Glass and Poison
1124 Words
Ethan awakened in a sterile, high-tech medical suite. The lighting above was dim, the air tinged with antiseptic. He flinched at the scent, already knowing where he was.
This was the place his parents had left him.
Whatever they had used to recover his memories—it worked. He remembered who he was. He remembered Celeste.
But Lyra? Just a flicker of warmth he couldn’t place.
He had been born Ethan Vale, the only child of a powerful political dynasty. Legacy, pressure, and expectation had shaped him from the start. Groomed for diplomacy, not war. Yet he had always been drawn to the shadows—intelligence, strategy, secrets.
When he came of age, he was recruited into a covert division tied to the Viremont clan’s rivals. He hadn’t known their true identity then. His involvement was hidden from the Vale family.
Then came the engagement to Celeste.
He wasn’t blind to who she was or what she wanted. The daughter of a biotech magnate, an only child like him. Their union was strategic—meant to merge empires, not hearts.
Ethan saw her as an ally. He admired her intellect, respected her ambition. But it was never love.
Celeste, however, had her own designs. She wanted more than an alliance. She wanted control.
Ethan knew. He said nothing.
Weeks before the engagement party, strange symptoms began. Memory gaps. Tremors. Heat in his blood. It started with dizzy spells. The doctors found nothing.
Celeste called it stress.
Then came the collapse. He remembered that night vividly—Celeste standing over him, calm, composed, holding a glass of wine.
He suspected the poison was slow-acting. Designed not to kill, but to erode him from the inside. They hadn’t meant to end him. Not yet.
An older man in a snow-white suit and scrubs approached him. Dr. Hoo, the lead medical expert. He explained that Ethan had suffered a neurological collapse.
Not long after, Celeste entered the room.
Radiant. Composed. As if nothing had happened.
She spoke of their future. Of wedding plans. Of recovery.
Ethan smiled.
Inside, he was unraveling.
He didn’t trust her. He never had. He didn’t trust anyone. Not even himself.
While he was unconscious, he had dreamed of a woman with silver in her eyes.
He didn’t know her name.
But he remembered Celeste’s final words before leaving the suite.
“You’re safe now,” she whispered.
Ethan knew better.
Safety was a lie.
………………………………………………………………………….
Ethan forced his eyes open, lying awake in the medical suite long after Celeste had left. Her final words echoed in his mind.
You’re safe now.
He had rejected the idea the moment she said it. But something wasn’t right.
Sitting up slowly, he reached for the tablet on the side table. His medical file was already loaded. The entries were fragmented—missing pages, vague terminology, redacted lines stitched together with clinical jargon.
He scrolled to the earliest note. The timeline was wrong. The date didn’t match what he remembered.
A chill crept down his spine.
He tapped into the encrypted archive linked to his covert division, using old credentials he hadn’t touched in years. It was risky, but necessary.
Most files were locked. One fragment remained—public, overlooked.
Buried in a diagnostic log:
Subject: E.V.
Status: Neurological destabilization consistent with Phase I exposure.
Project Viremont active.
The name echoed in his mind like a warning.
Project Viremont.
He didn’t know what it meant. But it wasn’t random. It was connected—to him, to the poison, to something deeper.
He needed a second opinion. Not from anyone in this suite, where his movements were monitored.
Ethan dressed quietly and left under the guise of a routine checkup. No one stopped him. Celeste had instructed the staff to treat him delicately—like glass. Fragile. Precious. Untouchable.
He pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed a number he hadn’t used in years. No questions. Just commands.
Within minutes, a private car arrived and took him to a discreet laboratory he had once trusted during covert operations. The technician recognized him—barely—but agreed to run a full toxicology scan without hesitation.
Ethan sat in silence as blood filled the vial.
The technician glanced at the sample, then at Ethan.
“If what you suspect is true,” he said quietly, “you’re not just poisoned. You’re being rewritten.”
Ethan didn’t respond.
He watched the vial disappear into the machine.
“The results will be ready in three days,” the technician said before leaving. “Come back for them.”
Ethan nodded once. The car was waiting outside.
Again—no questions. Just commands.
………………………………………………………………………….
Days later, Celeste returned.
She moved like silk—radiant, composed, her heels barely audible against the polished floor. In her hands, a small box wrapped in navy velvet.
She placed it gently on the table beside his bed.
“I thought you’d like this,” she said. “It’s the watch your father wore during his final campaign. I had it restored.”
Ethan didn’t reach for it. He watched her, eyes unreadable.
She smiled. “You’ve been through so much, Ethan. Let me carry the weight for a while. That’s what partners do.”
He said nothing.
Celeste sat beside him, crossing her legs with practiced grace.
“The doctors say your recovery is miraculous. I told them you’d bounce back. You always do.”
Ethan’s fingers curled around the blanket.
“I’ve been thinking,” she continued. “Maybe we postpone the engagement party. Just until you’re fully yourself again. Stronger. Sharper.”
He turned his head slightly. “You think I’m not myself?”
She leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’re almost ready.”
His breath slowed.
“Remember the lake house?” she said. “You told me it was the first time you felt peace. I still have the photo.”
Ethan blinked. He didn’t remember the lake house.
Celeste reached into her purse and pulled out a slim folder.
“The board approved the merger. All that’s left is your signature. I told them you’d be ready.”
She handed it to him. He placed it beside the watch without opening it.
Celeste stood, smoothing her dress.
“You’re lucky. Most people wouldn’t survive what you did. But you’re not most people, are you?”
She leaned down, kissed his forehead, and whispered again:
“You’re safe now.”
Ethan didn’t move.
He waited until she was gone, then reached beneath his pillow.
The toxicology report was sealed. He opened it.
At the bottom, one name was stamped in bold.
Authorized by: C. Moreau
She hadn’t just poisoned him.
She had engineered him.
- Writer
