House of Glass
The chandelier hung like a crown above the living room — six feet of spiralling brilliance suspended from the ceiling like something holy and cruel. Its crystals cascaded in endless tiers, catching and scattering light across the marble walls like shards of shattered stars. Every flicker of flame in its bulbs glimmered through the facets, refracting into a thousand fragments of gold and silver. The glow it cast was ethereal — a storm of light that moved across the room like breath.
The living room itself felt less like a home and more like a throne room — a monument to power. Five tuxedo couches and five cabrioles sat arranged with military precision, their arms and legs carved in gold filigree that gleamed under the chandelier's light. The emerald-green upholstery shimmered richly, a hue so deep it seemed to breathe. Eighteen crimson pillows — each crowned with a diamond fragment at its heart — punctuated the space like drops of blood against silk.
Beneath the chandelier stood a marble table, poised like an altar. Upon it rested a vase so exquisite it seemed almost divine. Royal blue, traced with veins of gold, its surface bloomed with raised floral motifs, as though the porcelain itself had begun to sprout life. It was worth a fortune — a million-dollar statement piece. Yet its value was not in its price, but in its ritual. Every morning, fresh red flowers filled it. Even in this long-forgotten estate, that tradition had never died.
"Arthur, I'll never understand you," my mother's voice echoed softly in the memory — calm but laced with exhaustion. Her fingers brushed the vase's cool surface, tracing the gold vines. "Why buy something so extravagant?"
My father didn't turn. He stood by the window, smoke curling lazily from the cigarette between his fingers, the newspaper tucked beneath his arm. "Well, my love," he said without looking at her, "it seems to have enchanted you."
She sighed — a quiet, weary sound — and turned toward the butler. "Fresh red flowers for the vase. Every day. Don't forget."
The air had thickened that morning. Beautiful things always hid pain in this house. No matter how far time tried to pull me from it, the memories always found their way back, like ghosts refusing to be buried.
"Arthur…" Her voice trembled as she placed the divorce papers on the table. Her hands were shaking. "Please — answer just this one question."
He inhaled slowly. Eyes closed. Smoke coiled upward, clouding the air between them. He didn't move. Didn't meet her gaze. Just a silent nod — acknowledgment without confession.
"When did you stop loving me?"
Silence. The kind that kills. Her sobs filled the room, and I stood frozen, powerless, watching her crumble while he remained unmoved. If he had just said anything — one word, one apology, one truth — maybe I wouldn't have lost her. Maybe Alex wouldn't have died. Maybe I wouldn't have become this.
It's extraordinary how one room can hold so much pain. This living room — this temple of success, my father's throne of achievement — had also become the grave of our family. His Hall of Fame was carved out of the ruins of our hearts.
I stood before the marble table now, staring at that same vase — at those stubborn, vivid flowers that refused to wilt — as if their beauty mocked me. I didn't notice Michael until his hand rested gently on my shoulder.
He held a file in the other hand, his voice calm, measured. "These are the rules for the violin competition," he said. "Read them carefully. Sign within three days."
"Three days?" I scoffed, my voice cutting through the stillness. "Three days to watch my future collapse? To just sit back while everything I've built burns?"
My father remained by the window. He lit another cigar, the spark flaring briefly — a dying star reigniting for one last breath. He exhaled, the smoke drifting upward, pale and indifferent.
"Aubrey," he said, tone smooth, detached, almost regal. "Remember — fame, wealth, and power are what define an Ardel. Happiness doesn't exist in our lives. It never has."
Something inside me snapped. The audacity of it — the hypocrisy. He, who had destroyed everything that once brought warmth into this house, dared to speak of happiness as if he had buried it himself.
I stepped closer. Each word that left me was deliberate, a blade forged in silence."Tell me, Dad," I said quietly, "did losing your wife knock any sense into that worthless brain of yours?"
For the first time, his composure faltered. That flash of humiliation — it was intoxicating.
"You can either stand by what I do," I said, voice trembling not with fear but fury, "or wait until I have you in the palm of my hand. And when that day comes, I'll make you wish I'd never been born. I'll strip away everything you worship — your name, your fortune — until you're nothing but another man begging for forgiveness."
I leaned closer, my voice low enough to cut. "How can you hope to control me, Dad, when you couldn't even keep a woman?"
The slap came like lightning — a clean, savage crack that echoed off marble. My cheek burned, my breath hitched, but I didn't flinch.
"You will not tear down the empire I built!" he roared.
For a heartbeat, I almost laughed. The fury in his voice — the desperation — it thrilled me. "The old empire must fall," I murmured, almost smiling. "For a new one to rise."
I hadn't meant to hurt him, but something inside me fractured then — some invisible thread that had been holding me together. The world tilted.
One moment, I was staring into his rage. The next, I was in my studio, standing before an unfinished canvas. The air felt heavy, suffocating, yet outside, the world was white — the city blanketed in snow, pure and unbothered by human ruin.
Through the frosted window, I saw the café across the street — the one where she worked. I don't know what pulled me there. Maybe I was searching for an escape. Maybe for salvation.
A week later, I found myself walking through the snow until I reached its door. Closed, of course. It wasn't a holiday, but the sign said Back in 5 minutes. I sighed and turned to leave — and that's when the door flew open, slamming square into my face.
"Oh my God!" a voice cried.
I stumbled back, clutching my nose. "Ah—sh*t."
A petite woman stood frozen before me, panic bright in her eyes. "Oh no! Are you okay? I'm so, so sorry!" Her voice was soft, flustered, and full of guilt. She was small, with a button nose and a brown blazer a size too big, her beanie slightly askew.
"I'm fine," I managed, though when I pulled my hand away, crimson smeared my palm.
Her gasp drew the attention of everyone inside. I sighed, forcing a crooked smile. "If you don't mind… may I come in?"
She hesitated, guilt and uncertainty warring across her face. Before she could answer, a tall man appeared beside her — dark curls, warm brown eyes, the kind of build that carried both gentleness and authority.
"I'm so sorry about that," he said sincerely. "Please, come inside. We'll help you get that cleaned up."
"Thank you," I murmured, stepping past them — unaware that in crossing that threshold, I wasn't just walking into a café.
I was walking into the rest of my life.
And then, from somewhere behind the counter —
"Who's that?"
A voice. Soft. Familiar. Impossible.
The voice I'd been waiting to hear for what felt like a lifetime.