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Chapter Eleven

Lilianna

I spent an hour exploring my new suite, opening drawers and cupboards, trailing my fingers over surfaces that were now, supposedly, mine.

The bathroom was stocked with luxurious toiletries—not the clinical products my mother had insisted upon, but rich creams and fragrant oils that invited indulgence.

The small refrigerator Christopher had mentioned contained not just water but juice, fresh fruit, and small containers of what looked like homemade yogurt parfaits.

Every discovery felt like a revelation. No detail had been overlooked, yet nothing felt imposed. The bookshelves stood empty, waiting for my choices rather than presenting pre-approved options. The closet contained hangers and organizational systems but no expectations about how I should use them.

Even the bed, with its abundance of pillows, seemed to invite personal preference—keep them all, remove some, arrange them however I pleased. The idea was dizzying.

I began unpacking with methodical care, arranging my clothes in the closet and dresser drawers.

My mother's carefully selected wardrobe looked strange in this new context—all those pale, proper dresses and modest blouses seemed like costumes now, artifacts from a life I was leaving behind.

I ran my fingers over a cream cashmere sweater, remembering my mother's precise instructions about how it should be worn, when it was appropriate, which accessories complemented it best.

With a sudden decision, I pushed it to the far side of the closet. Maybe someday I'd choose to wear it, but not because it was expected of me.

The hidden books came next. I retrieved them from my jewelry case and stood before the empty bookshelves, considering their placement.

In my parents' house, these volumes had been contraband, hidden beneath floorboards or behind other, approved texts.

Here, they could sit in open view, claiming their rightful place on shelves meant for my personal collection.

I placed the physics textbook first, right at eye level where I could see it easily.

The poetry collection went beside it, followed by the philosophy text.

Three small volumes that represented my secret self—the part of me that craved knowledge beyond approved feminine subjects.

Seeing them displayed openly made my chest tight with an emotion I couldn't quite name.

The violin drew me back like a magnet. I sat on the bed beside its case, studying the instrument in the afternoon light.

The wood was beautiful—warm honey tones with darker grain running through it like flowing water.

I touched one string experimentally, the soft twang making me jump despite myself.

A gentle knock at my door interrupted my exploration. I quickly closed the violin case, old habits making me hide my pleasure before I could stop myself.

"Lilianna?" Christopher's voice came through the wood, gentle and hesitant. "I don't want to disturb you, but I wanted to let you know lunch is ready whenever you're hungry. No pressure at all—just wanted you to know it's available."

I approached the door, my hand hovering over the handle. The old instinct was to open it immediately, to present myself ready and grateful. But something about Christopher's tone—the genuine lack of expectation—made me pause.

"Thank you," I called through the door. "I'll be down in a few minutes."

"Take your time," Christopher replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "There's no schedule here, no rush. Come down when you feel ready."

His footsteps retreated down the hallway, leaving me alone with the choice. I could stay here, safe in my beautiful sanctuary, or I could venture downstairs and continue this tentative exploration of my new life.

I caught my reflection in the mirror above the dresser—still wearing the pale blue dress my mother had selected, my hair still arranged in the modest style she preferred.

For a moment, I considered changing into something different, asserting some small independence through clothing choice.

But the truth was, I wasn't sure what I would choose to wear if left to my own devices.

My entire wardrobe reflected other people's preferences.

The realization was both troubling and oddly liberating. If I didn't know my own preferences yet, that meant I had the chance to discover them. One choice at a time.

I decided to stay in the blue dress but removed the pearl necklace, setting it carefully on the dresser. A small rebellion, barely noticeable to anyone but me, yet it felt significant. My neck felt lighter, less constrained.

The stairs creaked softly beneath my feet as I descended, following the quiet murmur of voices and the enticing aroma of fresh bread.

I paused at the bottom, suddenly uncertain.

The voices came from what I assumed was the kitchen—casual conversation, punctuated by the occasional laugh.

I hesitated, not wanting to interrupt what sounded like an easy familiarity I hadn't yet earned.

"Lilianna?" Julian appeared in the hallway, as if sensing my presence. "Perfect timing. Miles and Chris finished making lunch if you’d like some."

I managed a smile, trying to hide my uncertainty. "It smells wonderful."

Julian's expression softened as he approached, stopping just close enough that I could catch hints of his warm scent. "How are you settling in? Is your suite comfortable?"

"It's perfect," I said, meaning it completely. "More than perfect, actually. I don't know how to thank you all properly."

"You don't need to thank us," Julian replied, his voice gentle but firm. "It's your home now too." He gestured toward the kitchen. "Come on, let's get you fed. Christopher's been anxious to hear what you think of his soup."

The kitchen was warm and inviting, with copper pots hanging from hooks and herbs growing in small pots on the windowsill.

Miles stood at the counter, slicing fresh bread, while Christopher ladled soup into bowls.

Nicolaus sat at a substantial wooden table that dominated the center of the room, a tablet propped beside his place setting as he reviewed what looked like work documents.

"Lilianna!" Christopher's face lit up as I entered. "How do you like your suite? I hope it's not too much—I tend to get carried away when decorating."

"It's beautiful," I assured him, accepting the bowl of soup he offered. The ceramic was warm in my hands, painted with small blue flowers that felt cheerful rather than precious. "I've never had a space that felt so... welcoming."

Miles glanced up from his bread-slicing, his green eyes studying my face. "You took off the necklace," he observed quietly.

My hand flew instinctively to my bare throat, heat rushing to my cheeks. Had I made some social error? "I... yes. I hope that's not inappropriate. My mother always said pearls should be worn at all times to maintain proper appearance, but I thought perhaps—"

"Hey," Miles interrupted gently, setting down his knife to give me his full attention. "You don't need to explain or apologize. I was just noticing because you looked more relaxed without it."

Julian pulled out a chair for me at the table. "Miles is right. You seem more comfortable."

I settled into the offered seat, still clutching my soup bowl. The simple act of removing a piece of jewelry felt enormous now that they'd noticed it. "It felt... heavy," I admitted quietly.

"Emotional weight often manifests physically," Nicolaus observed without looking up from his tablet. "Symbols of control can create actual physical tension."

Christopher joined us at the table with his own bowl, his expression thoughtful. "My grandmother had a saying—jewelry should adorn you, not burden you."

I took a spoonful of soup, the rich flavor of tomato and herbs spreading warmth through my chest. "This is delicious," I said, grateful for the change in subject.

"Family recipe," Christopher explained, his smile returning. "My mother taught me when I was twelve. Said everyone should know how to make at least one thing that comforts people."

Miles set a basket of freshly sliced bread in the center of the table, the crust still warm and fragrant. "Take as much as you want," he encouraged.

I reached for a single slice, then hesitated. At home, my portions were carefully monitored—not too much, but enough to show appreciation. The bread looked so inviting, steam still rising from its golden crust.

"It's not a test," Julian said softly, as if reading my thoughts. "If you want three slices, take three slices. If you want none, that's fine too."

The casual permission felt revolutionary. I took two pieces, tearing off a corner of one to dip in my soup. The combination of flavors made me close my eyes briefly in pleasure before I caught myself.

"You don't have to hide when you enjoy something," Christopher said gently. "We like seeing you happy."

Nicolaus finally looked up from his tablet, his blue eyes studying me with clinical interest. "Your parents monitored your food intake?" he asked bluntly.

"Nicolaus," Julian warned, his tone carrying a gentle rebuke.

"It's alright," I said quickly, setting down my spoon. "They didn't... restrict me, exactly. My mother just had very specific ideas about proper portions for an Omega. 'Delicate appetites reflect delicate sensibilities,' she always said."

Nicolaus's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened. "Controlling food is a common method of maintaining psychological dominance," he observed. "It creates a dependency on external validation for even the most basic biological needs."

The clinical accuracy of his assessment made my stomach tighten. Put that way, so many of my mother's "lessons" suddenly appeared in a different light.

"I apologize," Nicolaus continued, surprising me. "My analytical nature sometimes overrides social tact. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."