THAT KIND OF LOVE

CHAPTER 6: GLASSES, SHATTERED HEART AND BREAKUP

MAYA

Bennett Family Dining Room, Upper West Side NYC. Mahogany table for twelve.

Only four of us sat. My mother’s floral wallpaper curled at the edges like she’d stopped caring years ago. Same year Alex stopped believing I’d stay.

The dining room felt like a coffin.

Crystal chandelier above us, too bright. White tablecloth too clean. The silence pressed against my ribs until I thought I’d choke.

“Maya, honey, are you okay?” Mom Celestine Bennett - Celestine with an ‘e’, not Celeste asked for the third time. She picked it from an old hymn book. Said it sounded “less common”.

I forced a smile. “We’re fine, Mom.”

Alex said nothing. He said “yes” when Dad asked. One word. Sharp. His knuckles were white around the fork.

Dad cleared his throat— Orson Bennett. Orson. He hated being called “Ors”. Said it sounded like a disease. He was all sharp jaw and sharper questions.

“So, Alex. Manhattan real estate, yes? What’s your take on the Q3 market dip?”

Alex set his fork down. Too precise. “It’s correcting. Overleveraged firms will bleed. We won’t.”

Concise. Cold. Like he was in a boardroom, not my childhood home.

My phone buzzed. Again. Same number. I’d cut it 4 times already.

Alex’s eyes flicked to it. Dark. Possessive. The look he gives me all the time when guys to talk to me. The look that said mine without saying it.

I silenced it. “Sorry. Spam call.”

“Must be important spam,” Alex murmured. Low enough only I heard.

I couldn’t breathe. The chandelier light felt like an interrogation lamp. Mom kept refilling water no one drank.

Dad kept asking about acquisitions like Alex wasn’t two seconds from snapping.

I stood. “Excuse me. Bathroom.” I said to no one in particular.

I didn’t wait for his answer.

My room was two doors down. Same pale blue walls. Same chipped paint by the door where Alex measured my height every summer until I was 17. I shut the door still heaving.

“Who was it?” he asked. Voice flat. Dangerous. He followed me like always.

“No one,” I said. Phone buzzed in my palm again.

He moved faster than thought. “Let me see.”

“Alex, don’t—”

He grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Not yet. But his thumb pressed into my pulse like he was counting my lies. “No one doesn’t call six times, Maya.”

“It’s Mark ,” I snapped. “Happy? He’s sending files.”

The word Mark broke something in him.

He yanked the phone from my hand. We struggled. My elbow hit the dresser. The phone slipped.

Crashed to the floor. Screen spiderwebbed.

And then it rang.

Through the cracked glass, one name lit up: Mark.

Alex stared at it. Then at me. Something shattered behind his eyes that had nothing to do with glass.

“You’re lying,” he whispered. Then louder: “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not—”

“You promised me,” he said. Voice breaking. “

“It’s just about the project—”

“Project?” He laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh. It was broken. He kicked the nightstand. The ceramic lamp I’d kept for 3?years tipped, then exploded on the floor.

Shards scattered across the rug.

The lamp he bought me when I was 19. Sophomore year. He flew in, no warning, and placed it on my desk. “For light,” he’d said. “When your ideas get dark.” It was handmade. Heavy. Blue glass. I’d loved it because he picked it. Because he remembered I hated fluorescent dorm lights.

He shattered it like it meant nothing.

My breath caught. “You didn’t just break the lamp, Alex.” My voice shook. “You broke me.”

He looked at the shards. Then at me. For a second I saw it - regret. Fear.

Then the CEO mask slammed down. “Then tell me the truth so I can stop breaking things.”

“I did ,” I whispered. “But you don’t trust me. You never have.”

I stepped over the glass. My bare foot didn’t care. Pain felt small compared to this.

“Leave,” I said. “Please. Just go.”

“Maya—”

“I’m breaking up with you, Alex.” The words tasted like blood. “I can’t do this. I can’t love someone who thinks love is surveillance.”

His face went blank. Like I’d slapped him. Like I’d died.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. For ten seconds the only sound was the phone still buzzing on the floor, Mark’s name glowing through cracked glass.

Then he turned. Walked out.

Door closed.

No slam. No fight. Just silence.

And I stood there in my childhood room, bleeding on broken glass, wondering if the boy who bought me light had just become the reason I needed it.