Glass Houses.

~ Gideon ~

"She’s a big girl; she’ll manage."

I didn't look at Adrian, my Best friend, as I said it. I didn't need to. I could feel his eyes on the back of my head while I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office at Helix Tower. Below us, Ravenport City looked like a circuit board—orderly, predictable, and entirely under my thumb.

"You left her at the altar, Gid," Adrian said. I heard the squeak of leather as he leaned back in one of my guest chairs. "Literally. The judge hadn't even closed his book before you were halfway to the elevator."

"The ceremony was a formality," I replied. I turned around and sat behind my marble desk. "The contract was signed yesterday. The legal requirements are met. My presence at the estate for an afternoon of awkward small talk wouldn't change the numbers on the wire transfer."

"It’s not about numbers. It’s about optics." Adrian tossed a file onto my desk. "Your mother is already calling. She wants to know why the 'new Mrs. Moore' is currently sitting in the east wing alone while the groom is hosting a merger meeting."

I ignored the file. Helena Moore's opinions were a constant noise I had learned to filter out years ago. To her, this marriage was a social branding exercise. To me, it was a tactical shield. The board had been twitchy about my "unattached" status and the perceived instability of a bachelor at the helm of Moore Industries. Amara Kline was the solution to that twitchiness.

"She fits the requirements, Adrian," I said, my voice flat. "She’s quiet. She’s from a respectable, if failing, family. She doesn't have a history of scandals or a thirst for the spotlight."

"She looked like she was heading to an execution, not a wedding," Adrian muttered.

"She looked like a woman who understood the gravity of a debt-forgiveness agreement," I corrected.

I thought back to the chapel for a brief second. Amara had stood there in that heavy silk dress, looking pale and fragile, like a bird caught in a draft. When I took her hand to slide the ring on, her skin was cool. She didn't tremble, though. I’d give her that. She had a certain stillness that I found efficient.

She hadn't fought the terms. She hadn't asked for more money or a bigger suite. She had simply signed the paper and moved into the house. That was exactly what I needed: a partner who didn't require emotional maintenance.

"Have you even talked to her?" Adrian asked. "Aside from the 'I do' part?"

"There’s nothing to discuss yet. My assistant sent over the schedule for the next month. She has a charity gala on Friday and a dinner with my mother on Tuesday." I picked up my tablet. "She’ll be briefed by the staff. Maribel knows how to handle the transition."

"Maribel is a shark, Gideon. And your mother is a Great White." Adrian stood up, finally looking serious. "Amara Kline grew up in a house where they probably ate dinner together and talked about their feelings. You’ve dropped her into a tank."

"Then she’ll have to learn to swim," I said.

I wasn't being cruel; I was being logical. My life was a series of high-stakes maneuvers. I didn't have the bandwidth to play bodyguard for a grown woman in my own home. If she couldn't handle a few snide remarks from the help or a cold dinner with my mom, then she wasn't as "stable" as the background check suggested.

Adrian sighed and headed for the door. "Just remember, Gid. Even the quiet ones have a breaking point. Don't be surprised if the glass house starts cracking sooner than you think."

He left, and the office fell into a comfortable silence. I preferred it this way. Control was the only thing that kept the chaos of the world at bay.

I looked at the clock. It was nearly 6:00 PM. I had two more reports to finish before I could leave. I usually stayed until 9:00 PM, but I supposed I should probably make an appearance at the estate tonight. Not for her, but to ensure Maribel had the staff in line.

I tried to recall Amara’s face from the signing yesterday. I remembered her eyes—large, dark, and filled with a wary intelligence. She had looked at the contract like she was reading a map of a foreign country. She’d paused on page nine. I’d noticed the hesitation, the way her pen hovered over the paper. She was smarter than she let on. That was good. It meant she knew exactly what she had sold.

My phone buzzed on the desk. It was a text from my cousin, Selene.

Heard the 'happy' news. Can’t wait to meet the little mouse. Is she as plain as the photos suggest, or did the stylist manage a miracle?

I didn't reply. Selene was a social predator, and Amara was an easy target. Part of me felt a flicker of something—not concern, but a mild annoyance that I would have to deal with the fallout of their inevitable clash. But then I pushed the thought away.

Amara had agreed to the "stable" image. That meant handling Selene with grace. That was her job now.

I went back to the reports. The acquisition of a shipping firm in the Midwest was much more pressing than the social dynamics of Moore Crest. I focused on the spreadsheets, the growth projections, and the risk assessments. This was the language I spoke.

But for some reason, the image of Amara standing alone in that chapel kept flickering in the back of my mind. She hadn't cried. Most women in her position—sold to save a father's pride—would have at least shed a tear for the cameras. She had just been... still.

"She'll manage," I whispered to the empty room.

I forced myself to focus on the data. I had three years of this arrangement. Three years of optics and discretion. As long as the board was happy and the Kline debt remained settled, the personal details didn't matter. Love was an optional luxury I couldn't afford, and from the look in Amara's eyes, she didn't expect it anyway.

I finally closed my laptop at 8:30 PM. The city lights were a glittering carpet outside. I grabbed my coat and headed for the private elevator.

When I reached the ground floor, my driver, Miller, was waiting. He opened the door to the Maybach without a word.

"To the estate," I said.

"Yes, Mr. Moore."

As we drove through the rain-slicked streets of Ravenport, I watched the people on the sidewalks. They looked hurried, messy, and disorganized. They lived lives governed by emotion and impulse. I lived a life governed by contracts and strategy.

We pulled through the iron gates of Moore Crest twenty minutes later. The limestone walls looked cold under the floodlights. I saw a single light on in the east wing—the guest suite where Amara was staying.

I entered the foyer, the sound of my shoes echoing on the marble. Maribel appeared from the shadows of the dining room.

"Good evening, Mr. Moore," she said, her voice like sandpaper.

"Is she in her rooms?" I asked, not stopping as I headed toward the stairs.

"She is. She didn't come down for dinner. Had a tray sent up." Maribel's lip curled slightly. "She seems... reserved."

"That's why I chose her, Maribel. See that she has what she needs, but don't coddle her."

"Of course, sir."

I climbed the stairs to the west wing, my own sanctuary. I didn't go to the east wing. I didn't check on my wife. There was no need. The contract was signed. The transaction was complete.

I went to my bedroom, stripped off my suit, and stood in the shower until the heat turned my skin red.

As I lay in my king-sized bed, staring at the dark ceiling, I thought about the first time I'd seen the Kline file. "Conflict-avoidant," the report had said. "Internalizes pain. High threshold for isolation."

Perfect, I thought. She’s exactly what this house deserves.