Make My Heart Believe a Lie

Chapter 10

✨Cracks In The Wall.✨

Flora Pov

Cambran came home on a Tuesday.

Flora knew before she heard the car. The house changed when he was near—like it braced itself differently. Trump’s footsteps slowed. Margery moved louder, less careful.

Even the air felt altered, stirred.

Flora stood at the window in her room, watching as Cambran climbed out of his truck. He looked older than the last time she’d seen him, broader in the shoulders, his jaw set in a way that made her think he’d learned how to say no and survive it.

The front door opened without ceremony.

“Father,” Cambran called.

Trump answered from the living room. “You’re early.”

“I finished the job.”

A pause. Flora imagined her father’s eyes narrowing.

“Come in here.”

Flora stepped back from the window. Her heart picked up speed.

Cambran’s voice followed—steady, unafraid.

“I already am.”

She heard the clink of a glass. The television muted.

Trump didn’t like that tone.

Flora sat on her bed, hands folded, listening.

“How long you staying?” Trump asked.

“Couple weeks.”

“That wasn’t the agreement.”

Cambran laughed quietly. “You didn’t ask.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

Flora pressed her palms into the mattress.

She waited for the explosion, the sound of furniture shifting, the familiar escalation. It didn’t come.

Instead, Trump spoke carefully. “You’re still living under my roof.”

Cambran’s reply came easily. “No. I’m visiting.”

Another pause.

Flora smiled before she could stop herself.

Later, she found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, drinking water straight from the bottle. He glanced up when she entered.

“There you are,” he said.

Her throat tightened. “Hi.”

He studied her for a moment too long. “You look thinner.”

She shrugged. “You look tired.”

“That’s because I am.” He capped the bottle.

“Where’s Cam?”

“In her room.”

“And Finn?”

“Probably hiding.”

Cambran nodded, as if that told him everything.

He lowered his voice. “Did he hit her again?”

Flora didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

"He hit you,?"

Flora lowered her eyes, that explained everything.

Cambran exhaled slowly through his nose. “I should’ve come sooner.”

Flora twisted the hem of her sweater. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

Cambran looked at her then, really looked. “It always matters.”

Trump’s voice cut through the moment.

“Cambran.”

Cambran straightened. “Yeah?”

“Don’t start filling their heads.”

Cambran didn’t turn around. “With what?”

“Bullshit ideas,” Trump snapped. “They’re fine.”

Cambran’s jaw flexed. “Flora, go check on

Finn.”

Flora hesitated.

“Please,” Cambran added.

She went.

Finn was in the hallway, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, a deck of cards spread messily in front of him.

“They’re gonna fight,” he said without looking up.

“Maybe,” Flora said, sitting beside him.

“They always do when Cambran’s here.”

Flora watched the cards. “Sometimes fighting is just… talking louder.”

Finn frowned. “Dad doesn’t like that.”

“No,” Flora agreed. “He doesn’t.”

A crash echoed from the living room—nothing broken, just a chair dragged back too hard.

Finn stiffened.

Flora put an arm around him.

They braced themselves but nothing.

Flora imagined a stand off.

That night, Cambran knocked on Flora’s wall.

He didn’t wait for permission.

“You still hiding books under your mattress?” he asked.

Her lips twitched. “yes.”

“Figures.” He leaned against the wall.

"But Father took them."

"I will get them back," he said.“You got money?”

Her pulse jumped.

“Don’t answer that,” he said quickly. “I don’t need to know. Here”

He slipped a few notes into her hand without looking at her.

Flora’s fingers closed around them at once, startled by the warmth of his touch and the weight of what he’d given. She said nothing. She only nodded and quickly tucked the money into the fold of her skirt, hiding it the way she hid everything else in that house.

She hugged her knees. “He watches everything.”

“I know.”

Flora stared at the floor. “Cam says not forever.”

Cambran nodded. “She’s right.”

“And you?” Flora asked quietly. “What do you think?”

Cambran met her eyes. “I think you’re smarter than you pretend. And I think you’re closer to

leaving than you realize.”

Her breath caught.

Trump’s footsteps sounded in the hall.

Cambran straightened immediately. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

After he left, Flora lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She wasn't allowed to visit Cambilly room.

But.

For the first time, the house didn’t feel like a closed system.

There was a crack now. Small. Dangerous.

But real.

Cambran found Floyd in the back corridor, the one that smelled like old wood and damp stone. Floyd was leaning against the wall, arms folded, posture easy in the way that meant he was already braced for a fight.

“You think this is normal?” Cambran asked, voice low but shaking. “You think any of this is?”

Floyd didn’t look at him. “Lower your voice.”

“No,” Cambran snapped. “I’m done lowering it. I’m done pretending I don’t see what you and father are doing to them.”

That got Floyd’s attention. He turned slowly, eyes cold, assessing. “Careful.”

“Careful?” Cambran laughed, bitter. “Flora can’t breathe in her own room without permission. Cambilly jumps every time footsteps pass her door. You call that care?”

“You don’t understand,” Floyd said. “This is how things stay in order.”

“Order?” Cambran stepped closer. “You mean control. You mean fear.”

Floyd’s jaw tightened. “You think the world out there is kind? You think it won’t chew them up and spit them out? Father is preparing them.”

“Preparing them for what?” Cambran demanded. “A life where they don’t get to choose? Where their bodies, their futures, are traded like property?”

Floyd’s voice dropped. “Watch your mouth when you talk about him.”

“I am talking about him,” Cambran shot back.

“And about you. Because you help him. You stand there, watching, enforcing his rules like they’re holy law.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

“They need discipline,” Floyd finally said.

“Especially Flora. You saw what happens when she gets ideas.”

“She gets hope,” Cambran said quietly.

“That’s what scares you.”

Floyd’s eyes flashed. “Hope makes people reckless.”

“No,” Cambran said. “Cruelty does.”

That struck something. Floyd’s hand clenched into a fist, then loosened. “You think I enjoy this?”

“Yes,” Cambran said without hesitation. “I think you enjoy being powerful when you were never powerful before.”

Floyd took a step forward, towering over him.

“Everything I do is to protect this family.”

“Then why do they look like prisoners?”

Cambran shot back. “Why does Flora flinch when Trump enters a room? Why does

Cambilly stop speaking halfway through a sentence like she’s afraid the wrong word will cost her something?”

Floyd looked away for half a second. Just half. But Cambran saw it.

“You don’t get to feel guilty and still do nothing,” Cambran said. “Pick one.”

Floyd’s voice hardened again, the wall snapping back into place. “You’re weak. That’s your problem. You feel too much.”

“And you feel nothing,” Cambran replied.

“That’s yours-”

Footsteps echoed somewhere in the house.

Floyd straightened, mask fully back on.

“This conversation never happened,” he said.

Cambran shook his head. “It already did. And one day, they’re going to remember who stood with them—and who stood in their way.”

Margery’s footsteps came before her voice.

“That’s enough.”

She stood at the end of the corridor, one hand resting lightly against the wall, her face calm but pale—too calm for a mother who hadn’t already sensed the storm brewing. Her eyes moved from Cambran to Floyd, taking them in, the tight shoulders, the clenched jaws, the air humming with words that had gone too far to be taken back.

“Step away from each other,” she said.

Neither moved.

Margery inhaled slowly, then walked forward and placed herself between them. She didn’t look up at Floyd at first. She faced Cambran, lifting a hand to his chest, pushing him back just enough to break the circle.

“Go,” she said softly. “Before this becomes something you can’t undo.”

Cambran hesitated. His eyes searched hers—pleading, furious, afraid. “Mother—”

“I know,” she cut in, barely above a whisper. “I know.”

That was all it took. Cambran swallowed, nodded once, and turned away, his footsteps sharp as he left the corridor.

Only then did Margery face Floyd.

“You,” she said, her voice changing. “Look at me.”

Floyd straightened instinctively, like a boy again. “He was being disrespectful.”

“No,” Margery replied. “He was being honest.”

Floyd’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t listen to him.”

“I listen to all my children,” she said. “Even when the truth makes this house uncomfortable.”

A shadow crossed his face. “You don’t understand what Father is trying to do.”

Margery stepped closer. Close enough that Floyd had to look down at her. “I understand more than you think,” she said quietly. “And less than I fear.”

Silence pressed in around them.

“They are afraid,” she continued. “Flora. Cambilly. Afraid in their own home. And if you think I haven’t noticed, then you have underestimated me.”

Floyd’s voice dropped. “Fear keeps them obedient.”

Margery’s eyes hardened. “Fear breaks people.”

She reached up and adjusted his collar, a mother’s gesture that felt heavier than any slap. “Whatever you and your father believe you are building,” she said, “it is rotting from the inside.”

Floyd pulled back slightly. “You’re choosing his side.”

“No,” Margery replied. “I am choosing my daughters.”

Footsteps sounded again—deeper, heavier, unmistakable.

Margery’s expression shifted, the softness returning like armor sliding back into place.

She turned just as Trump’s presence filled the corridor.

Floyd stepped back, position assumed.

Margery glanced once more at her son. Her voice was low, meant only for him.

“Decide who you want to be,” she said. “Because one day, they will remember.”

Then she turned away, walking toward her husband, leaving Floyd standing alone—caught between obedience and the first crack of doubt he had ever allowed to form.

Flora sat on the edge of her bed, her hands trembling as she traced the seam of her skirt. Her mind raced, heart hammering with an ardent, consuming desire to escape. She could almost taste freedom—air that didn’t carry her father’s shadow, streets where she could breathe without fear—but even imagining it made her chest tighten, fear clawing at her from every corner.

She closed her eyes, trying to quell the vehement surge inside her. No. Not tonight. Not again. She had failed before. Each attempt had left bruises—not just on her body, but on her pride, on her soul. The memory of her father’s calm fury, the cold weight of Floyd’s silent watch, and the two men now lurking outside the house pressed against her like iron.

And yet… the longing flared. A fervent, insistent flame. I can’t stay. She shook her head violently, as if shaking off the thought could make it vanish. But it didn’t. The idea of leaving, of running, was more intense than fear. More profound than the bruises. More consuming than the whispered commands that followed her wherever she went.

Her fingers itched toward the window latch. The cool metal would be a temporary comfort, a conduit to the world outside. She imagined the drop, the quiet street beyond, the freedom of a life that could be hers. And for a moment, she felt it—the surge of hope, fierce and ardent.

Her body froze. Her pulse slammed in her ears. She knew the cost. And still, the fire inside her refused to die.

She leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, and whispered to herself, “One more time… just one more time…”

And for the first time, she realized the battle was no longer against locks, or walls, or guards. It was against the fear inside her. Against the despair that wanted to chain her to this house. Against herself.

The night stretched long and silent around her. The world outside waited. And Flora, trembling and fierce all at once, fought the consuming, ardent war within her heart—between the terror of failure and the fervent, intense desire to try again.