Claiming Lily

Chapter 3 Ghosted

Lily's POV

I woke to silence that felt like a warning. The sheets were cold, the rain had stopped, and the city outside the glass wall looked sharp enough to cut.

The apartment was no longer a haven. It felt like a stage after the play endedlights still burning but everyone was gone. My dress from the night before lay crumpled on the floor like a falling flag.

I grabbed my phone and opened the last message. Did you enjoy my fiancé?

My fingers shook. Another message blinked in: You’ll regret crossing me.

“Adrian?” I called softly into the nothingness.

Only the hiss of the dying fire answered.

I tried again, harder. “Where are you?”

No answer.

I dialed his number. It rang once, then went straight to voicemail.

My voice cracked. “It’s me. Please call me. Something’s wrong.”

I hit send on a text: We need to talk. Now.

A red warning popped up. Message failed to deliver.

I tried again. Same warning.

“Come on, come on,” I whispered, stabbing at the screen.

Another text arrived instead: Stop trying. He’s done with you.

I pressed the call again. This time the voicemail had changed: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

“What the hell…”

The suite’s huge windows showed a city washed clean by rain but still glowing with danger. Inside, shadows stretched long, the smell of smoke and wet clothes mixed with expensive cologne.

I felt uncovered, like a trespasser in my own night.

I muttered to myself, pacing. “This isn’t happening. It was one night, just one night.”

But the words sounded false. Last night felt like more than that.

I called again, this time a different number to his office. A clipped female voice answered.

“Cross Holdings, how may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak to him,” I said. “It’s urgent.”

“I’m sorry, he’s unavailable.”

“Tell him it’s Lily. He’ll take my call.”

Silence. Then the woman said coolly, “There’s no one here by that name.”

“What? Hehe works there, he owns it!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Goodbye.” Click.

I stared at the phone. “What just happened?”

A new email arrived from a blocked address. Subject line: Know your place.

Inside: a picture of me leaving the dinner last night, barefoot, mascara streaked, with Adrian following a few steps behind. Another photo: me entering the hotel bar. Another: me in the rooftop lift, eyes closed, his hand on my back.

Below it one line: Try explaining this to the press.

My stomach flipped. Someone had been watching from the start.

“I’m such an i***t,” I whispered. “I walked right into it.”

Another thought cut through: Did Adrian set me up?

“No,” I said aloud. “He couldn’t.”

But doubt crawled in anyway. He had disappeared. His number had vanished. And Caitlyn had sent the first text.

I dialed her number. Straight to voicemail.

“Why are you doing this?” I hissed into the phone. “You already took him. Isn’t that enough?”

I ended the call and threw the phone onto the bed.

My chest hurts. The room smelled of him. My skin still smelled of him. But the air itself felt poisoned now.

I yanked on my dress, shoved my shoes into my bag, and headed for the door. My image in the glass looked like a strange wild hair, swollen eyes, bruised mouth.

In the lift down I whispered, “Forget him. Forget this. Walk away.”

But part of me called back: What if he’s in danger?

I shook my head. “Not my problem.”

Outside, morning light cut through the towers. Paparazzi gathered at the hotel door like vultures. I ducked my face, pulled up my hat, and slipped into the crowd. My phone buzzed again:

Run while you can.

I looked up at the sky. Helicopters thudded somewhere above, faraway sirens wailed. The whole city felt like it was watching me.

I headed for Penn Station, bought a ticket under a fake name, and caught the first train north.

I sat by the window, fingers pressed to my temples. “It was supposed to be a one-night stand,” I mumbled. “No names, no strings. How did it burst like this?”

Images flashed: his scar, his eyes, his voice saying because once, someone pulled me out before it was too late.

I gripped the seat. “Who are you really?”

The train jerked forward. Rain turned the world outside into streaks of silver.

A man in a dark coat walked past my place twice, phone to his ear, looking at me. He sat two rows back. My stomach knotted.

I texted Adrian one last time. Please. Just tell me if you’re okay.

Again the red warning: Failed to deliver.

I lowered the phone. “Okay,” I whispered. “I get it. You’re gone.”

Hours later, I stepped off in a small seaside town where no one knew me. Salt air hit my face, sharp and cold.

I rented a tiny room above a restaurant with cash. The land lord asked no questions.

In the mirror that night I told myself, “Start over. You’re free now.”

But I didn’t feel free. I felt hollow.

My stomach had been queasy all day. I chalked it up to worry, train food, too little sleep. But now, alone in the small bathroom, I saw the unopened box in my bag. I had bought it on a whim at the station store, and hidden it under my scarf.

My hands shook as I opened it. “It’s just to rule it out,” I told myself. “Just to be sure.”

I followed the directions, sat on the edge of the tub, looking at the floor tiles.

Outside the window the sea crashed against rocks, wind roaring.

The timer beeped.

I lifted the test. Two dark lines stared back at me.

“No…” I whispered. My knees buckled.

The test slipped from my shaking fingers, clattering onto the tiles.

Salt air gusted through the window, spreading the box across the floor.

I pressed both hands to my mouth. “I’m pregnant.”

My phone buzzed once on the sink. A new message from the blocked address:

Congratulations.