Chapter 6: Scarlett's late night

SCARLETT

The sound of glass breaking woke me before dawn.

For a moment I thought it was a dream. Then came the voices my mother’s sharp and jagged, Damien’s low and simmering. I slid out of bed and crept to the top of the stairs, heart hammering.

“…not your concern,” Damien said, his voice like a warning growl.

“It becomes my concern when you always disappear half the night!” my mother snapped back.

I pressed against the wall, holding my breath. The hallway smelled faintly of wine and something darker anger hanging heavy in the air. Another crash followed, a second glass shattering on tile.

I should have gone back to my room. Instead I stayed, listening, a strange thrill moving through me with every raised voice. They were unraveling, and each frayed thread felt like a door cracking open.

Damien’s footsteps thundered across the kitchen. “I told you I needed space, Maria. You never listen.”

Silence, thick and dangerous.

When he finally emerged into the hallway, I froze. His shirt hung half-buttoned, his hair a restless mess. He stopped when he saw me. For a heartbeat we just stared at each other. The house was so quiet I could hear the ticking clock in the living room.

His eyes storm-dark flicked to the broken glass glittering behind him, then back to me. No words. No excuses. Just a look that burned and warned all at once.

I swallowed hard. “Are you… are you okay?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Go back to bed, Scarlett.”

I didn’t move.

Something unreadable passed through his expression that was regret, maybe, or something far more dangerous. Then he turned and walked past me, the faint scent of smoke and whiskey trailing after him.

When the front door slammed, the house seemed to exhale. My mother muttered curses in the kitchen, but I barely heard. My pulse still raced from that single look.

Downstairs, shards of crystal glittered on the floor. That was the broken glasses. I tiptoed into the kitchen and crouched, running my finger along a piece until a bead of blood welled up. The sting felt real in a way nothing else did.

Maybe everything really was starting to break.

Maybe that was exactly what I needed.

Back in my room, I lay awake until the first thin light of morning bled through the curtains. Just as I drifted toward sleep, my phone buzzed.

One message.

We need to talk. Tomorrow. Alone.

My breath caught. I was so curious.

Tomorrow.

Alone.

I pressed the phone to my chest, the tiny cut on my finger throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

I should have felt fear. Instead, anticipation spread through me like fire.

The rest of the night stretched like a wire pulled too tight.

I tried to sleep, but every sound in the house sharpened my nerves the groan of floorboards, the faint hum of the refrigerator, my mother’s restless pacing below. Each creak felt like my secret trying to claw its way out.

When the clock read 3:17 a.m., I gave up. I slipped out of my bed and stood at the window. Streetlights cast long shadows across the yard. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, lonely and insistent. Damien’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.

My phone burned against my palm. I read his message again. We need to talk. Tomorrow. Alone.

Tomorrow suddenly felt centuries away.

I wandered to the hallway and sat at the top of the stairs. From the kitchen came the soft scrape of a chair. My mother. Still awake.

She muttered to herself, low and uneven. A faint clink of glass followed. Pouring another drink. I pictured the broken shards still on the floor and the blood-red wine soaking into the grout. A crime scene without a crime.

A strange calm settled over me. If they kept fighting, if she kept drinking, the house would eventually swallow itself whole. And I would just… be there. Waiting.

The front door opened at 4:06 a.m.

Damien stepped inside quietly, but I heard him anyway. He paused when he saw me on the stairs. We stayed like that me on the stairs, and him at the door silent as the house held its breath.

“You should be asleep,” he said finally, voice rough.

“So should you,” I whispered back.

His eyes flicked toward the kitchen where my mother still moved. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Not now.”

I nodded, though every part of me wanted to ask why wait? He lingered one heartbeat longer, then climbed the stairs past me. His sleeve brushed my arm a whisper of warmth that set my skin alight.

When he disappeared into the dark hallway, I stayed where I was, gripping the banister until my knuckles whitened.

Tomorrow. Alone.

The promise coiled inside me like a living thing.

Morning sunlight slices across my room long before I’m ready for it. I haven’t slept. Every time I closed my eyes I heard the echo of Damien’s voice—Tomorrow. Alone.

Downstairs, the house is too quiet. No clinking dishes, no low murmur of my mother on the phone. Just the hiss of the coffeemaker.

I move carefully, like sound itself might betray me. The kitchen smells of strong coffee and last night’s wine. My mother is gone. A note rests against the sugar jar. Early meeting. Back late.

My heart skipped hard. Alone.

I don’t have to wonder long. A soft knock rattles the back door. When I open it, Damien stands there, hair damp from a shower, a hoodie thrown over a white T-shirt. He looks like he hasn’t slept either but I don't care.

“We need to talk,” he says, low and steady.

I step aside to let him in, the air between us charged.

He didn't sit. He paces once, then stops. “Last night got out of hand. Your mom and I…” He shakes his head. “She’s drinking too much. I don’t know how to fix it.”

He’s trying to sound calm, but I hear the crack in his voice. I fold my arms, more for balance than defense.

“She’s not the only one breaking things,” I say before I can stop myself.

He looks at me sharply, something unreadable in his eyes. “Scarlett, whatever’s happening between us—”

“There is something,” I cut in.

Silence. Only the soft drip of coffee into the carafe.

He exhales, long and heavy. “That’s exactly the problem.”

For a heartbeat we just stand there, the words we’re not saying filling every inch of space. I could feel the house listening, the walls holding their breath.

He finally steps back. “I can’t—” He stops, starts again. “We can’t let this get worse.” I don't even know how we got to this extend. This is thing between us is an abomination and I can't continue.

“Then why are you here?” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Damien closes his eyes, jaw tight. “Because I had to see you.”

The admission hangs between us like a spark looking for dry wood.

Before either of us could speak again, a car door slams outside. My mother’s car. Early.

Damien’s eyes snap open. “Later,” he says, already moving toward the back door. “We’ll finish this later.”

He slips out just as the front door opens and my mother’s footsteps echo through the hall. I stood in the kitchen, heart pounding, the smell of coffee and danger mingling in the morning light.

I said to myself “ Here comes the witch” in a mother's clothing.