Chapter 3: Glass Walls

The smell of coffee always brought me back to mornings in the penthouse.

Not the kind of mornings where we laughed over burnt toast or shared a lazy kiss in the kitchen—those never existed. I’m talking about the kind where silence felt louder than anything. The kind where I watched the steam rise from my mug while Cyrus scrolled through market forecasts, already dressed in a suit by 6 a.m.

“Cyrus,” I had said once, softly, “do you ever think about taking a weekend off?”

He didn’t even glance up from his tablet. “Do you want something?”

“I just meant… maybe we could drive out to the lake house. Just us.”

He looked up then. Blankly. Like I’d interrupted something sacred.

“There’s a board meeting Monday. You know that.”

“I do,” I said, voice shrinking. “It’s just—we haven’t really spent time together outside of events.”

Cyrus blinked, then tapped the screen. “You knew what life with me would require.”

I knew what it looked like. But I had no idea how hollow it would feel.

---

Now, sitting in my new apartment—half-furnished and still echoing—I wrapped my hands around the coffee mug and stared out the window. The city skyline was the same, but everything else felt painfully different. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was peaceful.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Jaxon:

Do you always leave your curtains wide open?

I turned my head. Sure enough, across the narrow alley between buildings, his living room window lit up with movement. His silhouette leaned against the glass like he was daring me to react.

Me:

Do you always spy on tenants?

Jaxon:

Only the ones with tragic taste in coffee brands.

I groaned.

Me:

It was on sale.

Jaxon:

Tragic and thrifty. We love to see it.

I set my phone down, then picked it up again.

Me:

Are you seriously living across from me?

Jaxon:

For now. I like to keep my investments close.

I hated how my heart skipped at that. Even worse, I hated how fast I typed back.

Me:

You mean like a stalker or a landlord?

Jaxon:

Depends. Do stalkers get to knock on your door with takeout?

Before I could respond, another knock echoed through my apartment.

I stood slowly and opened the door.

There he was. Jaxon Black. My ex-brother-in-law. Tousled hair, hoodie half-zipped over a plain white tee, paper bag in one hand and that same crooked smirk on his lips.

“You brought food,” I said flatly.

“And you're welcome,” he replied, brushing past me without asking.

“Boundaries much?” I muttered, closing the door behind him.

“Come on, Elara. I brought samosas. You love these.”

“I used to love these,” I corrected. “Back when your family still pretended to like me.”

Jaxon dropped the bag on the counter and turned. “You were the only one I liked.”

My stomach fluttered.

Damn him.

He pulled out containers like he owned the kitchen. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to seduce you with fried pastries. I just figured you could use actual food. And company.”

“And sarcasm,” I added.

He shrugged. “Part of the charm.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the fridge. “Why are you really here, Jaxon?”

He stilled, the smile faltering just a little. “Because no one else is. And I figured you shouldn’t go through this alone.”

That shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. But it did.

“I’m not some stray cat you can feed and rescue.”

He gave a small smile. “No. You’re a lioness that got caged too long.”

---

That night, after he left—thankfully without any innuendos or attempts at a shirtless confession—I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

And I remembered the day I realized my marriage wasn’t just cold—it was frozen.

We had been married a year. A full twelve months of orchestrated dinners and scheduled intimacy. Cyrus believed in order. Predictability. Even with his Omega. Especially with his Omega.

“You’re not expected to work anymore,” he told me the night of our wedding. “That would look… unstable.”

“I like my job,” I had said, confused.

“You’re a Luna now. Act like it.”

So I quit. My art nonprofit project—gone. Just like that.

I spent most mornings pacing the library in our penthouse while Cyrus locked himself in his office. He always said he was protecting me. From scandal. From stress. From life.

One morning, I made the mistake of baking cookies. Real cookies. The kind that make the whole floor smell like cinnamon and butter. When he came out for lunch and smelled them, he looked… repulsed.

“Elara. The scent—your scent—it’s…” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbalanced. Go take a suppressant.”

“They’re just cookies, Cyrus.”

He didn’t touch them.

That night, I overheard him on the phone. He thought I was asleep.

“I can’t mate her. Not yet,” he whispered into the receiver. “She’s too sensitive. I need stability right now. She’ll grow out of it.”

He never said who he was talking to.

And he never touched me after that—not intimately. Not with warmth.

Just his name. Just the press.

I became the Luna in photos with a neutral scent and a cold smile.

---

The next morning, I opened my door to find a potted orchid waiting for me. With no card.

I groaned and picked it up.

Me:

You’re not subtle.

Jaxon:

That’s rich coming from someone who stares at her window for twenty minutes every morning like she’s starring in a sad music video.

Me:

Do you just... watch me all day?

Jaxon:

Only until you open the curtains. Then I go back to pretending I have a life.

I tried not to smile. I really did.

But it was hard.

Until the second knock came at the door.

This one wasn’t playful.

This one was sharp. Hard. Precise.

I opened it cautiously—and came face-to-face with Cyrus Black.

He wore another tailored suit. Another expensive tie. But this time, his hair was tousled. Not styled. His eyes were darker than usual. Unshaven jaw. Like something had come unhinged.

“Elara,” he said quietly. “We need to talk.”

I stepped back, cold anger rising in my chest.

“You don’t get to show up like this.”

“I came to apologize,” he said.

I blinked. “For what? Not eating my cookies? Or not loving me?”

Cyrus looked away.

But then—his gaze shifted. To the orchid on my counter. To the two empty tea mugs in the sink.

To the man’s hoodie slung over the back of my kitchen chair.

His expression changed.

“You’ve seen him,” he said flatly. “Haven’t you?”

“Jaxon is none of your business.”

“Like hell he isn’t,” Cyrus snapped, stepping forward.

I didn’t back away.

“You never looked at me the way you looked at him,” he muttered.

“Maybe because he saw me. You never even tried.”

“Elara, you’re still my—”

“No. I’m not.” My voice cracked. “I stopped being yours the day you decided I was nothing more than a role.”

A pause.

Then: “I want you back.”

The words hung there, thick and heavy.

I stared at him, heartbeat pounding in my throat.

And just when I opened my mouth to respond—

A second voice echoed from behind me.

“Funny timing, big brother,” Jaxon said, stepping in through the open kitchen balcony. “She already has plans.”