Page 28

Valentina had never struggled with making decisions.

Even the difficult ones, the ones that tugged at the edges of her chest late at night, never managed to unsettle her completely. She approached them with a kind of detachment that had only sharpened over the years.

This one, however, had lingered. Not because it was hard, but because it came with noise—meetings, follow-ups, an exhausting web of personalities she had no interest in navigating.

And yet, she'd said yes.

Because Rhys had looked at her like he needed her. He believed in the opening. In the project. In her ability to bring it to life. And for all his flaws, Rhys didn't ask often.

She respected that about him.

Also, the numbers were persuasive. She wasn't naive about business. Beauty didn't pay for itself, and this opening promised both artistic satisfaction and a financial cushion.

So now she stood beneath the high arches of the theatre, her heels quietly echoing against the marbled floor, her eyes tracing the soft curves of the ceiling, the warm gold leafing catching the last stretch of light.

It was beautiful here. The kind of space that held its own breath. And despite herself, she felt something gentle settle in her chest—like anticipation that hadn't yet learned how to hope.

Her hair, softly curled at the ends, fell in clean lines over the collar of her black lazer. She'd thrown it on without much thought. The rest of her outfit was equally simple: an elegant black dress and her usual gold jewelry. Nothing flashy, yet everything intentional.

And then that voice came.

"Happy with the result?"

It was the kind of voice that always asked more than the words implied. Slightly amused, overly familiar, and already tinged with a self-importance Valentina had long grown tired of.

She didn't need to turn to recognize it.

Still, it was early for sighs, and she'd promised herself a quiet evening.

She turned, finally, not slow enough to be dramatic, not fast enough to seem startled.

Katherine Moreau stood with one arm tucked under the other, her hip tilted in that calculated way she always defaulted to—like she believed her silhouette alone could win any conversation.

Valentina kept her expression flat, unreadable.

Their history didn't deserve more than that.

They had met through Rhys, back when Valentina still entertained the idea that love could begin in chaos and survive it. Katherine had been everything Valentina wasn't, and for a short while, she'd mistaken that difference for depth.

Katherine's affection was erratic, her loyalty worse.

The cheating had been almost laughable in retrospect, really.

"You've been ignoring me for weeks," Katherine said, her tone dancing between accusation and flirtation. "Intentional or just convenient?"

Valentina didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.

"Intentional," she answered, her voice cool as pressed glass.

Katherine laughed, sharp and short. "You know, the silent act doesn't make you look powerful. It makes you look petty."

Valentina let the silence stretch, just long enough to be unnerving.

Then, with the same calm she used when dismissing irrelevant offers, she said, "I don't see a reason why we should talk. Us being in the same room is a small inconvenience, not a connection."

Katherine's expression faltered. Just slightly. Her lips parted, her jaw tightening in that imperceptible way women like her hated being unacknowledged.

"Inconvenience?" she repeated, her voice low, offended.

Of course she was.

Katherine Moreau had always required a witness. She needed to be wanted, or at the very least remembered. And when someone stripped her of that power, she unraveled in small, theatrical ways—never loudly, never desperately, just enough to ruin the air around her.

And Valentina—no longer interested in performance—simply stood there.

"I'm asking you—just for tonight—act like an adult. I'd like to get through the evening without a migraine."

Valentina's voice didn't lift. It didn't need to. It had the weight of quiet finality—the kind that didn't demand attention, only closure. The kind that people like Katherine hated most.

Katherine blinked, momentarily thrown. Not by the sharpness of the words, but by their calm. They lacked heat. They lacked hurt. And for a woman who fed on reaction, that absence was the most cutting response of all.

Katherine didn't bring heartbreak. She brought headaches.

It had nothing to do with their history and everything to do with energy. Katherine had always been exhausting—consuming every room she entered with a need to be seen, be felt, be relevant. It wasn't personal. It was habitual. And it was maddening.

And maybe—just maybe—somewhere in the architecture of heaven or fate, someone had heard Valentina's frustration.

Because when she turned her head, she was gifted a moment of peace in human form.

An angel.

Blonde-haired, dolled-up, glowing like candlelight on skin.

Lilith stepped into view like the soft answer to a question Valentina hadn't voiced aloud. Her expression shifted the second her eyes landed on Valentina, and the transformation was so pure, so open, that it almost made Valentina forget where she was.

Lilith smiled.

"Hi," she said, her voice a hush of affection. She lifted her hand and waved—not dramatic, not forced. Just sweet.

But Lilith's eyes wandered too quickly and landed on Katherine. And in an instant, she softened again, stepping back with quiet grace.

"Oh. I'm so sorry for interrupting."

Valentina moved without hesitation.

"You're not," she said, her gaze already shifting to Lilith, away from everything else. "I'm free now."

Katherine scoffed faintly, the kind of sound that barely made it out but still begged to be noticed. Her lips curved in the way Valentina had once mistaken for charm.

"You're free now? How poetic," she muttered, her sarcasm low and syrupy.

Her eyes flicked toward Lilith, sharp with the kind of interest that wasn't curiosity—it was calculation. And maybe a touch of jealousy.

Lilith, ever observant, watched the woman silently.

Katherine's hair was short and a soft brown that caught the warm theatre light like a burnished halo.

Her eyes—similar in shade—were lined to perfection, focused with the intent of someone who knew her own allure.

She wore a white dress with sharp elegance, the fabric falling around her like it had been sewn for performance.

Over it, a black coat draped across her shoulders, completing the picture of someone who dressed like a protagonist—even if she was always the storm, never the story.

Katherine smiled again. A fake one. It lived only in her lips.

"Valentina's been working hard lately—she forgets herself sometimes, doesn't she?"

Lilith didn't answer. Her silence wasn't fear. It was discernment.

But Katherine turned back to Valentina with a performative pout and narrowed eyes. Now standing in front of her again, they were nearly the same height. But only one of them stood grounded.

"You'd think after all that intensity, she'd at least take a coffee break."

And without waiting for a reply, she turned, heels clicking sharply on the floor, and disappeared into the theatre with the flair of someone who couldn't bear to lose a scene—even if she'd already lost the plot.

"Wow," Lilith breathed, a quiet laugh escaping her—delicate and airy like she was trying not to make a mess of something that already felt tense.

Her head tilted to the side in that way she did sometimes, when she was trying to soothe someone without saying too much. Her voice, like the movement, came soft and almost amused. "People are... interesting."

Valentina let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a scoff.

"Very," she murmured.

She hesitated, then asked gently, "Is that someone you've known for long?" She debated whether she had the right to ask—but curiosity won out before she could stop herself. As she spoke, she slipped off her jacket, the small motion grounding her.

Valentina didn't flinch. Didn't pause.

She simply reached for Lilith's jacket as she asked, taking it without ceremony or hesitation—like it was natural. Like it was hers to do.

The two of them moved towards the coat rack near the elegant drink bar—its lighting low, amber-toned, casting their reflections in shadowed gold on the glass shelves behind rows of wine and whiskey.

The menu was sleek, handwritten on a thick sheet that looked like aged papyrus—its textured surface worn by time but purposeful, perfectly fitting the quiet, timeless elegance of the building around them.

"Katherine and I dated," Valentina said plainly.

"A while ago. It's ancient history," she answered truthfully—the relationship had ended nearly two years ago.

Her tone was flat, but not cold. Like the facts didn't deserve embellishment. The past was just the past.

Lilith nodded slowly, but the quiet inside her wasn't as graceful. Her hands folded together, unsure of where to rest. The word dated echoed longer than it should have, followed by ancient history, which somehow made it worse. Lilith didn't know why she cared—but she did.

It wasn't jealousy.

Not really.

It was more the way Katherine had looked at Valentina. Like she knew her. Like she still held a corner of her name in her mouth.

And maybe, selfishly, Lilith wanted to be the only one who knew how Valentina looked when she was exhausted. Or what her voice sounded like when she was tired. She hated how Katherine's presence made her feel like a guest in a space she wanted to live inside.

And yes—maybe she pouted a little at how good Katherine looked.

But that wasn't what stung.

It was the way Katherine had spoken. Familiar. Casual. Like she knew what buttons to press because she had pressed them before. And that knowledge made Lilith's chest feel a little too tight for something as shallow as air.

Valentina asked for a glass of wine—something red and expensive, probably, but she didn't need to specify. The bartender already knew who she was. People always did.

Lilith stepped closer to her side, drawn in by proximity like always, her gaze flicking towards the shelves of deep amber bottles and ruby-tinted glasses. She reached out and gently tugged at the sleeve of Valentina's black blazer, her touch light but deliberate.

Valentina turned towards her, brows lifting in a quiet question.

Lilith didn't say anything—just tilted her chin up slightly and glanced at the wine being poured, the implication clear.

But Valentina didn't follow her gaze to the alcohol. Instead, with a subtle motion, she tapped her finger on the smaller menu laid neatly beside the bar—the one written in gold ink across ancient papyrus. Alternatives.

The gesture was firm, though not unkind. A quiet no, veiled in aesthetic paper and soft authority.

Lilith's lips curled into a barely-there pout. Not manipulative. Just real.

Because maybe she knew Valentina was right.

Maybe tonight wasn't the best night for alcohol.

As they waited for their drinks, Valentina finally allowed herself the quiet luxury of really looking at Lilith—beyond the surface prettiness that was obvious to anyone. There was something almost otherworldly about her tonight, an angelic glow that seemed to softly illuminate the space around her.

The black dress Lilith wore was an elegant balance—its delicate lace teasing just enough skin, but never veering toward anything too casual or bold.

It wrapped her like a whispered secret, refined and understated.

Her long blonde hair fell straight as always, carefully tucked behind her ears in a way that made her look effortlessly poised, yet approachable—like someone who would hold your gaze with quiet warmth.

Her lips caught the light differently this evening, shimmering with a gloss that replaced the usual brown lipliner with something softer, warmer—brown sugar, melted and sweet. It made her naturally pouty lips look even more inviting.

Valentina's voice was low and gentle when she spoke, almost a murmur meant only for Lilith's ears. "You look pretty, Lilith."

The words seemed to catch Lilith off guard.

She turned towards Valentina, those wide blue eyes suddenly shining brighter with a flicker of surprise and delight.

Her gaze drifted over the gathering crowd around them, the soft murmurs and shifting bodies signaling that the play was about to begin—the air thickening with anticipation, like the world itself was holding its breath.

"Really?" Lilith's voice was soft, hesitant but hopeful, a question that sought validation more than admiration. Then, with a shy smile, she added, "I put on glitter. Is it pretty?"

She closed her eyelids slowly, deliberately, allowing the soft sparkle to catch the light.

Valentina's lips curved into a small, tender smile—there was something achingly endearing in that gesture, in the way Lilith looked like it mattered so much whether Valentina liked it.

Which, Valentina thought with a flicker of tenderness, shouldn't matter at all.

"Indeed. Very pretty."

She accepted their drinks as they were handed over.

Satisfied, Lilith fell into step behind Valentina as they made their way towards the theatre room.

The stage was draped in shadows and flickering candlelight, a world suspended between beauty and decay.

Velvet curtains parted to reveal a hauntingly elegant drawing room—ornate, yet tinged with an unsettling silence, as if the walls themselves whispered secrets.

The actor playing Dorian Gray, with his timeless, flawless face, moved like a phantom through the scenes—each smile colder than the last, each moment heavier with the weight of hidden sins.

The portrait loomed in the background, a grotesque mirror to Dorian's soul, painted in strokes of darkness and despair, its eyes accusing yet unblinking.

The air buzzed with a tension that was both intoxicating and suffocating, pulling the audience into a spiral of vanity, corruption, and the fragile ache of lost innocence.

Every glance, every whispered word on stage felt like a delicate poison—beautiful, dangerous, and utterly impossible to look away from.

?

Falling asleep near the end of the play wasn't the most appropriate thing to do.

But as Lilith slowly blinked awake to the softened hush of a now-empty theatre—its velvet seats half-shadowed in amber light, the air still holding traces of the perfume and murmurs that had filled it an hour ago—she knew it hadn't really been her fault.

Her head had fallen against Valentina's shoulder somewhere around the third act, and now that warmth was gone.

She sat up, carefully, the shape of the woman's collarbone still fresh against her cheek.

Her neck was warm. She found Valentina beside her idly scrolling through her phone—fingers elegant and indifferent.

Lilith sighed internally.

Because really, it was Valentina's fault.

She had started gently scratching the blonde girl's arm mid-performance—slow, absent, rhythmic—and Lilith, had immediately begun to slip under its spell. It had made her sleepy in a way nothing else could. It had told her, somehow, that it was okay to rest.

"Did you sleep well?" Valentina's voice was low, still dipped in that smoky reserve she carried with her even in casual moments.

Lilith didn't answer. Not with words. She simply rolled her eyes with a mock groan and reached for Valentina's wine glass, stealing what was left in it and downing it in one swift, silent rebellion.

There was something quietly fascinating about how they moved around each other now. Something casual, something lived-in. It startled Lilith a little, that shift. Not in a bad way. Just in the way all change feels when you're not sure what to call it yet.

Did sleeping on Valentina's shoulder make her blush?

Of course it did.

But did it feel like that first time she'd stepped into Chiara's house—the glossy, intimidating world Valentina existed in? That moment where she'd been so aware of not belonging?

No.

This felt different. Not foreign, but... warm. Familiar in a way that unsettled her.

It was dangerous how normal it felt.

And Lilith would've been foolish not to admit, at least to herself, that something shifted last night.

That shift was quiet.

But it had settled in Lilith's chest like a stone in water—making ripples, even now.

And maybe the strangest part was that, for the second time Lilith had received something she'd always needed.

Not wanted. Needed.

Though maybe she didn't even recognize it as a need until it was given to her—so gently, so effortlessly—that it made her realize how long she'd been going without.

Sleep had always been different for her.

Not just a habit. Not just a nighttime ritual.

It was something sacred. A ceremony of sorts. Weighted with memories and disappointment, stitched with quiet aches that never really faded. Most of her memories from childhood orbited around sleep—not in the peaceful sense, but in the aching one. In the long, blue hours of waiting.

Waiting for someone to come.

Waiting for her mother to show up and stay. To touch her arm. To brush back her hair. To read to her like the mothers in books did. To whisper something gentle just as her eyes closed.

But that never really happened.

And it wasn't the absence that hurt most. It was the routine of hope. The ritual of waiting. The instinct that told her to keep listening for footsteps long after she should've stopped.

It wasn't exactly a craving.

For a child, it was just a need. A biological, emotional, unspoken hunger for care.

And when needs go unmet, when the body learns over and over again that no one is coming, the mind finds ways to make do.

So Lilith adapted. As children always do.

She learned how to fall asleep alone. How to wrap her arms around herself just right.

How to stroke her own shoulder, her own hand, with the rhythm she once waited for from someone else.

She learned to need sound—white noise, soft music, voices from movies she had memorized—anything to make the silence feel less punishing. And eventually, she stopped waiting.

But even now, even as a twenty-year-old woman with a halfway-built life and a future she was trying to shape, she still slept with the lights on.

Not always. But more often than she admitted.

Because darkness still felt like something was missing.

And even if someone was lying beside her, even if they breathed against her neck and tangled their legs with hers—if the room was dark, she still felt alone.

Lilith often postponed sleep, even though she loved it. Naps were her hobby, a quiet joy she indulged in—but when midnight came, when it was time for real rest, something shifted. Sleep began to scare her. It felt too final, too quiet, like she wasn't ready to face the stillness it required.

And Valentina gave her the presence of falling asleep safely.

Not just in that moment beneath the theatre lights, but also before—on the hospital bed, when everything had been too heavy, and Valentina had stayed.

Lilith knew she would carry that with her. She would honor it. In the smallest, most invisible ways. With every breath, every glance, every unspoken thank you.

But the interaction that waited for her now—and the way she would close this evening—those, too, would carry that feeling.

That bruised, ceremonial thing that never really left her.