Chapter 16 – The Price of Beauty
The morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows like a golden veil, warming the crisp air of the room. Lolita sat on the edge of her bed, her spine curved as if the weight of her thoughts had taken physical form. Her fingers nervously toyed with the hem of her silk nightgown, her eyes fixated on nothing and everything all at once.
She couldn't stop thinking about Clara. How did they get a picture of her sister in boarding school? And why did it feel like a warning more than a message? That picture wasn't just a photo—it was a message from Monica. A threat dressed in cruelty. Lolita clenched her jaw, rage simmering behind her sleepy eyes.
Monica. That name now tasted like acid.
"Who does she even think she is?" she muttered aloud to no one.
Just then, the door creaked open. "Loli... Oh Loli, you look horrible. Haven't you slept?" Matteo's little voice chimed with concern.
Lolita blinked out of her haze and looked down at the boy. His hair was tousled, his pajamas wrinkled, his concern genuine. Her lips curved into a weak smile. "Good morning, baby," she whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "No, I haven't really slept. I had a lot on my mind."
He nodded as if he understood the entire weight of her worries, then smiled brightly. "I love this new house, Loli. Are we going to stay here forever?"
She ruffled his curls gently. "Yes," she said softly, even though her heart whispered otherwise. Then, with a flick of her fingers, she cleaned the crusted sleep from his eyes. "Now go take your bath. I'll shower and make us breakfast, alright?"
"Okay!" he chirped, already darting off like a bolt of joy, leaving her alone again.
She dragged herself to the vanity mirror. Her reflection was brutal. Puffy eyes. Dry lips. Shadows under her lids like bruises of exhaustion. "You do look horrible," she said to herself with a bitter chuckle.
Stripping off her clothes, she made her way to the marble bathtub. It was sleek, luxurious, like something out of a wealthy oil heiress's home. The kind of luxury that came with a price no one could see upfront. She dipped in slowly, letting the water melt away her anxiety. It was the life she'd always dreamed of—but it felt like a gilded cage.
Before she knew it, she had dozed off.
Three hours passed. A soft voice tugged her from sleep.
"Loli? Loli..."
Matteo stood beside the tub, staring wide-eyed. Lolita jolted upright. "Oh my God. Sorry, baby!" she exclaimed, water splashing as she stood, completely naked.
"Noooo!" Matteo shrieked, covering his eyes and bolting out of the bathroom.
Lolita couldn't help but laugh—one of those rare, real laughs. Maybe it was the absurdity of the moment, or maybe it was the only release she had left.
After drying off and dressing in a clean beige dress, she tied her hair up in a messy bun. Then, barefoot, she headed to the kitchen. Today, she prepared boiled pounded yam with a rich, spicy Nigerian fisherman soup. Snails. Crayfish. A drizzle of palm oil. Then came roasted Bayelsa suya on the side—thinly sliced meat with peppered spices.
Matteo watched her cook like it was magic.
When the meal was done, they ate together at the long oak dining table, laughter bouncing between them. For a moment, the air smelled like home. After cleaning up—Matteo helping with the dishes—they headed to the garage.
"Are we not using the cars, Loli?" he asked, eyeing the shiny SUVs lined up.
"No, we're not," she said coolly, dialing for a cab.
"Is it because you don't know how to drive?" he asked, tilting his head.
She smirked but didn't answer.
The cab arrived—a beat-up green Toyota—and as it rolled to a stop, she leaned through the open window, her voice sharp and clear: "Take us to the city hospital. West wing " Her tone left no room for questions.
The ride was silent except for Matteo's humming.
At the hospital, they stepped into the stale, antiseptic air of Ward 7. Mrs. Bells was the first to greet her, brushing invisible lint off her coat. "Good morning, Lolita," she said politely.
Lolita simply nodded, her smile subtle and unreadable.
She walked to her mother's bedside. The nurses had bathed her and dressed her in the faded blue uniform of long-term patients. IV lines ran into her arm. Her lips were pale. She looked like a ghost, halfway between here and wherever sick people go when they're too tired to fight.
Lolita stood there in silence, her face unreadable, her thoughts a storm. She didn't speak to her mother, didn't cry. She just watched. Observed. And quietly made a vow.
Her phone vibrated.
Monica.
She picked up.
"Oh, did you like the little gift?" Monica's voice was icy silk. "I made sure we picked a safe area. Unless, of course, you're trying to get caught."
Lolita didn't reply. Her silence was a blade.
"I hope you understand what's at stake, darling."
Click.
Her blood was boiling, but she tucked the phone away like it meant nothing.
"Loli," Matteo called, tugging at her sleeve. "Can I go play with him?" He pointed to a boy in a wheelchair with a sweet face and bright blue eyes. He waved.
Lolita looked the boy over. Something about his presence felt peaceful.
"Go ahead," she said.
Matteo rushed over. She watched them laugh and wheel around the hallway. For a few minutes, she allowed herself to feel human.
When the day ended, they returned home just as the orange sky began to turn violet. She made a light dinner. A little music. A little peace.
But it wasn't until the next morning, when her phone buzzed again, that her breath caught.
"You are officially invited to join our firm as CEO Assistant. Kindly report at 10:00 a.m. sharp today."
Lolita stared at the screen.
She wasn't surprised. Not really. Everything in this game was pre-planned. Monica's web was intricate. This "job" was no favor—it was a leash.
She threw the phone aside and sat up in bed. The sheets tangled around her legs like vines. Matteo was still asleep beside her, snoring softly.
She looked around the luxurious room, at the gold-trimmed lamps, the marble floors, the velvet drapes.
She had everything she'd ever wanted.
Except freedom.
She rose from bed, like a queen returning to her war..