The Flawless Beast

Lily lowered her gaze to the doll again and yanked free another tuft of fake golden hair. “The soup hurts my stomach,” she murmured. “But Daddy likes it when I drink it.”

Nausea rolled through me so sharply I had to brace myself against the doorframe. The explanation arrived fully formed, monstrous and sickening. Julian was making her ill on purpose, preserving her frailty so he could perform grief-stricken fatherhood for anyone watching. And Victoria knew about it. Maybe she was imprisoned in the nightmare too.

“Lily,” I whispered, bending close enough to smell the faint sweetness of her shampoo. I kept my voice nearly soundless, afraid the walls themselves could be listening. “I can get you out. Tonight. I’ll call the police.”

She showed no relief. No fear, either. Her attention remained on the doll’s ruined scalp, on the bare plastic circle widening beneath her small fingers.

“You can’t leave,” she said calmly. “He locks everything when he makes the soup.”

For one second, I could not move. Then I was on my feet, crossing rapidly to the broad window overlooking the immaculate lawn and the driveway beyond it.

At the far edge of the estate, the wrought-iron gates stood shut. A red indicator glowed on the control housing beside them, steady and unmistakable.

The lockdown system was active. Julian had engaged it from the controls in his office. Cars could not pass through those gates. Neither could a person on foot.

My chest tightened until breathing hurt. “Then I need his keys,” I said, turning toward her. “Or the code to open the gate.”

Lily slowly shook her head and let the mutilated doll fall onto the carpet.

“You can’t,” she breathed. “He watches everything.”

Dinner turned into a nightmare I had to endure with my eyes open. I stood near the darkened wall of the dining room, gripping a heavy silver water pitcher while Julian occupied the head of the long mahogany table.

Victoria sat on his right. Her hands shook so badly that the crystal stemware clicked against her rings whenever she raised it. Lily sat to his left, motionless before a porcelain bowl filled with steaming broth the color of muddy water.

“Drink it, angel,” Julian said, almost tenderly. The pale metal of his ring flashed beneath the chandelier. “All of it. It will help you get better.”

Lily lifted her spoon. Her fingers quivered around the handle, yet she brought the dark liquid to her mouth exactly as he wanted. Her throat moved with the effort of swallowing, and one tear traveled down her colorless cheek.

Victoria squeezed her eyes closed and swallowed a large mouthful of red wine.

Julian smiled as he cut into his rare steak with neat, exact movements. “There you are,” he said. “Such a good girl, Lily.”

I could not simply run to the police with fear and instinct. Not against Julian Vance, not against the polished public image that would protect him unless I brought something undeniable. I needed evidence: the substance in that soup, records, anything that exposed the man hiding behind the devoted-father act.

Once dinner had ended, I waited only until the house settled into its usual strained quiet. Then I made my way through the dim carpeted corridor toward Julian’s private office.

Staff were forbidden from entering that room alone, but I knew the rhythms of the house. I knew Julian often failed to lock the office door after returning upstairs.

I closed my hand around the brass handle and pressed it down. It gave way without resistance. I slipped inside, easing the door shut behind me.

The room smelled of aged leather, polished wood, and costly scotch. Moonlight spilled through the French windows, giving the massive oak desk a cold gray outline. I did not dare risk the overhead lights.

The upper desk drawers were locked. I tried them all anyway, one after another, careful not to make even a small sound.

Then I crossed to the filing cabinets. The lowest drawer slid open beneath my fingers. Inside, I found a thick collection of manila folders marked with Lily’s name.

I pulled out the fullest file and opened it beneath the weak wash of moonlight. Medical paperwork filled it: specialist consultations, pediatric reports, neurological evaluations, page after page documenting stomach pain, exhaustion, bruising, and hair loss.

I turned through the records until a page dated the previous day stopped me cold. It was a draft email addressed to an exclusive Swiss facility offering long-term pediatric care.

Julian wrote that Lily’s health was declining fast. He claimed that, despite Victoria’s efforts, their home was no longer suitable or safe. He requested complete secrecy and stated that Lily would be moved to the facility’s closed psychiatric ward before the month ended.

Victoria, he wrote, had become uncooperative. He would personally manage the admission documents and transport Lily himself.

He was not merely poisoning her to gain sympathy. He meant to remove her from the country, hide her behind locked doors forever, and erase whatever proof remained once he had gone too far. But Victoria’s supposed resistance twisted through my thoughts. Was she trying to protect Lily after all?

The curved computer monitor on Julian’s desk abruptly sprang to life, flooding my face with a hard blue glare. I staggered back and let the medical file hit the desktop. I had not touched the mouse. I had not touched the keyboard.