Terms and Conditions

Chapter 2: The Glass Fortress

I sliced the apple exactly the way she used to—thin, even, perfect crescent moons. No core. No seeds.

The knife didn’t make a sound on the marble. Neither did I.

The espresso machine hummed like an apology I didn’t ask for.

Behind me, the city blinked in quiet patterns.

The cold shower hit harder than it needed to.

I let it. One minute. Two. No music. No steam.

Just water and skin and the white-tile silence of a life without witnesses.

The wardrobe was already laid out—black, gray, skin-toned silk.

No red. No lace. No questions.

The news notification lit up my phone.

"Calderon co-lead confirmed."

I turned it over, screen-down.

Not today.

Not before coffee. Not before control.

I spoke aloud—just once.

“Still breathing. That’s enough.”

But I didn’t believe it.

And the apple started to brown before I touched it.

Matilda’s hand didn’t shake as she poured the whiskey—two fingers, no ice.

The amber swirl caught the lamplight and lit up the edges of her old ring. She never looked down. She didn’t need to. Her body had done this a thousand times.

The television played in the background.

Muted. Always muted.

Selene’s face flickered on-screen—composed, sculpted, backlit like a statue.

Matilda leaned on the counter, sipping. Her lips didn’t twitch.

“She cuts like you used to,” her housekeeper said gently, stacking folded linens.

“She cuts cleaner,” Matilda replied.

The housekeeper paused. “You proud of her?”

Matilda didn’t blink. “Pride’s for people who expect less.”

The clip ended. The screen dimmed to black.

Matilda stared at her own reflection in the dark glass.

“She’s still holding her breath,” she murmured. “And she thinks no one notices.”

Then, under her breath, almost fondly—

“She’s wrong.”

The elevator opened, and the office held its breath.

Click. Click. Click.

My heels cut across the floor, slicing through small talk and coffee steam. Folders aligned themselves without hands. Screens minimized. Eyes lowered.

Nova tried to smile.

“Good morning, Ms. Warrick.”

“Is it?” I said, without slowing.

Her smile dropped before I passed her.

“Selene,” murmured Daryl from Strategy, stepping aside before I even reached him. “Files for Warrick-Calderon are updated.”

“I’ll decide if they’re up to date,” I replied.

The glass walls of my office gleamed like frozen water. I stepped inside, closed the door behind me, and the sound sealed off the world like a lid snapping shut.

The air inside was colder. Quieter. Mine.

I sat, slid the reports into place, and looked up—

Through the reflection, the entire office stared in silence.

Good.

Let them.

Order was the only thing I could still summon without shaking.

I reached for the frame without looking—same corner of the desk, same motion.

The silver edges were cool. Familiar. A bit of dust clung to the corner like it always did.

I wiped it with my sleeve.

"Still haven’t moved you," I said quietly. “Still can’t.”

Her smile stared back at me. Soft, unguarded. Unprofessional.

She wore yellow in the photo—too bright, too loud.

I touched the glass. “You smiled like you believed in me.”

The hum of the air conditioner filled the room. I waited for it to stop.

It didn’t.

I turned the frame face down and slid it behind the stack of reports.

“Not today,” I said, not sure who I was talking to.

Then louder, to the empty room, firm like an order: “Not here.”

The silence folded back into place like I’d never opened it.

And that was the point.

“…and then she said, ‘That’s not a briefcase, it’s a carry-on!’”

A burst of laughter followed. Bright. Too loud. Too unfiltered for 9:43 a.m.

I paused mid-sentence on a call. My hand hovered over the speakerphone.

I stood.

The hallway was lit like always—clinical and polished. But the moment my door opened, the sound died like a song someone forgot to finish.

Four heads turned.

One pen dropped.

I looked at no one. Not the girl holding her coffee. Not the intern with his mouth still half-open in a grin.

I didn’t speak.

I closed the door with the same pressure I used to sign contracts.

Back at my desk, I unmuted the call.

“Continue,” I said.

The other end fumbled. “Uh—yes, right, as I was saying…”

I didn’t need to raise my voice.

I just needed them to remember the silence.

“s**t, s**t, no—” Nova’s hands flew over the keyboard. “Get it together, Lane.”

The screen glared back: File Not Logged. Timestamp: 8:57 A.M.

Ten minutes past deadline.

She double-checked, then triple-checked. No error in sight—except hers.

She glanced toward Selene’s glass office. Door shut. Lights cold. No shadows moving inside.

Her finger hovered over the mouse.

“Should I just… go in?” she whispered.

No one answered.

The reflection of the corridor curved over the monitor, warped like water. She straightened her blazer, stood halfway.

Then sat back down.

She typed:

Subject: Logging Error – Sincere Apology

Message: Hi Ms. Warrick, I noticed…

She stared at the blinking cursor. Then hit send.

Her lips moved around one more whisper.

“She won’t even reply.”

But she still braced for impact.

Because Selene always noticed everything.

I stood outside the door. Same white paint. Same brass handle.

The hallway light didn’t reach this corner. I hadn’t replaced the bulb.

I touched the knob, just long enough to feel the chill of untouched metal.

The door creaked open.

Boxes. Sealed. Labeled in black marker—Books, Mom’s things, Bedroom – old.

Curtains drawn. Air stiff.

“Still here,” I murmured, stepping halfway in. “Of course you are.”

My eyes landed on the desk chair, still wrapped in plastic.

“You waiting for me to decide something?” I said quietly. “Not tonight.”

I stepped back. Slowly. Deliberately.

The door clicked shut. I locked it.

And just before turning away, I whispered, “Stay.”

Because if it ever opened for real…

I wouldn’t know who I was on the other side.

My assistant hovered by the door, tablet in hand, voice careful.

“Do you want me to reschedule your standing Thursday dinner with—?”

“No.”

She blinked. “It’s been six months, Ms. Warrick.”

I didn’t look at her.

“I know.”

She waited. Too long.

“Make the cancellation permanent.”

Her stylus tapped once against the screen, too loud in the silence.

“Understood.”

She turned to go, then paused. “Should I—”

“No follow-ups. No notes.”

She nodded and walked out.

The calendar alert stayed on my screen another few seconds before I dismissed it.

It didn’t beep again.

But the silence after… it sounded exactly like goodbye.

The screen flickered with Selene’s boardroom footage.

No audio—just her voice dancing across the subtitles, crisp and lethal.

Laz sat low in the leather couch, legs stretched out, whiskey untouched.

“She moves like someone being hunted,” he said.

The woman across from him—Marla, maybe Martha—tilted her head.

“Is that admiration or analysis?”

Laz didn’t blink. “Both.”

“She’s cold,” the woman muttered.

“No,” he said, still watching Selene gesture sharply in the video. “She’s cornered. There’s a difference.”

His grin came slowly. Not cruel. Just… patient.

“I’m not interested in her,” he said, draining the glass in one long sip.

“I’m interested in what happens when someone like her finally misses a step.”

The footage looped. Selene turned to camera—eyes unreadable.

And for the first time, Laz leaned forward.

I slid the latch and pushed. Nothing moved.

I exhaled, tried again—harder.

No sound. No give.

“Come on,” I muttered. “Just a little air.”

I pressed my palm flat against the windowpane. Cold. Untouched.

I leaned into it with both hands. Still nothing. Not even a creak.

I stepped back, eyes narrowing.

“You’re supposed to open,” I said, as if the glass might be listening. “That’s the whole point.”

The skyline glared back—steel and gold and unbothered.

I stood there a moment longer. Still. Watching.

Then turned the latch back, sealing it shut again.

I whispered toward the window, “It’s fine. I wasn’t planning on breathing anyway.”

And the glass, as always, said nothing.

Just held me in and kept everything else out.

The maid’s cloth moved in slow circles across the glass, soft and steady.

Outside, the city blurred in the morning haze. Inside, the windows were spotless—had been for days.

The cloth paused.

“Ma’am,” she said gently, “these don’t need wiping again.”

I didn’t turn around. Just sipped my coffee, watching the reflection instead of the view.

“I’ll decide what needs cleaning,” I said.

She nodded. “Of course.”

The cloth moved again. Fainter this time. As if afraid to be heard.

I stared at the ghost of my own reflection—perfect posture, unreadable face.

“They show everything,” I said.

The maid looked confused. “Pardon?”

“These windows. They show everything,” I repeated, more to myself than to her. “But never what matters.”

And still, I didn’t blink.

Nova stepped out of the copy room, arms full of printouts, eyes locked on the floor.

She didn’t see Eli until his voice slid across her shoulder.

“Careful.”

She flinched. One folder slipped.

He crouched, picked it up with two fingers, and handed it back like it weighed nothing.

“I—thank you, Mr. Grant,” she stammered, clutching the stack tighter.

He smiled. Not wide. Just enough to show teeth.

“Watch your back.”

“…Excuse me?”

He stepped past her, slow and smooth.

“People like you don’t survive long in glass towers.”

His shoes clicked down the hall before she could ask what he meant.

She stood there a beat longer—alone, eyes on the reflection of his back in the glass.

And for the first time, she wondered who was really watching whom.

The ceiling was so quiet it felt like it was watching me.

The digital clock blinked 3:11 AM in a red that pulsed like a warning.

I didn’t move. I just lay there, eyes wide, breath shallow, heartbeat slow enough to hear.

There wasn’t a single sound in the entire penthouse.

And somehow, it was deafening.

I stood, feet bare on the chilled marble. Walked into the kitchen like muscle memory was dragging me.

I opened the fridge.

Light spilled across the counter. Frosted bottles. Pre-sliced fruit. No smell. No hunger.

I stared at it like something inside might blink first.

The hum of the compressor whispered against the walls.

I closed the door halfway. Rested my forehead against it.

Then, softly—like I was afraid even the silence might shatter—I whispered,

“What if this was never safety… just control disguised as comfort?”

The fridge clicked shut.

And the light went out.