Make My Heart Believe a Lie

Chapter 9

✨Saved. Not safe.✨

Trump noticed the shift in Flora, though he could not name it. She obeyed more quickly now, spoke less, and kept her eyes lowered—but something about her stillness unsettled him. It was not submission. It felt… deliberate.

Before leaving, Trump stopped at the front door and turned back.

Trump did not summon them.

He met them.

Not in the hall. Not where the house could see.

At the side door, just before dawn, while the house still slept.

Two men waited in the shadow of the yard and beyond the gate, hats low, coats dark. No greetings were exchanged. No names spoken.

Trump stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

They stood in a small half-circle, listening.

His voice was barely more than a breath.

“The girl stays inside.”

A nod.

“No visitors.”

Another.

“No letters. No messages. No mistakes.”

Silence.

“If she moves toward the gate,” he added, eyes hard, “you stop her. If she resists, you come for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

That was all.

No handshake. No payment in sight.

Trump returned inside as if nothing had happened.

When breakfast was called, no one knew two strangers had been placed between Flora and the world.

But she would feel it soon enough.

Flora's Pov

Trump stood in the doorway for a long moment before stepping inside.

Flora sat on the edge of her bed, her hands folded in her lap, every bruise still aching beneath her sleeves. The marks were fading, but not gone. Purple and yellow shadows lingered along her ribs, her wrists, her shoulder.

He saw them.

Of course he did.

His jaw tightened.

“So,” he said calmly, “you tried again.”

She did not answer.

He crossed the room slowly, stopping just in front of her. For a moment, she waited for it — the familiar rise of anger, the hand lifting, the strike that always came.

But it didn’t.

Instead, he reached out and gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“Foolish girl,” he murmured. “Do you know how much trouble you cause me?”

Tears burned her eyes, but she did not let them fall.

His grip loosen. He couldn’t leave any more marks—her body was still healing, but her spirit bore them all.

Then, surprisingly, he let go.

Not because he was kind.

Because he was careful.

He stepped back, studying her the way one studied something fragile — something valuable.

“You’re still healing,” he said flatly. “And you will be presentable.”

Her breath caught.

“You have an important meeting soon,” he continued. “You will not walk in looking like damaged goods.”

The words struck harder than any slap.

“So no,” he said quietly, folding his hands behind his back. “I won’t touch you today.”

Relief flickered in her chest — and died just as quickly.

“This is not mercy,” he added. “This is patience.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping.

“Try to run again, and I won’t care how broken you are.”

Then he turned and left, with deliberate calm.

Flora sat frozen long after he was gone.

For the first time, she understood something worse than pain.

She was being saved.

Not for herself.

But for someone else.

And that hurt far worse.

Flora took a few breaths, then stood by the window, her gaze drifting over the garden’s quiet landscape. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground. For a moment, she felt a fleeting sense of freedom, a whisper of possibilities beyond the confines of the house.

But before she could linger too long, a shadow fell across the room. Trump’s figure appeared in the doorway once more, his expression unreadable.

Without a word, he crossed the room and reached out to the curtains.

“Enough,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that made Flora’s heart sink.

He should have hit her she believed.

He pulled the curtains shut, blocking the view and the light. The room grew dim, and the barrier between Flora and the world outside seemed to solidify.

“Your place is here,” he continued, his tone gentle but firm. “Look only where I allow.”

Flora nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly as she accepted the constraint. The world outside remained a distant dream, and the house.

The house was still breathing when she slipped from her room, the familiar creaks and sighs settling into their places like they always did. She paused at the top of the stairs, counting. Not steps—breaths. The way she had learned to count everything.

One.

Two.

Three.

Floyd.

Flora slipped back into her room as if the floor itself would betray her. She pressed her back against the wall near the door frame, holding her breath. Every creak of the boards sounded like a shout.

For a moment, she let herself imagine she was invisible, that the world beyond her door couldn’t reach her. But she knew better. In this house, even silence had a way of finding you.

Floyd arrived without announcement.

The sound of boots in the hallway came before the knock.

Not heavy like her father’s.

Slower. Measured.

Flora gathered her brush, she began to stroke her hair.

Floyd stood there. Waiting for her answer.

Her older brother filled the doorway the way Trump did — broad shoulders, calm face, eyes already judging. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, as if he had been posted there long before she noticed him.

“Father says you’ve been restless,” he said.

“I haven’t,” Flora replied softly.

His gaze moved to the window. The latch. The curtain.

“You don’t need to lie to me,” Floyd said. “I’m not here to scold you.”

That almost frightened her more.

He stepped inside and blocked the doorway behind him — not enough to trap her, but enough to remind her he could.

“You should understand something,” he continued. “This house keeps you safe.”

She swallowed. “Safe from what?”

He finally looked at her then.

“From yourself.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I heard what you tried to do,” he said quietly.

“Run. Disappear.”

Her fingers tightened around the brush.

“That would’ve been foolish.”

“I just wanted—”

“You wanted to embarrass him,” Floyd interrupted, his voice sharpening. “You wanted to make trouble.”

“That’s not—”

“Listen to me,” he said, stepping closer now. “You belong here. And as long as I’m here, you’re not going anywhere.”

Not cruel.

Not loud.

Certain.

His eyes softened just enough to confuse her.

“I’ll be watching,” he added. “Not because I hate you. Because I don’t want to see you ruin everything.”

Everything.

He turned and left without another word.

Only then did Flora realize her hands were shaking.

And only then did the truth settle in her chest:

She was no longer being guarded.

She was being kept.

The sound of his boots on the porch carried through the house first—heavy, deliberate. Flora felt it before she heard it, the way her body always knew before her mind caught up.

"My replacement is here," Trump called the house that evening.

Floyd did not speak when Trump gave the order.

He only nodded once, slow, deliberate.

From that day on, Flora felt it—the extra weight in the house. Not louder. Not crueler in obvious ways. Worse. Observed.

She noticed it first at breakfast.

Trump sat at the head of the table, glass within reach, eyes half-lidded. Floyd leaned against the wall near the doorway, arms crossed, gaze never leaving her. Not even when Margery moved. Not even when Finn spoke.

Flora kept her eyes on her plate.

“Sit straight,” Trump said.

She adjusted immediately.

Floyd watched the movement, committing it to memory.

“She favors the window,” Trump said later, his voice low, almost conversational.

Floyd smiled without humor.

“She won’t anymore.”

That evening, when Flora paused near the hallway window—just a second too long—the curtain was already being drawn.

Not by Trump.

By Floyd.

“Habit,” Floyd said, not looking at her. “Break it.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

At night, she felt footsteps outside her door.

Sometimes they passed.

Sometimes they stopped.

Once, she heard Floyd’s voice murmur, “She’s still inside.”

Trump’s reply came softer than she expected.

Satisfied.

“She knows better now.”

Flora lay perfectly still beneath her blanket, breath shallow, heart pounding so loudly she was sure they could hear it.

In the days that followed, the rules multiplied—but they were never written, never spoken all at once. Floyd enforced them the way Trump taught him to: quietly, completely.

If Flora lingered, Floyd appeared.

If she hesitated, Floyd noticed.

If she thought—only for a moment—that she was alone, Floyd was there.

Watching.

Always watching.

Flora learned to move softly.

Not because the house required it, but because he did. The floorboards were old and talkative, and she memorized which ones betrayed her weight. Which ones sighed. Which ones screamed. She placed her feet accordingly, toes first, breath held, shoulders tucked inward as if the walls themselves might take offense.

Trump sat at the table when she entered the room the next morning. He did not look up.

That was worse.

She stood where she was, fingers curling into the hem of her dress, waiting for permission that never came. The clock ticked. A fly buzzed near the window and escaped her envy by slipping through the cracked pane.

“Did I call you?” he asked finally.

“No, sir,” Flora said. Her voice was careful. It always was now.

“Then why are you here?”

Her throat tightened. She had practiced this answer in her head—had gone over it twice while climbing the stairs, again at the landing, once more outside the door—but it slipped from her anyway.

“I—I was told to bring the tea.”

Trump glanced at the tray in her hand. Let the silence stretch long enough to bruise.

“Set it down.”

She obeyed immediately, lowering it with too much caution, as if even porcelain could anger him. Her hands trembled. She tried to still them by pressing her palms together, but the shaking only traveled up her arms instead.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“Look at you,” Trump said. Not unkindly. That was the cruel part. “All this shaking. Anyone would think you’re afraid.”

She did not answer.

He rose from his chair, slow and deliberate. Flora shrank without realizing she was doing it—shoulders folding inward, chin lowering, body remembering what her mind tried to forget.

“Lift your face.”

She hesitated. The delay was barely a second, but it cost her.

“I said, lift your face.”

She did.

The bruise had faded to yellow now, a soft, sickly color that matched the way she felt. Trump studied it like a craftsman inspecting imperfect work. Her lip had healed.

“You heal well,” he said. “That’s good. I need you presentable.”

“Yes, sir.”

He circled her once. She stayed still, heart hammering so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

“Obedient. That’s an improvement.”

She nodded, a small movement, careful not to seem eager.

“I trust you’ve learned something.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you learn?”

Her mind raced. The wrong answer lived everywhere. In the corners. In the pauses.

“I learned,” she said slowly, “to listen.”

Trump smiled then, satisfied. “Good girl.”

The words settled over her like a weight. She felt smaller beneath them. Thinner. As if too much more pressure might break her clean in two.

“Go,” he said, already turning away. “And don’t linger by windows. You’ve had enough foolish ideas for one lifetime.”

Her breath caught—but she did not let it show.

“Yes, sir.”

She backed out of the room the way she’d been taught. Eyes down. Steps counted.

When the door finally closed behind her, her knees gave out.

Flora slid to the floor, pressing a hand to her mouth to keep the sound inside. Her body shook now without restraint, every nerve buzzing, every thought reduced to one simple truth:

She was fragile because he had made her so.

But somewhere beneath the fear—buried deep, wrapped tight—something stirred. Not strength. Not yet.

Something quieter.

Something waiting.

She was standing by the window, fingers resting against the glass, not opening it—never opening it—just letting her eyes follow the road the way a starving person watched a table.

The shadow crossed the floor first.

Then the voice.

“So,” Trump said quietly. “You didn’t hear me—and that will be your mistake.”

Her breath vanished.

She turned too fast. That was mistake one.

“I—I was only—”

He crossed the room in three strides and closed the curtains himself. Hard. The rings screamed along the rod.

Mistake two.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he asked.

She shook her head. Could not make a sound.

He took her by the arm—not roughly at first, almost gentle—and steered her toward the chair by the wall. The one without cushions.

“Kneel.”

Her knees hit the floor before her mind agreed.

“Three nights ago,” he said calmly. “Three nights you planned. Packed. Waited. Counted steps like a thief in my own house.”

Her hands trembled in her lap.

“You embarrassed me.”

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.

“Look at what rebellion earns you.”

Cambilly stood rigid near the wall, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles blanched.

Trump did not look at her—not yet.

When he finally stepped back, she was folded on the floor, breath broken, face burning, vision swimming.

“Up,” he said.

She tried. Failed.

He waited.

At last she pushed herself upright, swaying.

“You will eat when I say,” Trump continued.

“You will sleep when I allow.”

“You will not stand near doors.”

“You will not touch windows.”

“I told you once you will heal quickly,” he added. “Because you are valuable to me.”

Her stomach turned.

“Go to your room. If I catch you wandering again, we move to the cane.”

Her face went white.

“Yes, sir.”

She did not run. Running had cost her too much already.

In her room, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her hands until they stopped shaking.

When she finally dared look in the mirror, the girl staring back looked smaller. Thinner. Older.

She pressed trembling hands to her cheek.

Fragile.

That was what he wanted.

But as the pain pulsed and the house settled back into silence, a thought crept in where fear had ruled before.

Not hope.

Not yet.

Just this:

Next time.

Next time.