Chapter 2: Lillian’s Secret

Just then, the young woman pulled back the curtain to the back room and called out sweetly, "Eli, why haven’t you come out yet? I’ve already finished cleaning my skin."

Her voice was light as summer wind through Spanish moss, sweet and gentle, the kind you’d expect from a girl raised on sweet tea and Southern manners. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a college yearbook—intelligent eyes behind wire-rim glasses, neat auburn hair, freckles dusting her cheeks.

She looked like the kind of girl who still sent thank-you notes and called her grandma every Sunday.

There was an innocence to her, a softness that made you think of library afternoons and old novels. If you’d told me she volunteered at the animal shelter on weekends, I’d believe it. In Savannah, you meet a lot of beautiful people, but this girl had an old soul vibe, the kind that made you want to protect her.

The young hotshot’s cold gaze softened, a gentle smile curling his lips.

His whole demeanor changed—like a storm cloud parting for sunlight. He moved toward her with a careful tenderness, the kind that only shows when you think no one’s watching. It was unsettling, seeing someone switch faces so fast.

"Getting impatient? I’ll be right out. Good girl, go lie down."

He spoke to her like she was fragile porcelain, the words threaded with something possessive and indulgent. His accent slipped out—polished, but with a hint of old Savannah drawl. She nodded obediently, almost like she was used to being given orders.

I hurriedly tucked away the check, washed and sanitized my hands, and followed the young man, Eli Harrison, out.

My palms were sweating inside my gloves. In the hallway, Eli’s gaze drilled holes in my back, watchful as a hawk. The shop, usually filled with the low buzz of conversation or music, seemed to have fallen completely silent. Even the vintage neon sign in the window flickered, as if sensing the tension.

Ever since I took this job, Eli had stuck close to me, his gaze making my scalp tingle.

It felt like he was waiting for me to slip up, to miss a detail. There’s a kind of pressure that only comes from people who are used to getting exactly what they want. I tried to steady my breathing, forcing myself into the calm focus that had gotten me through thousands of tattoos before.