The next day came faster than Lilith Steele wanted, it was to fast, to quick for her liking, She stood on her balcony staring into the city of Serelis, the jewel of Avelore, was a city that gleamed with glass and marble but stank of deceit in its underbelly.
Its wide boulevards were lined with gilded facades and perfumed with imported roses, yet beneath the polished surface, rot festered: deals made in shadows, reputations traded like currency, and lives reduced to bargaining chips.
To Lilith Steele, Serelis was nothing more than her father's theatre, a stage upon which he forced his family to play their parts.
She stood before her wardrobe, staring at her reflection with a bitterness that tasted like iron on her tongue.
The most expensive dress she owned hung loosely on the hanger—a deep emerald gown with a neckline that flirted with elegance but was a season too old to impress the wealthy vultures of Serelis. To them, her dress would scream of cheapness, of trying too hard.
Yet it was all she had. She slipped into it anyway, fastening the zipper with unsteady hands.
Her makeup was simple, more defiance than vanity: a faint sweep of colour on her lips, a dusting of powder to soften the signs of exhaustion. No elaborate contouring, no painted mask to please her father. If they wanted a doll, she would be a broken one.
She took a deep breath and walked out of her home, then hailed a taxi to her destination, a place she wished she didn't have to go.
La Couronne stood tall in the heart of Serelis, its golden letters etched above a polished glass entrance. The restaurant was whispered to be the meeting place of power brokers and oil magnates, where fortunes were cemented over velvet tablecloths.
When Lilith arrived, the doorman's eyes swept over her dress and lingered just long enough to remind her she did not belong.
Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the hum of quiet laughter. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen tears, scattering light across the tables where men with heavy watches and women with thinner waists dined as if they owned the world.
She was escorted into the suite her father had booked after repeatedly confirming she was supposed to be here so many times one ought to be embarrassed.
At the back of the room, the Steele family sat at a long table, all smiles and false warmth. Maria beamed like a saint, her golden hair shimmering under the chandelier. Mr. Steele sat at the head, posture rigid, his smile sharpened into a blade.
They greeted Lilith with sugary words, voices dipped in honey, but eyes glinting with malice. Every word exchanged was performance, a pantomime of harmony for the world to see.
And then there was Mr. Marlowe.
He was an old man with a potbelly that strained against his silk vest, his skin the sickly pallor of overindulgence.
His smile was wet, his gaze crawling over Lilith as if he were peeling her layer by layer. His fingers, jewelled and greasy, tapped the table in anticipation whenever his eyes met hers.
She felt her stomach churn, but she masked it with silence, refusing even a glance in his direction.
Plates of delicacies paraded before her—lobster in saffron butter, veal with truffle shavings, caviar nestled in crystal bowls. But Lilith could not bring herself to touch a single morsel. The air itself seemed tainted by Marlowe's breath, and the idea of dining in his presence turned her stomach. Her father noticed, of course.
"Eat, Lilith," Mr. Steele said, his voice measured, carrying a razor's edge beneath the politeness. "Mr. Marlowe has exquisite taste."
"I'm not hungry," she replied flatly, her voice low enough to betray her disgust.
Mr. Steele's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more, instead filling the silence with hollow laughter as he extolled Maria's charm and Lilith's supposed virtues to Marlowe.
Every sentence was a sales pitch, every glance a transaction. Lilith sat stiff, enduring it for the only reason that mattered—her mother.
Eventually, she lifted a glass, choosing the simplest option on the table: a flute of champagne, golden bubbles rising like fragile promises. The first sip was bitter on her tongue, but she swallowed it down, hoping the coolness might wash away the filth she felt sitting there.
But then the room began to tilt. Subtly at first, like the swaying of a ship, then heavier, her limbs weighed down by something unnatural.
A hot dizziness unfurled in her head, and her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her vision blurred, though one sight remained painfully sharp: her father, rising from his seat, clasping Mr. Marlowe's hand in a firm shake.
"Here's to prosperous cooperation," Mr. Steele declared, his smile wide, victorious.
The family began to leave, one by one, their voices light with feigned good cheer, as though nothing were amiss. Lilith's hand trembled against the table as she tried to stand, her knees weak, her breath shallow. Realisation slammed into her chest: she had been drugged.
Her voice broke through the laughter, raw and furious. "What have you done? Father—what have you done to me?"
But he did not turn back. He didn't need to. His silence was answered enough.
And then Marlowe's hand was on her arm, thick fingers curling with revolting familiarity. The suite door closed behind them with a soft click, final as a coffin lid. His breath reeked of cigars and greed as he loomed over her, a predator made flesh.
Revulsion cut through the haze like lightning. In that brief, burning clarity, she struck. Her knee drove upward, colliding with his groin. Marlowe doubled over, a strangled cry escaping his lips as pain contorted his face.
Lilith didn't wait. She staggered to the door, wrenching it open, her heels clattering against the polished floor as she ran. Behind her, voices rose in alarm—bodyguards storming after her, their footsteps heavy with menace.
She reached the elevator, frantically pressing the button, slamming her palm against the cold steel as the world spun around her. When the doors finally slid open, she stumbled inside, slapping a random button with trembling fingers.
The walls of the elevator seemed to close in, heat flooding her body, sweat dampening her skin. She tugged at her sleeves, desperate for air, her breath ragged. Her heart pounded louder with each floor that ticked past.
The doors opened at last. She staggered out into a deserted hallway, her heels slipping against the carpet. There was only one room on the floor with its door ajar. Without thinking, without caring, she darted inside and slammed it shut behind her, her back pressed against the wood, her chest heaving.
She had no idea whose room she had entered, nor what fate awaited her within. All she knew was that the nightmare she had fled was still pounding after her and that her story had only just begun.
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