In love with the Mercer boys

Chapter Five: Splinters in Glass

By the time Elara carried the last stack of folded napkins into the dining hall, the Mercer family was already gathered around the long polished table. Morning light poured in through arched windows that climbed almost to the ceiling, spilling gold across the gleaming wood. The room smelled of roasted coffee and buttered croissants, of luxury baked fresh and served on silver platters.

Her sneakers barely whispered against the tiled floor as she moved along the wall, invisible as she’d trained herself to be.

The Mercers did not start their mornings small. Crystal pitchers of juice, steaming baskets of bread, platters of fruit arranged like art. Even the eggs on Mr. Mercer’s plate looked sculpted, perfectly soft in their hollandaise sheen. The sight made Elara’s stomach coil with a hunger she ignored. She’d eaten a dry granola bar on the bus this morning. It hadn’t been enough.

At the head of the table sat Mr. Mercer. Even at breakfast, he looked like he was headed into a boardroom. Sharp navy suit, silk tie, silver watch that probably cost more than her mother’s yearly hospital bills. He cut into his food with military precision, as though everything,even eggs were a meeting to control.

Beside him sat Mrs. Mercer, elegant in a pale silk blouse, her dark hair pinned in a flawless twist. She had a kind of effortlessness Elara couldn’t imagine achieving, not in a thousand years. Even her posture was a kind of wealth, shoulders straight, fingers delicate around the rim of her teacup.

Across from them sat Liam. He was in a neatly ironed T-shirt and joggers, his blond-brown hair sticking up like he’d barely rolled out of bed. He slouched in his chair with a coffee mug balanced in one hand. The shadows under his eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept, though his scowl suggested maybe he just didn’t care.

The contrast between father and son was so stark it made Elara’s chest ache.

She tried to focus on arranging napkins on the sideboard, but Mrs. Mercer’s voice cut across the gentle clink of cutlery.

“Ah! Elara, dear,” she said, gesturing gracefully toward the far end of the table. “Would you please see to that? Liam spilled his juice.”

Elara froze for a second, then hurried forward. A splash of orange had spread across the white linen tablecloth, glinting sticky under the light. A tipped glass sat accusingly at Liam’s place.

He didn’t move to help. Just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her with unreadable eyes as she dabbed carefully at the mess. His stare prickled across her skin, daring her to meet it. She didn’t.

“Careful with that cloth,” Mrs. Mercer said softly, her gaze flicking between Elara’s hands and her son’s restless posture. “The stain sets quickly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Elara murmured.

She bent over the spill, pressing hard, wishing her heartbeat wasn’t so loud. She told herself she was cloth and water only, hands and motions only, not a girl caught in a family’s orbit.

Mr. Mercer cleared his throat. The sound was sharp, commanding. Even the butler at the door straightened.

“I had a call from Cassian this morning.”

Elara’s hands slowed.

She had heard the name before, whispered in corridors or in the laundry room. Cassian Mercer, the eldest. The prodigy. The golden one.

“He’s coming back today,” Mr. Mercer continued, voice firm with approval. “The board was impressed with his expansion plan in Milan. That boy has vision, discipline. He knows how to lead.”

Mrs. Mercer’s lips curved in a small smile. “It will be good to have him home.”

Elara bent lower over the spill, heart thrumming. She could feel the weight of the name Cassian in the air, the way it tilted the room’s balance.

Mr. Mercer’s gaze shifted, locking squarely on Liam.

“You’d do well to pay attention to your brother’s example,” he said.

The words dropped like iron.

Liam didn’t move, but Elara felt the air shift tight around him.

“Cassian has a future in this family,” Mr. Mercer went on. “Real responsibility. He doesn’t waste his time chasing after football games and half-baked fantasies about academies. He builds, he creates.”

Elara’s fingers stilled on the cloth. A half-baked fantasy. She wanted to look up at Liam, but she kept her gaze fixed on the linen.

Liam lifted his mug and took a long sip, throat working, before setting it down with deliberate slowness.

“I’m not Cassian,” he muttered.

Mr. Mercer’s eyes hardened. “No. You’re not. And that’s the problem.”

The words stung Elara.

“Richard,” Mrs. Mercer said quickly, her voice smooth but edged, “Liam has his own path. You can’t expect both our sons to be identical.”

“His path,” Mr. Mercer snapped, “is a dead end. Sports burn out. Dreams of coaching are indulgences, not futures. This family was not built on indulgence.”

For a moment, Elara thought Liam might laugh. Or sneer. Or throw one of his reckless quips like a grenade into the room.

Instead, his chair scraped back violently. The sound jolted through her like lightning. He pushed to his feet, jaw clenched, eyes stormy.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” he said, low and tight.

“Sit down,” Mr. Mercer ordered.

But Liam was already moving. His plate clattered as he shoved it aside, yolk streaking gold across porcelain.

Mrs. Mercer stood halfway, her hand outstretched. “Liam…..”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t look at Elara either. He turned on his heel and strode out, the double doors shuddering as they slammed behind him.

The silence that followed was cavernous.

Elara pressed the cloth to the last stubborn ring of juice, pulse hammering in her ears. She wanted to vanish into the floor.

Mrs. Mercer sank back into her chair, exhaling softly. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her coffee cup.

“Darling!...,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Mr. Mercer resumed his meal with a decisive clink of fork against china, as though nothing had cracked, nothing had splintered.

“That boy,” he said coldly, “needs to grow up.”

Elara gathered the damp cloth, her throat tight. She slipped toward the service door, her sneakers silent.

She told herself she was only a maid. Only hands and motion. But as she passed through the archway, she couldn’t stop the thought that struck sharp as glass.

The Mercer family was a palace, glittering and proud. But beneath its light, she’d just seen the first fracture line.

By the time Elara carried the bucket and mopped out toward the rear courtyard, the air had already warmed into a sticky late-morning heaviness. The Mercer estate’s pool glittered at the center of manicured hedges and stone terraces, a turquoise slice of perfection against white marble. Sunlight fractured across its surface, dazzling and sharp, like the whole thing had been designed not for swimming but for showing off.

The instructions had been given to her by the head housekeeper. It was simple:clean the tile, sweep the wet footprints, and polish the steel railings. Don’t linger. Don’t intrude.

But the moment she stepped through the arched glass doors, she realized the job wouldn’t be simple at all.

Because Liam Mercer was already there.

He cut through the water in long, powerful strokes, head dipping and rising in steady rhythm. Each time he surfaced, droplets flew off his hair in arcs of silver, his body slicing forward with an efficiency that made it impossible to look away. He wasn’t floating or flailing like the boys at school did at summer parties,he was controlled, almost graceful, his movements honed like something he’d practiced for years.

Elara froze , clutching her mop handle too tight. Her first instinct was to retreat, to wait until he was gone. But she couldn’t. She had her orders, and disappearing would raise questions. So she set her jaw, rolled the mop bucket forward, and lowered her gaze to the tiles.

The silence pressed heavy. The only sounds were the steady splash of his arms breaking water, the low ripple as he turned, the hiss of the mop across stone.

She told herself not to look. Not even once.

But she did.

Stop staring. He’s just a boy. Just another spoiled Mercer who doesn’t care who he leaves in his wake.

The mantra helped for half a second until he flipped at the far end of the pool and surged back. His arms swept wide, his legs kicked, and for a brief moment his body seemed to hang above the water, droplets suspended around him like shattered glass.

She hated herself for noticing.

By the time he reached her side again, she had her head bowed, pretending to wrestle with the bucket. Her hands shook.

He didn’t speak.

Not a word.

He passed her, water churning, then was gone again, another lap claimed by silence.

Elara forced herself to breathe. The mop squeaked against the tile, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Every nerve in her body screamed at the contradiction wanting to shrink invisible while also being painfully aware that she was visible, that if he looked up he might catch her staring, might smirk the way he always did.

But he didn’t smirk. He didn’t even look.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because ignoring her meant she wasn’t even worth the effort of a barb. After all the mornings he’d followed her with quips and half-smiles, today she was nothing more than another piece of furniture in his family’s estate.

She told herself it was what she wanted. To be unseen. To be spared his games.

So why did her chest ache at the thought?

She pressed the mop harder into the tile, watching the clear water smear into streaks that evaporated under the heat. Her arms burned, her palms sore, but she kept going. Anything to distract herself from the rhythmic crash of him moving through water.

When she glanced up again, he was pulling himself out of the pool.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed.

Water sheeted down his skin, sliding off his shoulders, tracing the ridges of his abdomen before dripping onto the stone. His hair clung in damp strands to his forehead, eyes half-hidden under droplets. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his arms corded with tension from laps that hadn’t slowed him.

Elara’s throat tightened. Heat flushed her cheeks before she snapped her gaze away. She bent over her bucket, pretending to wring the mop, willing herself invisible.

Her mind betrayed her anyway. It cataloged the image in painful detail,the definition of his body, the sharp lines softened only by water, the quiet intensity that lingered in his expression. He looked less like the careless boy who smirked at her in corridors, and more like someone carrying fire under his skin.

The kind of fire his father had tried to stamp out over breakfast.

Elara gritted her teeth, scolding herself. Stop it. He’s arrogant. He’s cruel. He left his door open so you’d hear him with another girl.

She focused on the mop. The squeak, the drip, the drag.

Liam grabbed a towel from the lounge chair, raking it roughly through his hair. Still, he didn’t glance at her. Didn’t throw out one of his careless lines, didn’t even acknowledge her presence.

The silence weighed more than words.

She thought of the way he’d stormed out of the dining room. Of the way his father’s voice had cut him down, comparing him again and again to Cassian.

She wondered if

this silence was his shield. If the water was the only place he could drown the sound of his father’s disapproval.

But she wasn’t here to wonder. She was here to clean.