Page 36

Lilith Hawthorne was always painfully self aware.

She didn't need to be told when something was off inside her—she already knew. She could sense it in the way her chest tightened for no reason, in how her voice tilted towards sharpness when it should have stayed soft, in the split-second between an impulse and the moment she gave in to it.

It wasn't dramatic, not even noticeable to others most of the time, but she felt it. She tracked it like a scientist watching herself unravel under glass.

And knowing didn't make it any easier.

If anything, it only made her feel worse.

Because she could see the damage coming. She understood her own patterns too well, recognized her behaviors as they happened, and still couldn't stop herself from repeating them.

Sometimes she wished there was something—someone—that could intervene before the worst part started. A quiet, invisible force that would touch her shoulder and say, wait.

Just long enough to slow her down.

Just long enough to keep her from falling into herself again.

But no one ever came.

There was no magic pause button, no helpful presence waiting to save her from the things she kept doing to herself.

And besides, all of her worst moments happened in private. She made sure of that.

Now she sat in the narrow hallway of her small apartment, her back pressed gently against the wall, her legs folded in front of her like a child who had worn herself out crying but didn't quite know what to do next.

Across from her, the long mirror reflected a version of herself she didn't want to look at.

Lilith stared at her reflection like it might blink first.

Then she stood.

Her limbs felt heavy but automatic. She moved like someone halfway out of a dream.

She walked to the bathroom, picked up the hairbrush that had been sitting on the edge of the sink and returned to the hallway floor.

The apartment was silent.

Not peacefully quiet—but hollow, like the kind of silence that follows an argument.

She sat down again, cross-legged in front of the mirror, and lifted the hood from her head.

Her hair spilled out in long, light waves—flattened from being hidden for too long, a little tangled, with pieces of dried soil caught in the strands. It fell all the way to her hips.

She hadn't realized how messy it had gotten.

Not that it mattered.

She began brushing it slowly, methodically, untangling each knot with a quiet patience that bordered on eerie.

Her movements were soft, her posture unnervingly still.

There was something about the way she sat—so composed, so silent—that made the room feel colder.

If anyone had walked in just then, they might have thought she wasn't fully present. Not sad. Not falling apart. Just somewhere else entirely.

She looked like a ghost, suspended in the reflection, caught in some quiet loop of recognition and revulsion. There was nothing dramatic about it—no gasp, no horror—just that steady, dull stare she had seen so many times before.

She had been watching herself like this for what felt like hours. Not even judging, really. Just existing in front of the glass, aware of every inch of her expression and still hating what she saw.

That was all her mind could manage right then. Not the weight of the silence Valentina left behind, not even the ache in her chest. Just the image of herself.

Her skin looked uneven in the mirror's reflection, drained and blotchy in ways the warm apartment light couldn't soften. The scratches on her cheek had darkened slightly. Her neck was red and already beginning to bruise in places, an ugly patchwork blooming just under her jaw.

She kept staring, and for a moment, her thoughts turned without her permission.

She wondered how long Valentina had looked at her before leaving.

She wondered how much of Valentina's silence had been tangled up in that image—this version of her.

And then, in a moment of brutal clarity, she thought that maybe if she hadn't looked so ugly, if she had looked even a little better, the conversation wouldn't have ended so tragically.

Not that she was insane enough to believe her appearance was a solid reason for Valentina's reaction. Of course not.

But still, the thought clung to her—the small, ugly thought she couldn't shake.

She knew that Valentina hadn't left because she looked horrible.

But she couldn't stand to look at herself any longer.

So she decided to end the observation.

Not in the way anyone might expect—she didn't stand up, didn't turn away, didn't close her eyes. Instead, she held the hairbrush firmly in her hand and, in a motion that was strangely calm and deliberate, threw it straight at the mirror.

It was an odd choice, almost mechanical, as if she was ending the endless staring in the only way that felt final and true to the brokenness inside her.

The glass shattered instantly—thin, sharp cracks spidering outward from the point of impact, fracturing her reflection into something unrecognizable. A few shards fell to the floor, catching the light before settling quietly.

One shard grazed her palm, drawing a thin line of blood. She barely noticed the sting.

She didn't wince.

She exhaled softly, the sound barely louder than a sigh, and began to clean.

There was no rush, no frenzy—only a quiet, robotic efficiency as she swept the broken glass into a pile, put it in the trash, and started tidying the rest of the apartment.

Folding blankets, wiping counters, stacking books—each motion detached but necessary, as if she was trying to restore order in the only way she knew how.

She didn't sit down again. She didn't check her phone.

Instead, she drifted into the kitchen like someone half asleep.

The darkness didn't bother her.

She stood still for a moment, her feet pressing into the cold tiles, arms slack at her sides, the silence wrapping around her like static.

Then she opened the freezer.

The light inside spilled over her face—unforgiving and pale, like hospital light. She squinted.

Her fingers closed around a bag of frozen berries, stiff with frost.

She didn't bother pouring them out. Just tore it open, walked straight to her bed, and sat on the edge like a guest in someone else's life.

The first berry went into her mouth without thought.

Then the second.

Then another.

The cold hit her teeth like needles. Sharp, immediate. A small shock each time. Her jaw ached but she didn't stop.

She didn't think much about Valentina.

Her mind placed a quiet curtain over the memory, shielding her from the pain of it, at least for now.

Her fingers began to sting slowly, the frost clinging to her skin like punishment.

Still, she reached in for more.

She thought—briefly, distantly—that she tasted the blood on her palm.

But it didn't matter.

She kept eating, slowly torturing her mouth with the freeze, hardly chewing, letting the berries thaw against her tongue like something she wasn't sure she deserved.

She stared into the middle of the room, at nothing, through nothing.

The walls of her apartment, usually so soft with amber light and scent and intention, felt far away now. Like a place she had once lived, or dreamt.

Tomorrow, if someone asked, she wouldn't be able to say why.

She wouldn't even remember this happening.

By the time she finished the whole pack, her fingertips were numb and wet, her lips raw from the cold.

She let the empty bag fall to the floor.

Then she lay back on her bed, limbs folding in quietly, and closed her eyes.

?

It was rare for Valentina Salvatore to feel puzzled.

She moved through most days with a deliberate ease—never rushed, never scattered, always knowing what to do and when to do it.

But today, something beneath her skin felt misaligned. And the last thing helping her put it back together was the sound of Amber and Rhys babbling across from her—both of them talking like it was their job to fill every possible silence.

Rhys was sprawled out on the couch in the corner of her office, one leg over the other, arms loose behind his head like he belonged there. And somehow, that simple fact irritated her more than she was prepared for.

The way he sank into the cushions reminded her too much of Lilith.

Not in posture, but in presence. In how effortlessly she had taken up space here—slightly distracted, curled into the far side of the couch with her hair falling into her face like she didn't care how she looked.

Valentina hadn't expected that image to return today. But now that it had, it wouldn't leave.

Outside, the city had already gone dim. It wasn't late, not technically, but the season had shifted fast this year, and the light faded earlier every day. The air had turned even more sharp overnight.

Now, the only thing left to do was wait for the first snow.

The phone call from Lilith last night hadn't exactly shocked her. A call in the middle of the night from someone like Lilith didn't ring alarm bells.

But her words—scattered, slurred, almost childlike—and the strange state she was in had frustrated Valentina.

And then the woman saw what had actually happened.

And that frustration twisted—sharp, immediate—into something closer to anger.

She sighed, a quiet, controlled breath—but sharp enough to cut through the noise in the room.

Both Amber and Rhys turned towards her.

Amber squinted, lowering her coffee mug just slightly.

"Why are you biting our heads off today? What happened? Did you lose your favorite pen?"

Rhys, without lifting himself from the couch, added smoothly, "Or did your assistant accidentally add sugar to your coffee again?"

His voice was low and amused, his gaze almost too direct—dark eyes watching her with a kind of calm curiosity that only deepened her irritation.

Valentina didn't look up.

She simply kept twirling the pen between her fingers.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes," the tall woman said quietly, her gaze lingering over the scattered papers before her, though her attention was clearly elsewhere.

The pen in her hand continued its subtle rotation, circling between her long, steady fingers—bare of rings she did not bother to wear—grasped almost as if it were the only anchor keeping her tethered to the moment.

Without lifting her eyes, she added, "Don't you two have work to do?"

Her soft roll of the eyes carried a weariness that went unnoticed as she muttered, barely above a whisper, "Some people are busy."

Amber, stirring her coffee with slow, casual movements, didn't quite catch the shift in tone.

"We should get dinner," she offered brightly, as though the tension hadn't settled like a shadow over the room.

Valentina's response was sharp and immediate. "No, thank you."

Rhys smirked, amusement flickering in the dark depths of his eyes. His words came with that effortless, almost unthinking timing he seemed to wield naturally.

"So insufferable today."

Then he added, "Did the blondie reject you?"

Amber laughed quickly, the sparkle in her eyes sharpening the joke as she chimed in, "Or worse—she rejected the blondie."

Valentina leaned back into the curve of her chair, a familiar knot tightening in her chest.

She fought the rising urge to stand, to seize Rhys by the collar, and shake him until he understood how perfectly—how unbearably—his jokes always landed, even though he never meant them to.

"No one rejected anyone," she murmured.

But when Rhys's voice cut through the room again, dry and casual, "Should we prepare for Katherine number two?"

The only reasonable thought she had was mass murder—and then haunting every poor soul left in her wake, denying them even a moment of peace in the afterlife.

Maybe it was the fact that Rhys had the audacity to compare Lilith to Katherine—even if it was meant as a harmless joke.

Or maybe it was the deeper, colder thought threading its way through her chest: that whatever had happened with Katherine could happen again with Lilith.

Valentina didn't say anything. She simply stared at Rhys.

And something in her gaze must have hit hard enough, because Amber immediately leaned forward, elbow nudging Rhys's side as she muttered, "Shut up."

The shift was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

They both seemed to realize—finally—that Valentina wasn't in the mood for teasing. And even less so for casual commentary on whatever storm was currently unfolding in her love life.

People who didn't know her well often assumed she was emotionally unavailable, that she preferred silence to sincerity. But the truth was, Valentina had never been afraid of her feelings.

She didn't spill them out recklessly, didn't cry or collapse under the weight of her own thoughts. But when something mattered—when it sat in her chest long enough to grow roots—she spoke.

And right now, it didn't feel hard to say it.

"I'm upset," she said plainly, crossing one leg over the other as she finally allowed herself to think about the situation fully.

Amber lowered her mug onto the coffee table, the soft clink sounding louder than expected in the quiet.

"Who's the reason?" she asked gently.

Whoever had managed to get under Valentina Salvatore's skin could, without hesitation, become Amber's sworn enemy.

"Lilith," Valentina answered softly, tilting her head like she was still trying to make sense of the word on her tongue.

Then, after a pause she added, "Nothing dramatic, though. It's just... complicated."

She wasn't trying to hide the truth. She just didn't want to drag it into the light before she had fully grasped it herself.

Rhys sat up, abandoning his usual lounge, raising an eyebrow with a familiar glint in his eye.

"Did she ask you for an open relationship and you murdered her?" he asked lightly, easing the air again.

Valentina let out a soft laugh, her first real one that day. "God, no. I fear I wouldn't even be here if something like that happened."

Amber smiled at that, one of those small, knowing smiles she gave when she sensed Valentina was slowly coming back to herself.

"So it's not that bad?" she asked.

Valentina shook her head gently. "It's not."

Rhys leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, his tone quieter, more curious than teasing. "It's getting serious, right?"

Valentina nodded.

"It is."

Because even though Valentina let Lilith lead this, there was no turning back anymore.

And Valentina would make sure of it—even if Lilith hesitated.

"Give yourself some time," Rhys murmured, his voice low and unexpectedly gentle, the angles of his face softened by sincerity. "She needs to accept this."

"I will," Valentina said, her voice almost a whisper.

Amber raised an eyebrow, a familiar smirk playing at her lips. "And then?"

Valentina didn't hesitate.

Because what else could happen, if not that?

"We'll go on a date."

She rose from her chair with slow, deliberate movements—like she wasn't just standing, but retreating somewhere inside herself.

Her hands moved over the papers on her desk with practiced ease, collecting them into a neat stack.

Across from her, Amber and Rhys remained silent, watching her closely—not because she'd said something shocking, but because they sensed there was more.

Valentina raised one brow, the faintest gesture of amusement—or warning—as she leaned towards the open drawer beside Amber.

She slid the papers in with quiet precision, then took a few loose sheets from the top of the pile, turned, and without hesitation, gave Amber a light smack on the head with them.

"I'm not going to spill her private life just because you're both nosy and bored," she said, her tone even but edged with dry amusement.

Rhys let out an immediate, theatrical whine—high-pitched and exaggerated, the kind of sound that should've belonged to a toddler, not a six-foot-four man in a custom suit.

"You're too respectful," he groaned, flopping back against the couch dramatically. "I can't even hear the love drama you're clearly drowning in?"

Amber snorted, grinning now, and lifted her mug again. The air had grown lighter.

"What a bad friend you are, Valentina," she said with mock disappointment, taking a small sip like she was personally offended.

Valentina's lips tugged upward—just a flicker, barely more than a breath of movement—but it was there.

"I think she'd emotionally ruin me if I did," she replied, her voice almost fond, like the thought didn't scare her half as much as it should have.

Amber tilted her head, curious. "She's one of the crazy ones?" she asked. "She seemed so innocent."

Valentina didn't answer right away.

But Rhys, ever ready to fill a silence, leaned forward again—his smile returning, smug and shameless, like he was enjoying his own joke long before saying it.

"You know, Valentina..." he began, drawing out the words like a ribbon. "If you can't handle it—I'm always open. Emotionally and physically."

Amber widened her eyes and gave him a mock-horrified look, muttering into her mug, "You're digging your own grave, babe."

A firm, soft knock echoed against the wooden door of the office.

The three of them paused, heads turning, the moment folding into something quieter.

Before Valentina answered, she turned slightly towards her still-grinning friends, voice smooth as silk with a sharp little smile tucked beneath it.

"She'd eat you both alive."

And because she happened to be the one closest to the door now, her fingers already brushing the handle, she added over her shoulder—almost sweetly, almost not—"And I'd let her."

She opened the door.

Her assistant stood there, posture straight, expression unreadable, holding something carefully in her hands.

She gave Valentina a slow nod. ''Miss Salvatore.''

"Some girl left it for you."

And now the three of them looked at what she was holding: a small, cream-colored box with delicate French lettering, probably some sweet treat.

Beside it, a single, long-stemmed rose.

A gesture meant to linger.

?

Valentina stepped out of her office, the soft click of her heels echoing in the near-empty hallway as she pulled her black coat tighter around her body.

It hung heavy over her shoulders, thick and elegant, but it did little to shield her from the kind of exhaustion that lived somewhere deeper than skin.

She held the rose loosely in one hand, its stem pressed against her palm like a reminder of something she hadn't figured out how to name. In the other, the box.

When she stepped into the elevator, she exhaled slowly, already imagining the shower she'd stand under until the water ran cold, until her thoughts quieted enough to let her sleep.

Then her eyes landed on him.

Oscar Hawthorne stood near the back wall, spine resting lightly against the metal, expression unreadable as he glanced up from the floor.

How many more Hawthornes could Valentina Salvatore handle this week?

She gave him a silent nod—not cold, just worn down.

Lilith was tormenting her even now, it seemed—woven into the edges of her thoughts, her gestures, her exhaustion

Oscar offered a glance that might've been a greeting, his tone casual. "Rough day?"

"Yeah," she murmured, lifting her hand to press the button for the parking floor.

Now shoulder to shoulder, they stood at almost equal height. Neither looking directly at the other.

Just quiet. Just breathing.

And yet, something tugged at her. Not emotion—concern. Lilith had fallen out of a window for god's sake. A ridiculous sentence, but no less true.

Valentina raised her chin slightly, enough to glance his way.

"Can I ask you for a favour?"

Oscar turned towards her just slightly. "Sure."

"Check up on Lilith for me, please."

The shift in his face was minor, but sharp. His brow creased just enough to betray confusion—maybe even disbelief—and he tilted his head like he needed a second to make sure he'd heard her correctly.

"...Lilith?"

"Yes," Valentina said. "Is there something wrong?"

Oscar hesitated—not long, just enough to make the woman notice.

"No," he answered finally. "I just didn't know you two kept in touch."

Valentina answered before the elevator doors slid open.

"We do."

Then she stepped out, walking forward with her posture perfectly composed, the rose still clutched in her hand.

His words lingered—an unspoken sting beneath their surface, as if her and Lilith keeping in touch was some strange impossibility, a thing too odd to accept.

It wasn't just what he said, but the way he said it—like it was surprising, almost absurd.

Like her connection to Lilith was something that shouldn't be, or couldn't be.

Why wouldn't they keep in touch?

They kept in touch.

They are keeping in touch.

And they definitely will—no matter what.