Chapter 1 - The Glass House
The house was a masterpiece of modern architecture,
sitting on a hill overlooking the city,
with walls of glass that invited the world to stare.
People drove by and slowed their cars,
marveling at the clean lines,
and the perfectly manicured lawn.
Inside,
the air was always exactly sixty-eight degrees,
regulated by a system that cost more than my first car.
Everything was white,
or cream,
or soft gray,
the colors of a life that had no room for mess.
I walked through the hallways like a ghost,
my footsteps muffled by rugs woven in distant countries.
I was thirty-one,
and I was eight months pregnant,
carrying a weight that felt heavier than just a child.
My reflection in the glass followed me,
a woman in a silk maternity dress,
whose eyes looked tired even when she smiled.
Grant was already at the office,
or so he told me,
leaving before the sun had fully cleared the horizon.
He didn't kiss me goodbye anymore,
he just tapped his briefcase,
and checked his watch.
I stood in the kitchen,
which was filled with high-end appliances I rarely used,
and watched the steam rise from my tea.
The silence was a physical thing,
heavy and thick,
pressing against my ears until they started to ring.
The baby kicked,
a sharp and sudden movement against my ribs,
reminding me that I wasn't entirely alone.
"We’re going to be okay,"
I whispered to the empty room,
but the words felt hollow,
like a promise made by a politician.
I looked at the framed photos on the wall,
the ones from our honeymoon in Italy,
the ones from the gala last spring.
In every picture,
Grant was glowing,
his arm wrapped tightly around my waist,
presenting us as the ultimate power couple.
He looked like a man who had everything,
and I looked like his most prized possession.
But if you looked closer,
if you really studied my face in those photos,
you could see the cracks.
You could see the way I was leaning away,
just a fraction of an inch,
searching for air.
The decorators had chosen the furniture,
the landscapers had chosen the trees,
and Grant had chosen the life.
I was just the one living in it,
trying to remember who Claire Mercer was before she became a Mercer.
The phone on the counter buzzed,
a text from my mother,
asking if I needed anything for the baby shower.
"Everything is perfect,"
I typed back,
the lie flowing easily from my fingers.
That was the theme of my life,
the constant maintenance of a perfect surface.
I walked to the nursery,
the only room that didn't feel like a museum,
and touched the wooden crib.
It was empty,
waiting for the boy who would carry the Mercer name.
I wondered if he would inherit his father's ambition,
or the coldness that came with it.
I wondered if he would see through the glass walls,
or if he would just see his own reflection.
The morning light hit the windows,
creating a glare that made it hard to see outside.
I was trapped in a beautiful cage,
waiting for a storm I could feel coming,
but couldn't yet see.
I counted the days until my due date,
marking them like a prisoner on a cell wall.
I just wanted to be real again,
away from the charity dinners,
and the fake smiles,
and the photographers who only saw the dress.
I wanted a life that wasn't built on luck,
but on something solid,
something that wouldn't shatter if I touched it too hard.
The tea went cold in my hand,
May you like
and the house remained silent,
as I waited for the man who was no longer mine.
