THE SWEET VENOM

Fractures in the Glass

Vivienne had barely slept. Her body had lain in bed, still as stone, but her mind refused the mercy of silence. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt Damien’s hand around her wrist, remembered the heat of his breath against her skin, the sharp cut of his words: Not yet.

Not yet.

It echoed through her like a prophecy.

By the time dawn slipped through the curtains, painting the room in pale streaks of gold, her chest ached from the weight of it all. She forced herself into motion—shower, robe, coffee—as though routine might scrub away the evidence of last night. But nothing dulled the guilt. Not even the bitter sting of black coffee on her tongue.

The sound of footsteps startled her. She turned, the mug trembling in her grip, only to find her brother in the doorway.

“Ethan?” she breathed, clutching the mug tighter.

He gave her a tired smile, running a hand through his dark hair. “Morning, Viv. Thought I’d swing by. You weren’t answering my calls yesterday.”

Her stomach dipped. She had silenced her phone deliberately—Adrian’s incessant messages, Damien’s silence. She hadn’t wanted the world pressing against her skin. Now Ethan stood in her kitchen, looking around like he belonged there, and in a way, he always had.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, forcing her voice into something steady. “I just… needed quiet.”

Ethan crossed the room, pulling a chair out at the counter. “Quiet? From Adrian, you mean?”

The name hit her like a slap. She looked away, fixing her eyes on the coffee machine. “Among other things.”

Ethan’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t speak right away, but she could feel his stare digging into her back. He had always been able to read her—ever since they were kids, when she’d tried and failed to hide scraped knees or broken hearts. That hadn’t changed. If anything, his instincts had only sharpened.

“Viv,” he said slowly, “if Adrian’s harassing you again, you need to tell me. I don’t care what he thinks he’s entitled to—you’re not his property.”

Her chest tightened. If only you knew. Adrian was a poison that never seemed to leave her system. But even his presence wasn’t the most dangerous truth right now. It was Damien. The very thought of her brother discovering what had almost happened last night sent a chill through her.

“I’m handling it,” she murmured, setting her mug down a little too quickly. Coffee sloshed over the rim, staining her hand. She hissed softly, reaching for a cloth.

Ethan moved before she could. He caught her wrist, dabbing at the spill with a napkin. His grip was firm but gentle, protective in a way that made her throat ache.

“You don’t look like you’re handling it,” he said quietly, studying her face.

Vivienne froze. The touch of his hand—steady, familiar—was too close to the memory of another hand that had gripped her last night. Damien’s hand. A rush of guilt swept through her, and she pulled away too fast, too sharply.

“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, the words harsher than she intended.

Ethan’s brows drew together, his expression hardening. “You don’t lie well, Viv.”

The words sliced deeper than she expected. She turned her back, pretending to rinse the cloth, willing her shoulders to still. She could almost hear Damien’s low voice behind her, taunting her with truths she wasn’t ready to admit. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it.

Vivienne closed her eyes, fighting the heat crawling up her neck. She had to bury it—bury Damien, bury Adrian, bury everything before Ethan dug it out of her.

But Ethan wasn’t letting go. “It’s not just Adrian, is it?” His tone had changed, softer but sharper, a blade wrapped in velvet. “Something else is eating at you. Someone.”

Her grip on the sink tightened until her knuckles ached. Images flickered in her mind: Damien’s smirk, Luca’s easy smile, the dangerous way both men had slipped past her walls. Ethan can’t know. He can’t ever know.

“You’re imagining things,” she said finally, her voice clipped.

He laughed, humourless. “Don’t insult me, Viv. You’ve been different. Edgy. Like you’re carrying a secret so heavy it’s breaking you.” He paused. “And if this has anything to do with one of my friends—”

Her heart stopped.

She turned sharply, her eyes wide before she could school her features. That split second of panic was all it took—Ethan saw it. His jaw clenched, his body going rigid as though the truth had already written itself across her silence.

“Vivienne,” he said slowly, dangerously. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. The kitchen felt suffocating, the walls pressing in. She wanted to deny it, to laugh it off, to twist the story into something harmless. But her body betrayed her—the tremor in her hands, the flicker in her eyes.

Ethan’s fists curled at his sides. “Which one?”

The question was a blade. Which one. As though he already knew it could only be Damien or Luca.

Her breath hitched. She couldn’t answer. Not without shattering everything.

Ethan stared at her, betrayal already burning in his gaze even without her confession. Then he shook his head, the scrape of his chair loud against the tile as he pushed back.

“You’d better pray I’m wrong,” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. Without another word, he strode out of the kitchen, the slam of the front door echoing through the house like a gunshot.

Vivienne’s knees gave out. She sank to the floor, her hands trembling against the cold tile.

The glass was fracturing. And soon, it would shatter.