t, but I needed to hear it—even if it was a lie.

Victor stood up and got dressed.

He moved with mechanical precision, every gesture cold and deliberate. I pulled the sheet around me, feeling suddenly exposed, my hands trembling.

Seeing he was about to leave, I started to cry: "Where are you going?"

My voice broke, raw and pleading. I hated myself for sounding so desperate, but I couldn’t stop.

Victor stopped. He turned back, expression cold, like the person who had just held me wasn’t him at all. "Lila, you’re out of line."

He didn’t raise his voice, but the words cut deeper than any shout. I shrank back, biting my lip to keep from sobbing.

---

A caged bird doesn’t get to question why the door is locked.

That was the rule. For three years, I’d played my part perfectly—sweet, obedient, never asking for more than he was willing to give.

For three years, I’d behaved perfectly.

I kept my secrets, played my role, and never once stepped out of line. Until tonight.

But today, I just couldn’t let it go. After Victor left, I called him again and again. He rejected every call.

The phone rang and rang, each rejection a fresh sting. I finally gave up, tossing my phone onto the bed, the screen going dark.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Good—Victor wants to punish me a little. That means for the next three days, he won’t answer my calls or come to the mansion.

I knew his patterns. When he was angry, he disappeared—no calls, no visits, just radio silence. It was the safest window I’d get.

That makes it much safer to run away.

I quickly packed my valuables and moved them to a secret spot.

I double-checked every hiding place—behind the loose brick in the fireplace, under the false bottom of my jewelry box. I wasn’t leaving anything to chance, every sound making me jumpy.

Late at night, Mariah came to find me: "You ready?"

She was dressed in all black, hair tucked under a baseball cap—like she was auditioning for Mission Impossible. Her eyes sparkled with adrenaline.

I said, "Ready."

My hands shook, but I forced a smile. If we were going to do this, we had to do it together.

Mariah didn’t trust me and checked everything again.

She rifled through my bag, double-checked the passports, and even made me recite our new aliases. "Trust, but verify," she said, grinning, nudging me with her elbow.

"Alright," she nodded, satisfied. "Time to die."

She flashed me a thumbs-up, and I couldn’t help but laugh, nerves and excitement mixing in my chest.

---

Harrison Linwood

A lot happened that day.

The city felt tense, the sky heavy with rain that never quite fell. It was the kind of day when everything felt on edge, every siren a warning.

First, Harrison’s people found the unconscious Savannah Rivers in an abandoned warehouse. She was clutching a pearl in her hand.

The warehouse was cold and musty, shafts of sunlight slanting through broken windows. Savannah looked fragile, her dress torn, hair tangled. The pearl glimmered in her palm, stark against her pale skin.

When Harrison saw it, his pupils contracted sharply. He recognized that pearl. A year ago, for their anniversary, he’d bought Mariah a custom designer dress, hand-embroidered over three years, every pearl worth a fortune.

He remembered the fitting, Mariah spinning in front of the mirror, laughing as she admired the intricate beadwork. That pearl wasn’t just jewelry—it was a symbol of everything he’d tried to give her.

The pearl in Savannah’s hand was from that dress.

A chill ran down his spine. Coincidence, or something more sinister?

"Mr. Linwood, are you saying Mrs. Linwood had something to do with this...?" the assistant whispered.

The assistant’s voice was barely audible, but the implication was clear. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with accusation, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.