Make My Heart Believe a Lie

Chapter 8

✨Between Watchful Eyes.✨

Flora Pov

Lila sat cross-legged on the floor, back against Flora’s bed, pretending to mend a tear that didn’t really need mending. The needle hovered more than it moved. They both knew it was only an excuse—to be near, to speak softly, to exist without purpose for a little while.

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks of careful watching, of measured kindness that never quite reached his eyes.

Trump waited with impatience disguised as restraint, counting the days it took for bruises to fade and swelling to settle. Flora’s healing was not concern—it was calculation.

He wanted her unmarred.

Perfect skin for a perfect price.

So he softened his voice. Loosened his rules just enough to look merciful. He allowed longer silences instead of shouting, shorter punishments instead of blows. An illusion, carefully constructed, like fresh paint over rot.

Flora felt it immediately.

Mercy from her father was never forgiveness—it was preparation.

And as the last trace of color faded from her cheek, Trump smiled to himself, already satisfied. The damage had been done. What remained now was presentation.

She was healing exactly on time.

Flora lay on her side, facing the wall. Her cheek was turned away from the light.

“You’re quiet,” Lila said gently.

Flora shrugged, the movement small. “I always am.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Silence settled between them, familiar and safe. Outside, the house breathed—wood creaking, a distant door closing. Lila waited.

She was good at that. She always had been.

“He’s going to marry me off,” Flora said finally, the words barely louder than breath.

Lila’s hands stilled. “Marry you?”

Flora nodded, though Lila couldn’t see it. “One day. Soon, I think.”

Lila swallowed. “Do you know him?”

“No.”

“That’s… horrifying,” Lila said, then winced.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Flora hesitated, then added, “I think he’ll be very unpleasant.”

That made Lila glance up. “You think?”

Flora turned just enough that Lila could see the corner of her mouth lift. “I imagine he’ll have a moustache.”

“A moustache,” Lila repeated solemnly.

“Yes. A very aggressive one. Possibly waxed.

The kind that looks like it has opinions.”

Lila snorted before she could stop herself, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Flora—”

“I know,” Flora whispered, smiling more now.

“It’s not funny.”

“But it is,” Lila said softly. “A little.”

Flora rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “He’ll probably smell like old coats. Or smoke. Or boiled things.”

“Boiled things are the worst kind of things,” Lila agreed.

“And he’ll call me ‘my dear’ even though we’ve never met. And he’ll laugh too loudly at his own jokes.”

Lila’s eyes shone with unshed tears, but she smiled anyway. “You’re very specific.”

“It helps,” Flora said.

“If you make him ridiculous, he feels… smaller.”Lila set the sewing aside and moved closer to the bed. “Are you scared?”

Flora didn’t answer right away.

“Yes,” she said at last. “But not of him.”

Lila frowned. “Then what?”

“Of staying,” Flora whispered. “Of becoming quiet in a way that never ends.”

Lila reached for Flora’s hand, careful, as if touching might break her. “You won’t,” she said. “You’re still here. You’re still you.”

Flora squeezed her fingers. “Sometimes I think about what it would be like if he were kind.”

Lila stiffened. “Your father wouldn’t—”

“I know,” Flora said quickly. “It’s stupid. I don’t believe it. I just… wonder.”

“That doesn’t make you stupid,” Lila said firmly. “It makes you human.”

Flora turned her head, meeting Lila’s eyes now. “If he were kind,” she said slowly, “I think that would be worse.”

Lila blinked. “Worse?”

“Because then I might try to convince myself that this is what safety looks like,” Flora said.

“That gentleness, when it’s given without choice, is still gentleness.”

Lila’s throat tightened.

“I don’t want to believe the wrong thing,” Flora finished.

They sat like that for a while, hands clasped, listening to the house settle around them.

“Do you want to know the worst part?” Flora asked quietly.

Lila nodded.

“I haven’t imagined the wedding,” Flora said.

“Not once. No dress. No flowers. No vows.”

“What have you imagined?”

Flora exhaled. “Windows.”

Lila understood immediately.

Outside light. Roads. Space.

Lila leaned forward and pressed her forehead briefly to Flora’s. “You won’t belong to him,” she whispered. “No matter what your father says.”

Flora closed her eyes.

For just a moment, she let herself believe it.

"It's time," Trump, said three steps up the stairs.

Lila finally stood to leave, slipping back into the shape of obedience the house required, Flora lay still—her cheek aching, her heart full, her thoughts no longer entirely her own.

But lighter.

Because someone knew.

And because laughter—quiet, dangerous laughter—had found its way into a place fear had ruled alone.

That night, Flora lay awake long after the house had gone still.

The ceiling above her was dark, the faint crack barely visible now. Her cheek no longer throbbed the way it had earlier, but the memory of pain lingered like a shadow—soft, persistent, impossible to ignore.

She replayed Lila’s voice in her mind, careful not to move her lips.

If you make him ridiculous, he feels smaller.

Flora breathed in slowly.

She had laughed then. Quietly. Dangerously.

As if humor itself were an act of rebellion.

Her father’s rules echoed just as clearly.

No doors.

No wandering.

No secrets.

She obeyed them all.

That was the trick.

Flora shifted slightly, listening. One step in the hall. Then another. Finn, doing his rounds. The back gate would be checked again before dawn. Always before dawn.

She counted.

Seven steps past her door. Pause. Three more. Pause again.

Patterns.

Her thoughts moved the same way—careful, indirect.

Instead, she thought of windows.

Of how long it took for a curtain to be drawn. Of how hands moved when they were sure of control. Of how people stopped watching when they believed fear had done its job.

Her father believed she was broken now.

That belief settled into the house like dust.

Flora let her mind wander back to Lila, to the way her friend had leaned in close, voice barely sound at all.

You’re still you.

The words warmed something behind Flora’s ribs.

She turned onto her side, facing the wall, and imagined herself smaller. Quieter. More invisible than she had ever been before.

If kindness without choice was a lie—

then obedience could be one too.

She thought about timing. About moments between watchful eyes. About how fear made people sloppy once they were certain they’d won.

Trump had tightened his grip.

Which meant he was watching the doors.

Not the cracks.

Flora closed her eyes.

She did not smile. She did not move.

But somewhere deep inside her, beneath obedience and silence and pain, a new plan took its first careful breath—not as hope, not as defiance, but as something far more dangerous.

Certainty.

Next time, she thought, steady as a promise,

I won’t need to laugh to make him smaller.

Flora learned early that silence could be shaped.

Trump liked to believe her quiet was gratitude. He mistook obedience for surrender, stillness for acceptance. She let him. It was easier that way—easier to bow her head, to answer when spoken to, to keep her hands folded neatly in her lap like a girl carved from discipline instead of fear.

Inside, she was counting.

Every step in the house had a sound. The east hallway creaked on the third plank. The kitchen door sighed before it latched. Trump’s boots—heavy, deliberate—dragged when he was tired, struck sharp when he was angry. She catalogued them all the way a prisoner learns the habits of guards.

The first rule of leaving was this: never look like you’re preparing to go.

So she stayed.

She rose before dawn and lit the stove the way Margery had taught her, careful not to rattle the pans. She washed Trump’s shirts with her eyes lowered, scrubbed the cuffs twice, ironed the collars until they were stiff enough to cut skin. She said yes, sir when required. She swallowed words until they burned.

At night, when the house settled and the dark pressed close, she planned.

Not grand plans. Not foolish ones.

Small ones.

Not like before.

She hid bread in the lining of her coat, one piece at a time, wrapped in cloth so it wouldn’t mold. She loosened the nail beneath her bedroom window, turning it just enough each night so the wood would remember weakness. She memorized the way the fence dipped behind the fig tree, where the wire sagged like it was tired of holding.

And she waited.

Trump had left before sunrise for the city, muttering about contracts and men who didn’t know their place. He hadn’t looked at her when he spoke, which she took as a gift.

Absence was opportunity.

Margery watched her from the doorway as she cleared the breakfast things. Her eyes were too sharp, too knowing. She had started looking at her like that recently, as though she could see the future gathering behind her eyes.

“Don’t,” she said quietly.

Flora froze, a plate half-lowered into the basin.

“Don’t what?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

She stepped closer, lowered her voice. “Don’t rush.”

Flora hands trembled. She hid it by plunging them into the water.

“I’m not,” she said.

Margery reached out, fingers brushing her wrist—too light to be noticed by anyone else, heavy with meaning. “The first door never opens,” she whispered. “You taught me that without meaning to.”

Flora didn’t look at her. If she did, she might have broken.

she waited until the house fell silent again.

She took only what she could carry without slowing—bread, the small knife wrapped in cloth, the coins she’d stolen one by one from Trump’s desk drawer. she wore plainest dress. Nothing that would mark her as valuable. Nothing that would make her worth chasing too hard.

The wood draped across the window complained softly when Flora lifted it.

She froze at once, fingers locked around the frame, heart hammering so loudly she was certain the house could hear it. She waited—counted her breaths the way she’d taught herself to—one, two, three—until the sound settled back into the walls.

The window gave way with a sigh.

Nothing moved.

Slowly, carefully, she raised the window the rest of the way. Night air slipped in, cool against her face, carrying the smell of damp earth and something flowering far below. Freedom had a scent. She would remember it.

The cold air rushed in, sharp and thrilling. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure it would wake the house itself.

Flora swung one leg over the sill, then paused.

From up here, the ground looked farther away than she had imagined. The yard stretched dark and uneven, the fence a thin line beyond it. She did not let herself look too long.

Looking made room for doubt.

She turned and sat on the sill, hands gripping the wood until her fingers ached. The hem of her dress snagged on a nail; she stilled, eased it free inch by inch. Her movements were small, patient—obedience repurposed into survival.

When both legs dangled outside, she felt the height in her stomach, a slow sickening drop. She swallowed and leaned forward, lowering her weight until her palms met the cool stone of the outer wall.

The house loomed behind her.

She pressed her cheek briefly to the siding, listening. No footsteps. No voice. Just the quiet hum of night.

Then she began to climb.

Her toes searched blindly for the narrow ledge she’d memorized in daylight. When they found it, she exhaled shakily and shifted her weight down. Her fingers scraped against rough wood, skin stinging, but she did not stop. Pain was loud; hesitation was louder.

Halfway down, her foot slipped.

Her breath caught sharply in her throat, a sound she barely smothered. Her heart lurched, and for one terrifying second she clung there—arms shaking, muscles burning—held only by stubborn will and splintered wood.

Not yet, she told herself. Not like this.

She found the ledge again. Held. Moved.

Down.

Down.

When her feet finally hit the ground, the impact jolted through her legs and up her spine. She stumbled, caught herself against the wall, and stood there shaking, palms pressed flat to steady the world.

She had done it.

Flora stepped away from the house.

She did not look back at the window. She did not look up at the walls that had held her for twenty-three years.

Instead, she lifted her chin, drew a careful breath, and moved forward—quiet as a thought slipping through a crack.

Behind her, the house remained whole and watchful.

Ahead of her, the dark opened.

For one breathless moment, she was free.

Then the dog barked.

Not the deep warning bark she feared—but the sharp, startled sound of recognition. He knew me. That was the problem.

Lights flared in the neighboring house. A voice called out. she ducked low, heart in her throat, moving toward the fig tree.

She was halfway there when the gate slammed.

Not Trump.

One of the men from the road. A hired watch.

Someone new.

“Girl!” he shouted.

She ran.

The fence tore at her hands, snagged her dress. Pain flared hot and immediate. she landed hard on the other side—and straight into arms.

He smelled of tobacco and sweat. His grip was iron.

“Thought you were clever,” he said.

She didn't scream. she didn’t fight.

That was her mistake.

They brought her back like a lost thing, dragging her through the yard, shoving her through the door. Trump wasn’t home yet, but his absence didn’t soften the punishment.

They locked my door from the outside.

Flora lay on the floor for a long time, cheek pressed to the boards, listening to her breath rasp like it belonged to someone else. Shame burned hotter than pain—not because she’d tried to leave, but because she’d failed again.

When Trump returned that night, he didn’t shout.

He stood in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the room, and studied her like a cracked object.

“You disappoint me,” he said calmly. “I invest.

I provide. And you repay me with foolishness.”

She knelt because she knew better than to stand.

“I won’t try again,” she said.

The lie slid easily from her mouth.

He watched her for a long moment, then smiled—thin and satisfied.

“Good,” he said. “Because next time, I won’t bring you back.”

He left her there.