HEIRS TO THE LIES

Lily Galloway stared at her reflection in the floor-length mirror, numb. The satin gown fit perfectly — cinched at the waist, a gentle sweep at the bottom, the ivory fabric glowing against her olive skin — but it felt like a costume. A lie. Her lips quivered. She didn’t cry, not because she didn’t want to, but because the tears had dried up days ago. Since she signed her life away to a man she barely knew. Aiden Blackwood. That name alone could shake empires — self-made billionaire, reclusive investor, and apparently, her soon-to-be husband. The marriage wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even about her. It was about leverage. A pawn exchange between two powerful men: her father, Denzel Galloway, and the cold stranger she was expected to call husband. Lily’s fingers clenched around the vanity edge, her knuckles turning pale. She could hear the muffled voices downstairs—staff scurrying, her father's sharp tone, the steady click of heels on the tile. The mansion buzzed with preparations for a celebration she wanted no part of. A knock. She didn’t answer. The door creaked open anyway, and in stepped Denzel, sharply dressed in a black suit, smelling of expensive cologne and control. “You’re not dressed.” “I’m wearing the dress,” she muttered, avoiding his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.” His voice was like ice on steel. “Fix your face.” Smile. We’ve come too far for your attitude to ruin this.” Lily swallowed hard. “He doesn’t even know me.” “He doesn’t need to. He just needs an heir.” The room stilled. Her father didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just said it like it was a contract to be signed and sealed. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why now? You ignored me my whole life.” Denzel turned away, adjusting his cufflinks with deliberate calm. “Because now, you have value.” Value. That was the last straw. An hour later, Lily stood outside a grimy bar on the outskirts of Brooklyn, her wedding dress stuffed into a trash bag in the backseat of a stolen cab. The cold bit through her borrowed hoodie, but the heat inside her chest kept her warm. She didn’t know what she was doing here. She didn’t care. Inside, the place reeked of sweat, beer, and bad decisions. Perfect. She ordered a shot of whiskey and took it in one gulp. Her throat burned, her eyes watered — but the weight on her chest lifted just a little. Then she saw him. Leaning against the bar, tall and lean, tousled brown hair and a leather jacket hanging off one shoulder like sin itself. He looked dangerous. And maybe that’s why she didn’t look away. He smirked as their eyes met. “Bad day?” Lily gave a breathy laugh. “You have no idea.” “Wanna talk about it?” “No.” “Wanna drink about it?” She paused. “Maybe.” They drank. They danced. They kissed. They left. And sometime between shot number five and the hotel room key, Lily forgot her last name and remembered what it felt like to be wanted — not for power, not for politics, not for inheritance. Just for a night. When the sun rose, golden and cruel, Lily slipped out of bed without looking back. Her heart was thudding, her hands shaking. No note. No goodbye. No plan. She was running again — only this time. She didn’t know if she was running from her father, or herself.