Make My Heart Believe a Lie

Chapter 2

✨Quiet Things That Break.✨

Flora Pov

The house settled into its usual quiet, the kind that pressed against Flora’s ears until it felt louder than shouting. She hugged her knees to her chest. Her hands were trembling, though she hadn’t been touched. Not this time.

Her heart breaks for her Cambilly. Technically she was older and supposed to take care of her younger sister but her anxiety would never let her.

From somewhere down the hall came the soft click of Cambilly’s door locking again, as if one turn of the bolt wasn’t enough. Flora closed her eyes and imagined her sister sitting on the bed, jaw set, staring at the wall instead of crying.

Cambilly never cried where anyone could see.

Flora wished she had stayed. Wished she had done something—anything. But wishing was a useless habit she’d perfected over the years.

She reached under the mattress again and pulled out her book, its spine cracked and pages soft from rereading. Reading was the only place her father couldn’t follow. Words didn’t flinch. They didn’t raise their hands. They didn’t demand obedience.

A muffled voice drifted through the thin walls. Trump. Still angry. Still pacing. The sound of ice clinking against glass made Flora’s stomach knot. She read the same sentence three times without absorbing it.

Then.

Footsteps approached. Slow. Careful.

Flora snapped the book shut and shoved it back under the mattress just as a shadow paused outside her door.

“Flora,” her mother whispered.

Flora opened the door a crack. Margery stood there, smaller than Flora remembered her ever being, her shoulders slumped, her eyes rimmed red. She smelled faintly of lavender and something sour beneath it—fear, maybe.

“Is Cambilly okay?” Flora asked quietly.

Margery hesitated. That pause was answer enough.

“She’s… angry,” her mother said. “She’s icing her face and head.”

Flora nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Guilt crawled up her throat, thick and bitter.

Margery touched Flora’s arm, then pulled her hand back as if she’d crossed a line. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, though it sounded like something she’d practiced saying to herself.

Flora wanted to ask why she hadn’t stopped him. Why she never did. But she already knew the answer, and knowing it didn’t make it hurt less.

Margery glanced toward the living room, then leaned in. “Stay in your room tonight,” she said.

“Both of you.”

Flora watched her mother walk away, spine bent, steps quiet. Once, she imagined, Margery Spencer had dreams. Flora wondered when they’d been buried—and whether it had happened slowly, or all at once.

Later, when the house had gone still and Trump’s snores rattled down the hallway, Flora crept out.

Cambilly’s door was ajar.

Her sister sat on the edge of the bed, an ice pack pressed to her cheek. A red mark bloomed beneath it, already darkening.

“Don’t,” Cambilly said without looking up. “Don’t apologize.”

Flora swallowed. “I wasn’t going to.”

Cambilly snorted softly. “Good.”

They sat in silence. Flora studied the carpet, tracing the frayed fibers with her eyes.

“He’s going to sell you,” Cambilly said suddenly.

Flora froze.

“I know,” Cambilly continued. “I’ve always known. That’s why I push him. That’s why I don’t shut up.” She finally looked at Flora, her eyes sharp and fierce despite the swelling. “I won’t let him break you.”

Flora’s chest tightened. “You can’t stop him.”

Cambilly’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Watch me.”

Flora wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that defiance could be armor instead of a target. But fear had been stitched into her bones for too long.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five, Flora counted to ten but her anxiety didn't quite. Because quiet things break.

“Don’t stay here. Go—before he sees you.”

The words were low, urgent. Not angry—never angry—but edged with the kind of fear that had learned to whisper instead of scream snapping her out of her head while her heart still pounded.

Flora nodded. She had learned when questions were dangerous. She turned without a word, each step measured, the floorboards memorized beneath her feet. Even now, even alone, she moved as though she were being watched.

That night, as Flora lay awake staring at the ceiling, she made herself a quiet promise. She didn’t know when or how, but one day soon she would leave this house.

And when she did, she wouldn’t leave alone.

Flora waited until the house settled.

She always did.

There was a certain rhythm to Trump’s anger—an aftermath silence that followed once he was done asserting himself. Doors stayed closed. Footsteps were measured. Voices lowered. The house learned to breathe shallow.

Flora moved softly down the hall, bare feet memorizing the warped boards so she wouldn’t make them creak.

She paused outside Cambilly’s door first, hand hovering near the knob.

No sound.

Flora withdrew. She wanted to check in on her sister again but didn't want to intrude.

Instead, Flora turned toward the kitchen.

Her mother stood at the counter, rinsing the same glass over and over again. The water ran too hard. It splashed against the sink, droplets freckling Margery’s wrists. Her shoulders were stiff, her back straight in a way that suggested she’d been standing there for a long time.

Flora hesitated.

“Mama?” she said softly.

Margery startled, nearly dropping the glass. She shut off the tap too quickly, then set the glass down with care.

“Flora,” she said, turning. Her smile was immediate—and brittle. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“I just… wanted some water.”

Margery nodded, reaching for another glass even though one already sat clean on the counter. Her hands trembled. She noticed and stilled them by gripping the rim too tightly.

“Sit,” Margery said. It wasn’t a command. It was a plea disguised as routine.

Flora sat at the small kitchen table, folding her hands in her lap. She kept her posture neat. Still. As if she were waiting for permission to exist.

Margery poured the water and slid the glass across to her. Their fingers brushed. Margery flinched.

Flora pretended not to notice.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space. The clock ticked too loudly.

“Is Cambilly—” Flora began.

“She’s fine,” Margery said too quickly. Then, softer, “She’s resting.”

Flora nodded. She stared into the water instead of drinking it.

Margery leaned against the counter, folding her arms as if bracing herself. She studied Flora in a way that made Flora’s skin prickle—like she was being measured, weighed, and found wanting or wanting more. Flora couldn’t tell which.

“You shouldn’t provoke him,” Margery said at last. “Either of you.”

Flora swallowed. “I didn’t.”

“I know,” Margery said. Her voice cracked slightly. “I know you didn’t.”

The admission hung between them, heavy.

Flora’s fingers curled into the hem of her sweater. “I try to do everything right.”

Margery closed her eyes.

“That’s just it,” she said. “You always have.”

She pushed herself off the counter and sat across from Flora. Up close, Flora could see the fine lines around her mother’s eyes, the tension that never quite left her jaw. Margery looked older than her years—worn thin by endurance.

“Your father has… expectations,” Margery said carefully.

Flora’s heart skipped. She nodded automatically. Expectations were familiar. Expectations were rules. Rules were survivable.

“I can do better,” Flora said. “If I upset him, I’ll try not to next time.”

Margery’s breath hitched.

“No,” she said sharply, then caught herself.

She reached across the table, covering Flora’s hands with her own. Her palms were cold.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Flora froze. Her mother rarely touched her first.

Margery searched her face, as if trying to see something beneath the obedience, beneath the quiet. “You’re twenty-three,” she said slowly. “You’re not a child anymore.”

Flora nodded again. “I know.”

“And that means,” Margery continued, “that certain… conversations are going to start happening.”

Flora’s stomach tightened. “About what?”

Margery looked away.

“About your future.”

The word landed strangely. Heavy. Undefined.

“I don’t need much,” Flora said quickly. “I’m fine here. I don’t cause trouble.”

Margery’s grip tightened. “That’s what scares me.”

Flora blinked. “Mama?”

Margery stood abruptly, pacing the narrow kitchen. She rubbed her arms as if cold. “Your father’s been restless,” she said. “Making calls. Talking about business again. About connections.”

Flora listened without interrupting. Interrupting was dangerous.

“He mentioned you,” Margery said quietly.

Flora’s breath caught. “Me?”

Margery stopped pacing. “He asked if you were… ready.”

The word echoed.

Ready.

Flora’s thoughts scrambled for meaning.

Ready to help more? Ready to behave better?

Ready to—

“For what?” Flora asked, her voice barely audible.

Margery hesitated too long.

Flora’s hands began to shake.

“I don’t want you frightened,” Margery said.

“But I don’t want you unprepared either.”

Flora stood slowly. Her knees felt weak.

“Mama, please.”

Margery finally met her eyes. There was fear there—raw and unguarded.

“He’s talking about arrangements,” Margery said.

The room tilted.

Flora clutched the back of the chair to steady herself. “Arrangements?”

Margery nodded once. “Nothing has been decided. Not yet. But when your father starts using that word, it means he’s already thought it through.”

Flora’s mind went blank. Her heartbeat roared in her ears.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Margery crossed the room and cupped Flora’s face. Her hands trembled. “You don’t have to,” she said. “Not yet.”

“But—” Flora began.

Margery shook her head. “Listen to me. You must be careful. More than ever. Don’t argue. Don’t resist. Don’t give him a reason to look too closely.”

Flora nodded automatically, tears blurring her vision. “I won’t.”

Margery pressed her forehead to Flora’s. “I should have protected you better.”

Flora shook her head. “You did. You do.”

Margery pulled back, studying her daughter—too compliant, too gentle, too easy to claim.

“You’re not like Cambilly,” Margery said softly.

“You don’t fight.”

Flora managed a small smile. “Fighting hurts.”

Margery’s eyes filled.

“Yes,” she said. “It does.”

They stood there for a moment longer before footsteps sounded down the hall.

Margery stepped back instantly, her face shuttering.

“Go,” she whispered. “Back to your room.”

Flora obeyed.

She climbed into bed staring at the ceiling.

The word arrangements echoed over and over again, reshaping itself into something sharp and terrifying.

Then.

"He's going to sell you." mixed in those echo.

For the first time, obedience did not feel like safety.

It felt like a trap.

And somewhere deep inside her—quiet, frightened, but alive—something began to plan.