Page 33

Lilith Hawthorne committed many sins in her life, but making Valentina Salvatore sick felt like the worst one yet.

Absurd as it sounded, it was because her apartment was too cold.

If only Valentina had told her earlier that evening—if only she had whispered or laughed it off with a warning—Lilith wouldn't be sinking now, drowning in guilt that settled like ice in her chest.

Her day at uni had drifted by in a haze of stolen bites from Gabrielle's lunch, empty lectures, and the kind of restless waiting that made her skin crawl.

Then, with a stubborn flicker of something like courage she'd gone straight to Valentina's company, with the vague, childish intention to annoy her.

But the only face she found was unfamiliar—an efficient woman who didn't soften when she said Valentina had taken the day off.

Lilith fought with herself over the impulse to text the woman—overstepping or not—but when the reply came, simple and biting with a hint of Valentina's usual sharp humor, she was glad she did.

Valentina was sick.

And that joke—about the cold in Lilith's apartment being the culprit—cut through her like a blade, sharp enough to make her wish she could disappear.

She asked for Valentina's address without hesitation, and the woman handed it over with no questions.

Visiting, caring—whatever it took—it felt like the only way to atone.

The private residential building stood tall, surrounded by others just as imposing—glass and steel rising coldly into the afternoon sky, the same skyline Lilith had silently observed from the back of the Uber on her way here.

Now, standing before it, dwarfed by its modern fa?ade, she felt small and unraveled.

Nervous, yes.

Stressed, always.

But beneath it all, a deeper, more restless fear.

It wasn't Valentina herself who unsettled her—not anymore.

Being near her had become a quiet kind of comfort.

No—the fear was knowing that all this feeling would crash over her later, and she'd be left raw and exposed.

Too much emotions, too fast.

And Lilith was bracing herself—bracing for a breakdown, or maybe something messier but easier to swallow, like getting drunk enough or taking whatever just to forget how much it all mattered.

Lilith stepped into the lobby and caught the gaze of a man in a crisp suit, his eyes sharp but carrying a faint, almost imperceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment of her presence in this world.

She moved towards the elevator, fingers trembling slightly as she scanned the code Valentina had sent over text—an unspoken key to crossing invisible thresholds.

The ride up stretched out, each second thick and slow, the hum of the machinery a distant heartbeat against the quiet pounding in her own chest.

When the right door slid open, it revealed a different realm entirely—an intimate lobby, smaller, shrouded in shadows and warmth.

Dark wooden panels absorbed the light.

Not sleek or cold like the floors below, but a softer minimalism, where every surface breathed a quiet elegance.

Her eyes caught the heavy wooden door ahead—the same carved solidity she had glimpsed in Valentina's office—and a small button, recessed and discreet, waiting like a secret invitation.

Before Lilith could summon the courage to press it, the door swung open with two sharp clicks—cutting through the silence like a whispered command.

There stood Valentina.

Barefoot, delicate yet defiant in a long black satin robe edged with lace, its fabric catching the dim light and revealing just enough—a quiet challenge that made Lilith's breath hitch.

Her brunette hair was swept up with effortless grace, clipped high, still elegant even in the gentle disorder of sickness.

Her face, unadorned, showed subtle signs of vulnerability—rosy patches around her nose, eyes rimmed with quiet fatigue—but the gaze she fixed on Lilith was as sharp and playful as ever.

For a heartbeat, Lilith found herself rooted, caught in the raw, unguarded beauty of the woman before her.

Then, shaking her head to dislodge the moment, she murmured, "God—sorry, hi," her voice soft, a smile trembling on her lips.

Valentina's response was a simple widening of the door, an unspoken welcome as she regarded Lilith with a teasing spark.

"Hello, Lilith," she said, her voice low and noticeably raspier from being sick, savoring the flutter of nerves that still danced beneath the surface.

Lilith found herself thinking it was just as attractive as her normal voice—if not more.

But as Lilith stepped inside, her attention drifted from the woman beside her to the space itself—Valentina's penthouse.

A sanctuary of contrasts—warmth and shadow, strength and softness—each corner telling its own quiet story, a reflection of the woman who lived within.

All Lilith could see in that moment was a glimpse of the living room and a long hallway stretching beyond, but even that fragment was enough.

It echoed the style of the small lobby just before the door—wrapped in dark, warm wood, bathed in soft pools of light that seemed to glow from hidden corners.

The floors were wooden too, polished to a muted shine, elegant and expensive without a trace of ostentation.

Lilith flinched when Valentina's voice sliced through the quiet.

"Care to notice the poor dying woman beside you?"

The words came with a teasing edge as Valentina closed the door behind them, locking it not only with old-fashioned keys but also engaging a modern security system that hummed softly into the silence.

Lilith spun around, panic flooding her voice.

"What? Are you okay?"

If Lilith could have seen herself then, she would've rolled her eyes at the deer-in-headlights expression that so often settled on her face.

Valentina only gave her a soft, amused laugh, drifting deeper into the penthouse towards the living room.

"I'm fine—just thought I'd get at least some sympathy. Or maybe a dramatic rescue, since I'm so tragically ill."

Lilith's lips curved into a fond smile as the playful cruelty in Valentina's words settled in—she wasn't really dying.

She was toying with Lilith, effortlessly cruel in how she teased the girl's nervousness.

Without hesitation, Lilith crouched down to peel off her shoes, leaving them carelessly near the door, and set her bag down beside them with the same absent-minded ease.

It felt absurd to keep them on the pristine floor, like an unforgivable breach of etiquette.

She noticed none of Valentina's own footwear cluttered the floor—likely tucked away in dark, covered shelves somewhere, hidden from sight.

Tiptoeing after Valentina, who had already disappeared around a corner, Lilith pouted playfully.

"Sorry, your highness," she murmured with mock regret, "my royal rescue is running late."

Valentina sat down on her couch—the couch being a mix of dark grey and dark brown, like espresso swirled with ash. It was plush and enormous, the kind of ridiculous luxury that made Lilith feel like she'd stepped into a dream she wasn't allowed to touch.

She almost fought with herself not to jump on it immediately. The couch looked like her literal wet dreams.

She looked down at Valentina, who was leaning into its cushions like it was her throne. A soft, simple blanket was thrown over one side, and a book Lilith didn't recognize rested by her thigh.

Lilith's eyes moved again, trying to catch everything at once.

There was nothing more private about Valentina Salvatore than her home.

The walls whispered quiet elegance. The color palette was muted but warm, modern but lived-in. Every corner seemed intentional. It wasn't just beautiful—it was intimate.

She drifted off in thought again.

And then she asked.

"Can I look around?"

Her voice was a whisper.

"Very respectfully, very quietly, please?"

She pressed her hands together like she was praying, or begging—an offering made of sincerity and delight. Valentina was still looking at her, expression unreadable, something close to indulgent tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Go ahead, sweetheart."

The moment the words left Valentina's mouth, Lilith was already on her feet. Her steps were quiet, but the enthusiasm in them wasn't. She didn't even glance back.

She was grateful—not just because she could look around, but because it gave her time.

Time to breathe.

Time to shake off the ridiculous shyness that kept trying to settle in her chest like dust.

It was just a new situation. A new space. Of course she'd feel like this.

But she didn't want to seem like that in front of Valentina.

So she repeated it in her head like a mantra. Like a prayer.

New place. New expierience. You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.

And still—she touched the walls like they mattered.

Like Valentina's home could teach her something about the woman herself.

She looked around slowly, her eyes tracing the very high ceiling-to-floor windows that framed the city like a painting. The skyline bled into the space, the lights outside matching the soft golden hue of the ones inside. Nothing felt harsh.

The lighting was warm—thank God. Not that sterile, white, hospital glare that always made her feel like she was being watched.

She stepped carefully, feet brushing against the carpets that felt cloud-soft beneath her soles. There were wooden French doors she could only dream of having someday, and a few carefully chosen paintings on the walls—abstract and soft in color.

And, of course, the enormous TV, quietly unbothered in the background.

She moved through the open space of the first floor, eyes dancing across the room. The kitchen was connected to the living area, but somehow it still felt far away. That was how large the place was.

She stepped into it slowly.

A wide kitchen island greeted her—dark wood, cool marble, with so much space she wondered if Valentina ever actually cooked there or if the space just looked good on her.

It was spotless.

So spotless Lilith immediately thought about the way her own apartment looked when Valentina had visited. The candle wax, the crumpled notes, the scattered cups of unfinished tea. She almost winced.

All that seemed used in this kitchen was a single mug left in the sink—one with the faint ring of black coffee still inside.

She smiled softly at it.

But the kitchen didn't hold her for long.

Not when there was a closed door nearby. It looked out of place in such an open home—closed and untouched, like it meant something. Sacred.

She could feel Valentina's eyes on her from time to time as she walked. That heavy, slow kind of gaze—the kind you didn't need to see to feel.

Lilith stopped in front of the door.

Her voice floated across the penthouse, light but curious.

"Can I come in?"

Valentina didn't move from the couch.

"Yes," she called out softly, not raising her voice—she never did.

The blonde haired girl opened the door gently and stepped inside.

Immediately, she knew what it was.

Valentina's home office.

It looked like a smaller, warmer version of her actual office. Less intimidating, more quiet. Still sharp around the edges.

The blonde haired girl giggled to herself as she wandered towards the large windows, her fingertips tracing the cool edge of the desk without touching anything. She looked around softly, her eyes full of something close to reverence.

Until she saw them.

Papers.

Neatly stacked on the desk, crisp and white. Unreadable from this angle.

She reached out—

Stopped.

She told Valentina she'd look respectfully.

And this? This wasn't respectful.

But Lilith was, by nature, just a little disobedient.

A little nosy. A little too curious for her own good.

Of course she would look at those.

Some of the papers were just business-related—dry reports, architectural proposals, perhaps invoices or internal notes. Lilith barely skimmed them, her eyes sliding over the impersonal text without much interest. It was what she expected, really.

But then, something shifted.

The next paper she pulled from the stack wasn't typed.

Her fingers moved more delicately now, more carefully, as if the page itself warned her it wasn't meant to be handled casually.

It was a drawing.

Rendered entirely in soft grey pencil, the lines were fine and deliberate, not rushed or careless. At first glance, it seemed like a casual sketch—perhaps something Valentina had drawn absentmindedly, something unfinished, maybe forgotten.

But Lilith's breath hitched the moment she looked closer.

From the bottom of the paper, the image began with a plush surface—something cushioned, soft—and from there, a pair of legs extended forward.

She traced the familiar curve of the calves, the thighs slightly parted, slightly more plush and thicker, the hem of a skirt ending mid-way down the page.

The drawing stopped there, abruptly, as if interrupted.

The upper half of the page was still blank, just white space.

But it wasn't the emptiness that startled her.

It was the detail.

Lilith leaned in, her eyes widening as she took in the socks—white, with a delicate lace trim and a tiny, subtle bow at the back. She knew those socks.

They were hers.

And just below the knee, a faint pencil mark, so precise it made her stomach flip.

A mole. Her mole.

The realization hit her not all at once, but in slow, undeniable waves. It was her. Her legs, her skirt, her posture. Her down to the tiniest, almost imperceptible features.

She felt a strange heat crawl up her neck.

She didn't know if she was overreacting.

Maybe she was imagining things, seeing meaning where there wasn't any.

Maybe she was tired. Or maybe the much higher dose of the pills she had been taking lately was still fogging the edges of her perception, making everything more intense than it should've been.

But no—no, she was sure.

It was her.

And not just a vague likeness.

It was the way she sat, the exact fall of her skirt, the precise curve of her legs. Someone had been looking. Really looking.

Her throat felt dry.

She dropped the drawing back onto the desk, gently, as though afraid the sound might give her away. Carefully, she slid it back into the stack, tucking it among the business papers like it had never been pulled out in the first place.

And then she just stood there.

Still, slightly breathless.

A part of her wanted to laugh it off. Tell herself that it wasn't that deep—that maybe Valentina just liked sketching, and she had been around, and it was innocent, and flattering, even. That it didn't mean anything.

But another part of her couldn't shake the way it made her feel—like something sacred had been exposed. Like her body had been seen in a way she didn't know how to describe. Not violated, no. Just... studied.

Adored, maybe.

She wasn't ready to decide.

She'd think about it later—when she was alone and her heart wasn't pounding.

A soft noise echoed from downstairs—maybe a shift on the couch, a sneeze, or a cup being placed gently onto a table. It was enough to jolt her back into her body.

Without another glance at the drawing, she left the office, closing the door behind her with care.

She continued looking around briefly, then moved towards the grand staircase.

Lilith stepped onto the polished wooden steps, her fingers trailing lightly against the matte wooden rail.

The moment the sole of her foot touched the first step, it lit up beneath her—soft, golden light blooming gently, illuminating each stair as she ascended.

It wasn't harsh or theatrical, just warm and glowing, like the house itself wanted to be kind to her.

By the third step, a voice stopped her mid-breath.

"You can breathe, Lilith. The floors aren't judging you."

She jumped softly, her hand flying to the banister, and turned her head quickly to find Valentina behind her, one foot already on the stairs.

The woman looked far too pleased for someone allegedly dying.

And Lilith, though she would never admit it aloud, enjoyed it—enjoyed the way Valentina toyed with her, slowly, playfully, like she was unwinding her one thread at a time.

Still, concern tugged at her sternum.

"You should be laying down," Lilith murmured, her voice soft with exasperation, her brows gently knit. She turned around again, continuing her ascent, only to hear Valentina's steps follow, slow and deliberate.

That familiar scent wrapped around her immediately—cashmere, warm woods, something expensive and hushed, like the inside of a velvet box.

Then a whisper, right at her ear, barely a breath—

"No."

Valentina's hand came to rest on Lilith's arm, her touch featherlight but purposeful, gently guiding her upward.

It was absurd, really, how serious Lilith looked right then. Like she was carrying responsibility for every degree of Valentina's fever, every step the woman took.

Valentina found it adorable.

Lilith wasn't sure if she was more nervous about the woman's illness or by the sheer intimacy of being inside Valentina's world—wandering her spaces, breathing her air, watching her move like she belonged in silk and light.

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth lifted as she felt Valentina's fingers trail along her arm.

"I'm serious," she muttered.

That earned her only the slight raise of a perfectly arched brow and a dry murmur—

"I'm just checking on my suspicious guest."

"I'm offended," Lilith huffed, mock-affronted, her tone light.

Valentina smirked faintly but said nothing as Lilith reached the second floor, which immediately felt more intimate. The atmosphere shifted—quieter, dimmer, like this was where Valentina kept the parts of herself the world wasn't meant to see.

French doors stood ahead, leading into what could only be her bedroom. Another door stood nearby—larger, heavier—clearly a bathroom.

Lilith moved to the bedroom first, opening the door gently like she was letting herself into a sacred space.

Then, without hesitation, she turned towards the bed that dominated the room and pointed.

"Lie down," she ordered, brows lifting as if she dared Valentina to argue.

The bed looked ridiculous.

Enormous and extravagant, dressed in deep linens and soft throws, like it could swallow a person whole and keep them comfortable while doing it.

Lilith couldn't help the twinge of envy that sparked in her chest. She imagined what naps must feel like in a bed like that—long, indulgent, the kind that made you forget what time meant.

Valentina leaned lazily against the doorframe, head tilted, lips curving.

"Do you talk to all your patients like that, or am I special?"

Lilith blinked.

And then she seriously considered throwing herself out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

If this was how Valentina usually handled being taken care of then Lilith was going to need to rethink her entire approach.

Or her entire personality.

And if, on a daily basis, Valentina had to deal with the version of Lilith that was impossibly stubborn, then Lilith—standing there now, hands on her hips and worry etched between her brows—suddenly felt an immense wave of sympathy for the woman.

Because right now, Valentina was the difficult one.

And it was infuriating.

Trying to take care of someone who didn't want to be taken care of was maddening.

She let out a slow sigh, her voice tightening into something halfway between a plea and a command.

"Please just—sit. Lie down. Something."

Her voice wasn't sharp, but it was undeniably serious. That kind of softness that came with boundaries wrapped in concern.

Valentina, noticing that the blonde angel was beginning to lose her patience, let out a quiet breath. And, finally, relented.

With a quiet, almost performative sigh, she crossed the room and laid herself down on the massive bed, movements smooth but noticeably slower than usual. Her body sunk into the softness.

"Only because you asked nicely," she murmured, her voice no longer teasing, but quieter—settling into a more serious register.

Something in her gaze softened too.

Lilith stepped closer, looking down at her like she wasn't sure what was appropriate.

"Do you want tea? Some medicine? Anything?"

She would've offered the moon if she could. Maid, pet, nurse—whatever role Valentina needed filled, Lilith was ready to play it.

Valentina's eyes fluttered shut, her voice quiet.

"Green tea and paracetamol. The one with the black label."

Lilith nodded, absorbing the request like it was sacred.

"Anything else?" she asked gently, already halfway turned towards the door.

There was a pause.

"No, just that."

Then, after a beat—

"Unless you feel like being dramatic and hand-feeding me grapes."

Lilith rolled her eyes so hard it almost reset her entire brain.

"Noted. Green tea. Paracetamol. No grapes."

And with that, she turned on her heel and began her descent.

She left the bedroom, the door clicking softly behind her as she began her descent down the glowing stairs once more.

The soft golden lights lit beneath her with each step again, and she briefly imagined what it would feel like to try walking down them drunk. It would be glamorous until it wasn't—until the floor hit your cheek and reminded you that no matter how elegant the lighting, gravity didn't care.

When she reached the kitchen, she moved with quiet determination. She found the black-labeled paracetamol easily, tucked neatly in one of the drawers. Then the green tea, in its little ceramic box near the kettle. And then the grapes.

But before she picked anything up, she paused.

She turned away from the counter, crossed the living room quietly, and crouched near the front door, unzipping her bag.

Her fingers found the familiar white pills quickly.

They had been prescribed by her psychiatrist—one a day for anxiety and sleep.

But today, she took four.

Dry swallow. No water. No thought.

Just a reflex that had started feeling like survival.

She stayed crouched for a few more seconds, the soft hush of the penthouse pressing gently around her like silence made of silk. Then she zipped her bag again, stood, and returned to the kitchen.

She gathered everything Valentina had asked for into her hands and began her slow ascent back upstairs.

?

Valentina, to Lilith's relief, decided to be a little less unbearable once the fever returned in full force.

Her edges softened as the ache settled back into her bones, and for once, she didn't fight being taken care of. She let herself lean back into the bed's embrace, her lashes heavy and her body pliant beneath the blankets.

Lilith, even after all her eye-rolling and dramatic sighs, ended up feeding her the damn grapes.

She sat beside her on the bed, close enough that their knees almost brushed, carefully holding the small bowl in one hand as she lifted one grape at a time to Valentina's mouth.

The woman accepted them with far too much smugness at first, but now—fevered, quiet—it felt more like a ritual than a joke.

They were scrolling through movie options on the bedroom TV, the bluish light reflecting softly on their faces, when Lilith made a particularly controversial suggestion.

Valentina's expression twisted immediately, her voice low and incredulous.

"Fifty Shades of Grey?"

She said it like she'd just tasted something rotten.

Lilith burst into giggles, half-expecting the reaction.

"You don't get it, Val," she said through a laugh, already defending herself. "Every second of this film makes me want to kill myself—but that's the point."

She shook her head, still smiling. "It's funny."

Lilith expected Valentina to remain deeply, morally offended by her taste in light movies for a tiring evening. Expected another slow eye-roll or a biting comment.

But instead—Valentina smiled.

Softly. Almost dreamily.

And then, still looking at her with that tired, secret expression, she asked—

"Val?"

Lilith blinked, her laughter pausing mid-thought.

She shook her head quickly. "You don't like it?"

"I do." Valentina murmured.

"It's cute," Lilith said, grinning a little shyly as she leaned forward to take the empty cup of tea from Valentina's hands, her fingers brushing the rim, still faintly warm.

She shifted slightly, placing the cup on the nightstand beside the bed.

And then she saw it.

A small, black stuffed animal—tucked neatly by a closed book and a watch—just sitting there. Watching them.

The black panther plushie.

Furry, soft-looking, but still elegant. Its green glass eyes stared back with an unsettling sharpness, a familiarity that made Lilith's breath catch.

Lilith stared for a second too long, her brows furrowing softly, her mind spinning just a little faster than her pulse.

If this didn't mean anything—

She wasn't sure what did.

There were things she needed to think through. Quietly. Alone.

Things she needed to make sure she wasn't imagining.

She needed to know she wasn't being paranoid.

Or naive.