Chapter Four : THE HOUSE OF GLASS
1244 Words
We need to talk.
Four words.
That was all Dad had sent, but the message turned my blood to ice.
The gates slid open in front of us, slow and silent. Beyond them, the long drive curved through clipped hedges and rain-dark trees toward the house. Our house. Three stories of white stone and black-framed windows, lit warm against the storm like it had never known fear.
For one stupid second, I considered opening the car door and running.
Not home. Anywhere else.
I could disappear into the rain, cut through the trees, find a bus stop, borrow a stranger’s phone, sleep somewhere that did not smell like lemon polish and expensive lies. I could keep moving until Dad’s voice could not reach me.
The thought lasted exactly one breath.
Then I pictured Mom.
She would be inside already, probably arranging flowers that did not need arranging. She would smooth down the front of her blouse, make sure every glass was spotless, and smile at Dad’s associates as if the house were not built around her like a cage.
I could not leave her there alone.
Not because she was weak. Mom was not weak.
But she had become quiet in ways that frightened me.
She used to sing while she cooked. She used to laugh so hard at old sitcoms that she had to wipe tears from her eyes. Now she moved through the house softly, carefully, like one wrong sound might break something.
Some days, I wondered whether Dad had worn her down one perfect little rule at a time.
The SUV stopped beneath the covered entrance.
Rain chased down the windows in silver lines. Malcolm got out first, then opened my door.
Cold air slapped my face.
I did not move.
Damon leaned slightly toward me from the other side of the seat. “You do not have to face him alone.”
I gave a small, humorless laugh. “You are literally here because he invited you.”
“That does not mean I am on his side.”
The words should have comforted me.
Instead, they made me nervous.
Nobody crossed Dad unless they wanted something, feared nothing, or did not understand who he was. Damon did not look confused, and fear did not seem to live anywhere in him.
I gripped my backpack strap and stepped out of the SUV.
The rain had softened to a steady mist, but it was enough to soak through my cardigan as I hurried toward the front door. My curls stuck to my cheeks. Water slid down the back of my neck. I must have looked ridiculous.
Dad would hate that.
His daughter arriving late, wet, and visibly shaken while important people sat inside.
Perfect.
Behind me, I heard a car door close.
I did not look back.
The front porch had three shallow steps, each one polished enough to shine beneath the outdoor lights. I climbed them on unsteady legs, my lungs tight from panic rather than running.
My hand hovered over the copper handle.
I knew what waited on the other side.
Dad’s smile, if his guests were watching.
Dad’s anger, when they were not.
The difference between them had never made me feel safer.
My body remembered everything before my mind could argue. The way he shut his office door when he wanted privacy. The soft click of the lock. The way Mom always found a reason to be in another room when his voice went quiet. Silence was never peace in our house. It was the moment before someone decided what I deserved.
I learned that lesson far too early.
Nothing I did ever seemed to change it then.
The door opened before I could touch it.
Mom stood there in a pale blue dress, her chestnut hair pinned into its usual neat twist. She looked beautiful, as always. Too beautiful for someone whose eyes had gone so tired.
Her gaze moved over my wet clothes, then flicked quickly toward the living room.
“Arielle,” she whispered. “What happened?”
“I was kept after school.”
Her mouth tightened. “Your father knows.”
Of course he did.
“I know.”
For one second, her hand lifted like she wanted to touch my face. Then footsteps sounded from inside, and she dropped it.
“Come in,” she said quietly.
The foyer was warm enough to make steam rise from my sleeves. The familiar scent of polished wood, lilies, and dinner drifted through the air. Everything was spotless. Everything was in its place.
That was how Dad liked the house.
Beautiful from a distance.
Breathless up close.
I stepped inside.
The living room sat just beyond the open archway, arranged for appearances instead of comfort. Cream sofas. Dark marble fireplace. A wall of glass overlooking the gardens. Dad was seated at the center of it all with three men in tailored suits across from him.
A tumbler rested in his hand.
Amber whiskey glowed against the firelight.
The second I saw it, my stomach dropped.
Dad only drank when he wanted the night to last.
He turned slowly at the sound of the door.
For a moment, I saw only the back of his dark head and the straight line of his shoulders. Then he faced me, and his expression formed itself into something pleasant.
“Arielle,” he said.
My name sounded almost affectionate.
That was worse.
The three men glanced at me with polite curiosity. One was older, silver-haired, with a politician’s smile. Another was younger and nervous-looking, clutching a leather folder to his chest. The third had a thin scar along his jaw and eyes that never stopped moving.
Dad stood.
“Gentlemen, this is my daughter.”
I forced my body to work. “Hello.”
The older man smiled. “Rafael has told us so much about you.”
I doubted that.
Dad came closer and kissed the top of my head. His lips barely touched my hair. To anyone watching, it would look tender.
His fingers settled at the base of my neck.
Not hard.
Not yet.
“You are late,” he murmured.
My pulse jumped.
“I’m sorry.”
“You are soaked.”
“I got caught in the rain.”
Dad’s smile never moved. “Clearly.”
A presence stepped through the doorway behind me.
Every man in the room went still.
Damon entered without hurrying, rain darkening the shoulders of his black shirt. He looked entirely out of place in Dad’s carefully designed room, like a storm cloud had learned how to wear expensive clothes.
Dad’s hand left my neck.
“Ah,” he said, turning toward him. “Damon. I was beginning to think you had abandoned us.”
Damon’s gaze found mine before it went to Dad.
“I would not do that,” he said.
Something about the way he said it made the room colder.
Dad gestured toward the empty chair beside the fireplace. “Come. We have much to discuss.”
Damon did not move.
Instead, he looked at my wet clothes, then at the pale blue of Mom’s dress.
“Arielle needs to change,” he said.
The room went silent.
Dad’s smile sharpened at the edges.
“My daughter can speak for herself.”
Damon’s eyes turned gold.
Not from the firelight.
Not this time.
He looked at Dad and said, “Then ask her.”
- Writer
