The Glass
908 Words
Amara woke to a knock at her door. It was soft, but in the silence of the mansion, it echoed like thunder. She sat up quickly, her heart already racing before she even said a word.
The door creaked open, and a servant stepped in. He bowed slightly, his eyes never meeting hers. “Boss is waiting for you in the east wing,” he said, voice flat, like he had rehearsed it.
She frowned. “For what?”
The servant only repeated, “Boss is waiting.” Then he left.
Amara dressed quickly, pulling on the first gown she could find in the wardrobe. She didn’t like the idea of being summoned like a schoolchild, but she also knew ignoring Darius was not an option. She ran a brush through her hair, her hands shaking as she remembered his eyes the day before. That flicker. That hunger. She told herself she had imagined it, but even lies sounded more believable than the truth that tried to force itself into her mind.
The east wing of the mansion was different. The walls there were darker, lined with old portraits whose eyes seemed to follow her as she walked. The carpet muted her footsteps, yet she still felt as though the whole house could hear her moving.
At the end of the hall, the door stood open. Darius was inside.
He sat in a chair by the window, half in shadow. The sunlight cut across his face, sharp and deliberate. He didn’t move when she entered. His gaze, steady and unreadable, pinned her in place.
“You’re late,” he said.
Her lips tightened. “You gave no time.”
His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile, more like a reminder that he held the power here. “Sit.”
She sat, every nerve in her body alert.
On the table before him lay another file, but this time, he didn’t push it towards her. Instead, he lifted a glass in his hand. The liquid inside was dark, thicker than wine.
Amara’s stomach turned. “What is that?”
He looked at it for a long moment before answering. “Not something you need to understand yet.”
Her pulse quickened. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the glass. The color, the way it caught the light, the way his hand lingered on it like it was precious—it unsettled her.
He set it down carefully and leaned back. “Tell me, Amara. What would you do if you discovered your father was not the man you thought he was?”
She stiffened. “My father was innocent.”
“Maybe,” he said calmly. “Maybe not. What if he was guilty? What if the world was right about him?”
Her hands curled into fists. “Then why am I here? Why drag me into this if you believe the lies about him?”
His eyes flickered, that same dangerous glint she had seen at the dining table. “Because truth and lies are rarely separate. They mix. They twist. They become what we need them to be.”
She leaned forward. “And what do you need them to be, Darius?”
For a moment, he said nothing, then he smiled faintly. It was not warm. It was the kind of smile that hid knives. “Useful.”
The air grew heavy. Amara’s throat went dry. She wanted to shout at him, to accuse him, but something in his expression stopped her. There was a weight there, an age, like he had lived long enough to see innocence crushed again and again.
She shivered.
Darius finally stood, moving to the window. His posture was calm, but there was something unnatural in the way the light seemed to bend around him. He turned slightly, his gaze sliding back to her. “You should not wander at night. There are things in this house you are not ready to see.”
Her skin prickled. “Like what?”
He didn’t answer. He only picked up the glass again and lifted it to his lips. He drank slowly, every swallow deliberate. A thin line of red clung to the rim of the glass.
Amara stared, her heart pounding against her ribs. She opened her mouth to ask, but the words stuck. She didn’t want to hear his answer.
When he finished, he placed the glass down with quiet finality. His eyes met hers, dark and steady.
“Some truths,” he said softly, “will change you forever. Be certain you want them before you start asking questions.”
She pushed back her chair, unable to sit any longer. “I’m not afraid of you.”
His smile deepened, cold and dangerous. “Not yet.”
The silence that followed was sharp as a blade.
When Amara finally left the room, her hands were trembling. She didn’t know if it was anger, fear, or both. But one thing was certain the man she was forced to marry was not just dangerous. He was something else, something she was not ready to name.
That night, the whispers returned. Louder this time, echoing through the halls, followed by a sound that made her blood run cold. Footsteps outside her door, slow and deliberate, stopping just at the threshold.
She held her breath, frozen in place, until they moved on.
But deep down, she knew they would come back.
- Writer
