A Window To Escape
Lilia perched on the window ledge, her golden-brown eyes fixed downward as she calculated the risk of the fall. Would it break her bones, leave her battered with bruises, or—if luck was on her side—let her escape with little more than an ache?
The cool night air kissed her face, its crispness a stark contrast to the suffocating heat that had gripped her since she stepped into the oppressively grand ballroom earlier that evening.
Her grip on the ledge tightened as a shiver ran through her. Just moments ago, before climbing onto the precarious perch, she'd felt the unsettling weight of being watched. It had been brief—a flicker of awareness that vanished just as quickly as it came—but it left her uneasy. She had dismissed it as a trick of her restless mind.
The ballroom had been too much—too many faces, too many stares that seemed to pierce her skin, and too much noise that drowned her thoughts. It was as though the walls themselves had been closing in, forcing her to make an excuse.
But she hadn't gone to the washroom.
Her heels had clicked against the polished marble as she wandered the labyrinthine halls, her only thought to escape. She searched for air, for quiet, for anything that would take away the oppressive weight crushing her chest. When she reached the large double doors leading to the staircase and the garden beyond, she had been met with an infuriating sight. Locked.
Why would anyone lock doors during a gathering? Frustration bubbled up, her knuckles brushing the smooth surface of the door as if willing it to open. It had been open earlier. She was certain of it. Her fingers trailed along the handles, but it was no use.
Wasn't this the same door her mother had dragged her through earlier to deliver that glamorous slap?
Her eyes had drifted to the window, and a reckless plan began to form in her mind. It wasn't ideal—it wasn't even sensible—but it was her only option.
It wasn't that she wanted to escape the event itself, she reasoned. It was the suffocation she couldn't bear, the stifling heat of too many bodies and too many expectations pressing down on her. Yet, if anyone were to see her now, perched on a ledge with her dress billowing in the soft night breeze, she wouldn't blame them for assuming she was trying to flee entirely.
Her fingers fumbled as she slipped off one of her heels, the sleek shoe glinting faintly in the moonlight. She leaned forward, heart pounding, and dropped it. A muffled thud reached her ears seconds later, muffled but reassuring. It wasn't that far.
But was it far enough to break something?
Lilia swallowed hard, glancing down at her second heel. She tossed it after the first, watching as it landed a little farther away. The rhythmic thud of its impact settled some of her nerves. If her shoes survived the fall, surely she could, too.
She reached up, twisting her hair into a loose knot, securing it with a strand she expertly twisted together. Her fingers moved with practiced precision, a skill honed out of boredom but proving unexpectedly useful now. Once done, she hesitated, her gaze dropping to the grass below.
It looked soft, even inviting, but doubt gnawed at her. The edge of her mind whispered of twisted ankles, broken bones, and a thousand other ways this could go wrong.
"Stop overthinking," she muttered to herself. Her voice, soft but firm, cut through the stillness. "You can do this, Lilia. Just land on your feet, and everything will be fine."
She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as she steeled her nerves. For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the night holding its breath as she prepared to leap.
Then, with a final push of courage, she let go.
The rush of air stole the breath from her lungs, a fleeting sense of freedom washing over her as she plummeted. Time slowed, her heartbeat thundering in her ears until—
DUN.
Pain jolted through her body as she hit the ground, her legs giving way and sending her sprawling. The grass cushioned her fall, but not nearly as much as she'd hoped. She landed squarely on her backside, her vision momentarily blurred from the impact.
"Ouch," she hissed through gritted teeth, rolling onto her side as the sting in her lower back radiated outward. Her hands instinctively brushed at her dress, bits of grass and dirt clinging stubbornly to the fabric.
She sat up, wincing as she adjusted her posture. The indignity of it all stung more than the fall itself. A quick glance confirmed that her heels had scattered—one lying awkwardly near the far end of the garden.
Great Now she looked less like a guest at a grand ball and more like someone assigned to clean up after it.
With a soft groan, she got to her feet, her hands sweeping over her dress in a futile attempt to restore some semblance of dignity. The cool night air kissed her flushed cheeks as she made her way toward her heels, muttering under her breath about her poor decision-making.
But as she bent to retrieve the first shoe, a strange sensation prickled at her skin.
She froze.
The silence around her suddenly felt heavy, oppressive even, as though the air itself had thickened. She straightened slowly, her breath hitching, and turned.
Someone was watching her.
Her heart lurched as her gaze settled on a figure standing just a few feet away.
It was him.
The silver-haired man.
His presence was as sudden as it was unnerving. She hadn't heard footsteps, hadn't seen movement, yet here he was, as though he had materialized from the shadows. His mask obscured much of his face, but his aura was unmistakable—commanding, suffocating, and cold.
Even in the dim light, the glint of his polished shoes and the impeccable cut of his tailored suit were impossible to miss. He stood still, watching her with an intensity that made her want to shrink away.
How had he approached so silently?
Her cheeks burned as realization dawned on her.
He had seen her—seen her tumble gracelessly onto the ground, clutching her backside like a fool. The memory of rolling on the grass, flailing for balance, made her stomach twist.
Oh, no.
Her mortification deepened as his dark, piercing eyes locked onto hers, holding her in place. Her thoughts spiraled, embarrassment warring with anger.
"You could have just used the stairs," he said, his voice low and cutting.
The words were simple, yet they sliced through her. Her gaze darted toward the double doors. They stood ajar now, the very same doors that had been locked moments ago.
She blinked, her lips parting in disbelief. Had they been unlocked this entire time? Or—
A laugh bubbled up, sharp and tinged with hysteria, but she stifled it quickly. "I just… love windows," she blurted out, her voice uneven.
The words hung in the air, awkward and absurd. She winced inwardly. Why had she said that? And why did her lies always sound so ridiculous?
"Who doesn't?" she added, forcing a laugh that sounded even more unconvincing than her excuse.
The silver-haired man didn't respond immediately. His gaze bore into her, unflinching and unreadable. She couldn't tell whether he was amused, irritated, or merely indifferent.
Her memory flashed back to the ball, to the moment she had pointed at him like a child singling out a stranger. Embarrassment surged anew, her cheeks flushing deeper.
"I'm sorry if you're here because I pointed at you earlier," she stammered, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I—I don't know why I did that. I just wanted to escape—"
"Escape, huh?" he interrupted, his tone colder than the night air.
Lilia stiffened, his words striking a nerve. His dark eyes, piercing and enigmatic, seemed to see right through her, stripping away her defenses.
"I wasn't—" she began, but the sharpness of his gaze silenced her.
"Killing yourself is not a great escape," he said, his voice devoid of emotion as his eyes flicked to the window behind her.
The accusation made her blood run cold. Anger flared within her, hot and immediate, hardening her expression.
"Mr. Silver," she said, her voice steady despite the indignation bubbling beneath the surface. "I wasn't trying to kill myself. The door was locked, and I needed fresh air, so I used the window."
As the words left her mouth, she regretted them. They sounded absurd, almost laughable.
A heavy silence stretched between them, unbroken until he chuckled. The sound was low and dark, devoid of warmth.
"Mr. Silver," he repeated, as though testing the name. His displeasure was evident, radiating from him in waves.
Lilia's gaze sharpened. She wouldn't let him intimidate her. Lifting her chin, she met his eyes with defiance. "Anyone who doesn't know your name would call you that," a hint of challenge in her voice.
'Because you have silver hair,' she thought to herself.
She knew she was digging her grave. This man screamed danger, but for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint, her body was acting more decisively than her mind. Her senses screamed at her to be cautious, to retreat, but she was rooted to the spot.
Her bravado wavered, however, as he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking with each measured movement. She instinctively retreated, her back brushing against the wall behind her.
"But you know my name, Loris."
Loris again?
Did this man take some sort of pleasure in getting under her skin? He had said this name earlier—had said it with an unsettling familiarity.
He leaned in, his fingers grazing her chin. The brief contact sent a jolt through her, Her breath caught in her throat, and she hated how her body reacted to him. It felt as if her instincts were betraying her.
"Be careful what that pretty mouth of yours says, parrot," he murmured, his voice low and deliberate.
"Parrot?" she repeated, her brows knitting together in confusion. Irritation simmered beneath the surface. He had called her Loris earlier and now he was calling her parrot.
What was wrong with this proud man?
"Yes. You talk too much," he said curtly, his tone as sharp as his gaze.
The words stung more than they should have. Lilia's eyes narrowed, her indignation flaring again. But before she could respond, she noticed the faintest flicker of displeasure cross his face as he moved to touch her again. She unconsciously flinched away from him.
It was obvious he saw the slap mark her mother had designed on her earlier.
Why had she thought he was going to hit her? He wasn't her parents, after all.
Her reaction had been instinctive, a remnant of fears she didn't want to acknowledge. But his expression darkened, his sharp features etched with something unspoken—something she couldn't quite decipher. The tension between them was palpable, thick with unsaid words.
Just as the air grew too thick to breathe, a voice broke through the silence.
"Lilia."
She turned sharply, her heart racing, recognizing the voice as Sabrina's. Her sister's tone was sharp, tinged with annoyance.
But when she glanced back toward the silver-haired man, he was gone.
Vanished.
Her breath hitched as she scanned the garden, her mind racing. How could he disappear so quickly? Was he even real?
And why, despite the lingering anger and confusion, did a small part of her miss his presence?