Chapter 7
1784 Words
✨The Illusion of Mercy.✨
Flora Pov
Each movement felt slow, as if the very air around her was heavier, pressing down on her shoulders. The pain was not just physical; it carried a weight that seeped into her thoughts, making her question every decision she had made.
Flora’s eyes remained lowered, her spirit bruised, but beneath the surface, a quiet determination took root. She knew that even in her pain, there was a flicker of resilience—a silent promise that she would not remain broken.
Flora lay on her side, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling above her bed.
Her cheek still ached when she smiled, so she tried not to. The room smelled faintly of ointment and old linen. Somewhere down the hall, her father’s voice rumbled low, and she went still until the sound faded again.
Only then did her thoughts drift—carefully, the way they always did—into places she was not supposed to go.
The man.
"Your future husband," her father had said once, as if announcing the weather.
Flora frowned at the ceiling.
She tried to remember what little she’d been told. He was older. Of course he was older.
Men with choices were never sent girls like her unless there was money involved. He owned land, apparently. Or a factory. Or horses. One of those things men owned to make themselves important.
She pictured him very tall. No—very short. With a round belly that strained against his buttons. Or maybe terribly thin, with a long neck like a stork and a voice that squeaked when he laughed.
She imagined a moustache first.
No. Two moustaches. One on each side of his mouth, curling like angry caterpillars.
That made her lips twitch.
What if he smelled terrible? Like pipe smoke and onions. Or worse—like the medicine cupboard.
He would probably call her “my dear” in a voice that sounded like he was clearing his throat.
Come here, my dear.
She grimaced.
He might have watery eyes. Or one eyebrow that never quite matched the other. Or a laugh that came out too loud, too suddenly, the kind that made everyone in the room jump.
And then—because her mind was cruel in a different way—she imagined the opposite.
What if he was handsome?
That thought startled her.
What if he had kind eyes and gentle hands and a voice that never shouted?
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
She rolled onto her back, staring harder at the ceiling as if it might scold her.
No.
That was foolish.
Men chosen by her father were never kind. They were chosen because they obeyed. Because they understood ownership.
Because they would never ask her what she wanted.
She huffed a quiet breath.
Still… she wondered if he would at least be less frightening than Trump.
Perhaps that was the only prayer she had left.
Flora turned onto her side again, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
Not once—not for a single moment—had she thought about love.
Not once had she imagined a wedding.
She had not pictured a dress or flowers or
vows. Nothing like girls her age, nothing like the fairy tales of life, definitely nothing happy.
Nothing.
Only faces.
Only guesses.
Only the strange, uncomfortable humor of not knowing whether her future husband would have a crooked nose… or two moustaches.
Her mouth curved again, just barely.
And then the smile faded.
Because somewhere deep inside, beneath the jokes and the wondering, a quiet truth waited:
Whatever man her father chose,
he would never be chosen by her.
And that—more than his face, more than his name—was what frightened her most.
Trump stepped inside her room, filling the frame the way he always did—solid, final. His eyes moved over the room first, then settled on her.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“No trouble. No wandering. No foolish ideas.”
She lowered her gaze. “No, sir.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then, to her surprise, his expression shifted—not soft, but… satisfied.
“I see you’re learning,” he said. “Good behavior deserves reward.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he stepped aside.
And Lila stood in the doorway.
For half a second Flora thought she was imagining her.
“Flora?” Lila whispered, eyes wide.
A sound escaped her before she could stop it—a breath, half laugh, half sob. “Lila…”
Trump cleared his throat. “An hour,” he said.
“In the sitting room. The door stays open.”
“Yes, sir,” Flora said quickly.
He nodded once, already turning away, as if the gift meant nothing at all.
When he was gone, Lila rushed forward and took Flora’s hands.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispered.
Flora smiled, but it trembled.
Neither of them said what they were both thinking.
That kindness in this house was never free.
And that even grace came with strings.
The Girl he Approved.
“Flora,” her father called from the living room.
Not loud. He never needed to be.
“You have one hour,” Trump said after a few minutes.
Her name was Lila Andrei though Flora hadn’t said it out loud in years. Names had weight. Names were dangerous.
Lila looked smaller than Flora remembered. Or maybe Flora had grown used to seeing people shrink under roofs like this.
They stood for a moment, just looking at each other.
Lila’s hair was braided tight, not a strand out of place. Her dress was pressed, collar neat. She wore the careful face Flora recognized immediately—the one you wore when you knew eyes were always on you, even when no one was looking.
“You look… different,” Lila said finally.
Flora smiled. It came easily. It always did with her.
“So do you.”
They sat at the table where they’d once done homework together, backs straight, hands folded. Margery poured tea, her movements precise, her mouth set in that quiet line she wore when guests were allowed but not welcome.
Trump remained in the living room. He didn’t need to hover. The walls did that for him.
They spoke of nothing important.
Lila mentioned her younger brother. Flora nodded at the right places. Flora mentioned a book she’d read twice already. Lila said she didn’t read much anymore. Too busy.
They did not ask how are you.
They did not ask are you safe.
Girls like them learned early which questions opened doors you couldn’t close again.
“You don’t go out much,” Lila said, careful, as if the words themselves might bruise.
Flora lifted her teacup. “I don’t need to.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.
There was a pause. The kind that stretches, thin and dangerous.
“My father says you’re… sensitive,” Lila said.
Flora nodded. That was another safe word.
Sensitive meant compliant. Sensitive meant quiet.
“I suppose I am.”
Lila’s fingers tightened around her cup. Just for a second.
“I miss school,” she said instead.
Flora’s breath caught before she could stop it.
“I do too.”
They shared a look then. Brief. Sharp. Like touching something hot and pulling away before anyone noticed.
Lila glanced toward the hallway. “I heard the buses don’t run past the old mill anymore.”
Flora blinked. Once.
“No,” she said softly. “They changed the route.”
“Oh.” Lila nodded, eyes down. “My father was annoyed. He hates when things change.”
Flora understood. Change was dangerous.
Change was noticed.
Lila reached into her pocket and slid something across the table—a folded scrap of paper, no writing on it. Just a pressed leaf, brittle and brown.
“I found this in an old book,” She said. “You can have it.”
Flora hesitated. Then took it.
“Thank you.”
Their fingers brushed. Both flinched.
“You look smaller,” Lila said suddenly. The words slipped out before she could catch them.
Flora laughed. A soft sound. Practiced. “You always say that.”
“No,” Lila said. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t.
Lila swallowed. Her sleeve rode up as she lifted her cup, just enough to show yellowed skin beneath. Not fresh. Never fresh.
Flora didn’t look away. Looking away was worse.
“I’m not staying long,” Lila said.
“I know.”
The hour was nearly done. Time moved faster in cages.
From the living room came the scrape of a chair. A reminder.
Lila stood first. Flora followed.
They faced each other again, closer this time.
Close enough to smell soap, to notice the way fear sat in the throat.
For a moment, it looked like Lila might hug her.
She didn’t.
Instead, she leaned in just enough to whisper,
“Be careful.”
Flora nodded.
“I am trying.”
Lila left without looking back.
The door closed. The car drove away.
The house exhaled.
Trump stood in the doorway now, arms crossed, satisfaction settling into his bones like something earned.
“Good girl,” he said.
Flora waited until her room swallowed her whole before she let the smile fall.
She unfolded the leaf from her pocket. Tucked beneath it, nearly invisible, was a time written so small it could be missed if you weren’t looking for it.
Flora lay back on her bed and stared at the ceiling.
One hour had been enough.
For a moment, the house felt like it used to.
Not peaceful—Flora knew better than to mistake silence for kindness—but quieter in a way that belonged to memory. There had been a time when footsteps did not mean anticipation, when voices carried without warning, when doors were left open because no one thought to close them.
She remembered mornings when light reached the kitchen before fear did. When her mother hummed without realizing it. When Trump left for work early and came home late, and the hours in between felt wide and unclaimed.
Back then, the walls had seemed farther apart.
Flora had read at the table without flinching.
Cambilly had laughed too loudly. Someone—one of the boys, she couldn’t remember which—had tracked mud across the floor, and no one had paid for it.
The house had not always been a thing that listened.
The stillness passed.
It always did.
- Writer
