The Flawless Beast

My breath snagged painfully.

Victoria’s left arm made my stomach twist. Bruises covered nearly every inch: old ones gone yellow at the edges, newer stains blooming violet over them. At her wrist sat the same cruel circle I had seen on Lily, a band-shaped depression as though a heavy platinum ring had been pressed there with deliberate force.

“He loves us,” Victoria breathed. Her words fractured under the weight of some awful conviction. “He loves us enough to keep us perfect. And when we fail to be perfect... he corrects us.”

I had no room in my mind for what she was saying before the intercom mounted beside the laundry shelves erupted in a shrill electronic buzz.

Julian’s composed voice filled the cramped cement-walled room.

“Victoria, darling? Is Elena there with you? It’s almost time to get Lily’s dinner ready.”

Victoria dropped my arm as if my skin had scorched her. Her shoulders snapped back into place. She scrubbed at her damp cheeks with one hand and cleared her throat with exaggerated force.

When she pressed the button, her voice came out sunny and controlled. “Yes, Julian. I was only telling her to go easier on the fabric softener for your shirts.”

“Excellent. Please send her to the kitchen. Lily seems a little... drained tonight.”

The intercom clicked off. Victoria stared at me, and panic hardened her face until it looked carved from ice.

“Don’t touch the food,” she murmured. “And don’t let him see you watching.”

Then she fled the laundry room. The dryer droned behind me, and I stood alone, unable to escape the certainty that something monstrous lived under this roof.

I climbed the servants’ staircase toward the kitchen with my legs dragging beneath me. I needed to leave. I needed to throw my things into a bag, walk through the front entrance, and call the police before another minute passed.

But what could I possibly report? That a celebrated attorney had left bruises on his wife and eight-year-old daughter, bruises that could be dismissed as punishment or accidents? That he forced Lily to scrub the floor? Julian Vance had power, money, and friends who mattered.

He knew people in courtrooms. He knew the police chief. He could make me sound hysterical before anyone bothered to listen. He could accuse me of stealing, ruin me with a lawsuit, or find some uglier way to make me disappear.

And if I ran, who remained to watch over Lily? Who would be left for Victoria?

The enormous kitchen waited at the top of the stairs, gleaming under its recessed lights. Julian stood at the marble island without his jacket, the sleeves of his white shirt folded to his elbows. His bare forearms looked strong and spotless as he cut vegetables on a wooden board with a bright chef’s knife.

“Elena,” he said pleasantly, smiling without lifting his attention from the blade. “I’m preparing Lily a special soup. Her immune system has become remarkably weak. Even the physicians at the private clinic can’t account for it.”

Nausea rolled through me, hot and bitter. He was making her ill. He was standing there calmly creating whatever would hurt her next.

“That’s thoughtful, Mr. Vance,” I said, forcing my voice into the respectful tone he expected. “Would you like help with anything?”

“No.” He gave the answer gently. “I make every meal Lily eats myself. Looking after a sick child is a father’s responsibility.”

He placed the knife down and looked directly at me. Nothing in his eyes gave me an answer. “Go upstairs and bring her down. Tell her dinner will be in the formal dining room in ten minutes precisely.”

I lowered my gaze and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The instant I could turn away, I did. I left the kitchen quickly, then hurried up the wide staircase, my pulse crashing in my ears louder than the soft classical music drifting from hidden speakers.

Lily’s door waited at the distant end of the second-floor corridor. I knocked lightly against the thick white wood.

No voice answered.

I opened the brass handle and eased the door inward.

Her bedroom was enormous, washed in a pale pink so lifeless it felt clinical. Expensive toys crowded the shelves and floor, untouched enough to resemble a showroom rather than a child’s room. Lily sat in the middle of the plush rug with her back facing me.

The huge gray sweatshirt still swallowed her small body. She did not move at all.

“Lily?” I whispered as I stepped inside.

She gave me nothing.

I moved around her and lowered myself onto the rug until we were face-to-face.

A costly little fashion doll rested in her hands, its long blond hair tangled around her fingers. Lily was removing it one strand at a time, pulling each piece free from the doll’s scalp and arranging the loose hair beside her knee in a careful, tidy pile.

“Sweetheart,” I said softly, keeping my hand close but away from her. “Your father says it’s time to come downstairs for dinner.”

At the mention of her father, her fingers froze. Slowly, Lily raised her face toward mine. Her blue eyes were empty, stripped of the warmth and brightness a child should have carried.

“Daddy made soup,” she said in a dry, rasping whisper.

I nodded because I did not trust myself to do anything else. Her blank stare and those three words turned the fear inside me colder than ever.