CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE SOUND OF GLASS SHATTERING

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a room. It burrows into your skin and settles deep in your bones. That’s the silence I woke up to.

Not the peace-and-serenity kind. The kind that meant something had shifted. Something was watching. Waiting.

I sat up in bed, blinking into the dim morning light leaking between the drawn blackout curtains. The sheets beside me were cold. Lucien was gone.

He hadn’t come to bed.

Again.

I didn’t know why that hurt. I wasn’t expecting him to hold me, but part of me—some foolish part that still remembered what it felt like to be kissed like I was oxygen—had hoped.

I pulled the sheets tighter around my bare skin. Last night had been… confusing. Tense. Heated. Almost explosive. We’d been circling each other like predators, licking wounds no one could see. And then—nothing. A look. A sharp inhale. Then his retreat into shadow.

Just like always.

I dressed slowly and wandered into the hallway. The house felt wrong. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that warned you not to breathe too loud. As if even the walls were holding their breath.

Downstairs, I found Lucien standing in the middle of the foyer. His posture was steel. His gaze aimed at nothing in particular. His hands were clenched at his sides like he was trying not to destroy something.

“Lucien?” I asked gently.

His eyes snapped to mine—and I flinched. Not from fear. From the rawness of what I saw there.

That wasn’t the mask he usually wore. That was rage. Real and blistering. Something had cracked the surface.

He didn’t answer. Just turned away and headed into the library. I followed without being invited.

“What happened?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me. “A leak.”

I frowned. “What kind of leak?”

He tossed a thick envelope onto the coffee table. It landed with a weight that felt metaphorical.

“Photos,” he said. “Of us. Together. In the limo. At the gala. The press is already calling it a scandal.”

I stared at the envelope like it might bite me.

“So?” I said cautiously. “We’re married.”

Lucien’s laugh was bitter and cold. “They’re not interested in the marriage. They want blood. And someone gave them the scent.”

Realization crept in like ice under my skin. “You think someone inside your house leaked this?”

He didn’t answer.

“Ivy,” he said finally, and when he looked at me, it wasn’t with suspicion. It was with something far worse—regret.

“I need you to be careful.”

I blinked. “Careful? Of what?”

He stepped closer, until I could feel the heat radiating off him. “You’re in a viper’s nest. And I don’t know who’s wearing the prettiest smile.”

I hated the way my heart twisted at his warning. Hated that I still wanted to believe I could fix this. That we could fix this.

I reached for him, but he turned away.

Again.

Always pulling back right when I needed him to stay.

Later that afternoon, I found myself in the greenhouse.

It was the only place in the estate that felt remotely alive. Rows of orchids. Vines twisting around copper poles. Heat and light. Color. It felt like someone else’s dream.

I wandered between the plants, my fingers trailing over leaves and petals. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Not by Lucien. By something else.

Someone else.

I wasn’t wrong.

I turned the corner—and stopped short.

A woman stood at the far end of the glass corridor, her back to me, trimming a potted rose bush. Her black hair was pulled into a sharp chignon. Her suit was charcoal gray. Tailored. Perfect.

She turned—and smiled.

It was the kind of smile that didn’t touch the eyes.

“You must be Mrs. Blackwood,” she said.

I nodded slowly. “And you are?”

She held out a gloved hand. “Verena Blake. Executive consultant. Lucien brought me in during the merger talks.”

There was something off about her tone. Like she knew something I didn’t. Like she was daring me to ask.

I didn’t take her hand.

“I didn’t know Lucien was accepting outside help.”

Verena’s smile widened. “He keeps many things close to the chest. But I’ve worked with him for years. We share a certain… trust.”

I hated her already.

“Good for you,” I said with a smile of my own.

She looked me up and down. “It must be quite the adjustment, coming from a tech family into this world. Blackwood men are not known for their warmth.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She turned back to the rose bush, snipping a perfect bloom.

“Careful, Mrs. Blackwood,” she said over her shoulder. “Some flowers thrive on blood.”

I left before I could say something I’d regret.

That night, I waited for Lucien.

But he never came to our room.

I lay awake in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling, every creak of the house making me flinch. I felt eyes on me even when I knew I was alone.

At 3:17 a.m., I couldn’t take it anymore.

I padded barefoot down the hallway and made my way to the library. Maybe he was there. Maybe this time he wouldn’t push me away.

But when I reached the double doors, they were open—just slightly.

And what I heard inside made me freeze.

“…I don’t care what it takes,” Lucien’s voice said. Low. Sharp. “Find the leak. Clean it. Quietly.”

Then a pause.

“If Sinclair’s daughter becomes collateral, so be it.”

My stomach dropped.

The door creaked under my weight, and his voice stopped.

Footsteps.

Lucien opened the door fully and saw me.

For a moment, we just stared at each other. My heart was a war drum in my chest. His face was unreadable.

“Ivy,” he said evenly. “What are you doing up?”

I forced my voice not to shake. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t offer me warmth. Just watched. Measured.

“You heard something,” he said.

Not a question. A fact.

“I heard enough,” I whispered.

He stepped forward, his presence swallowing the space between us.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?” I snapped. “Because it sounds a hell of a lot like you’re willing to throw me to the wolves.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said, “Sometimes survival requires sacrifice.”

My throat tightened. “Am I your sacrifice, Lucien?”

His eyes flickered with something—pain? Remorse? But then it was gone.

And he said nothing.

I ran.

Through the halls. Past the portraits. Into the dark. My bare feet silent against the marble.

I reached the front door—and stopped.

Shards of glass littered the floor.

The massive stained-glass panel above the entryway had been shattered. Deliberately.

And scrawled across the marble floor in red—too bright, too fresh—was a single word:

LIAR.