Chapter 2 — "Glass House"

Emma’s POV

The steering wheel gripped back. My hands white knuckle squeezed the leather as the tears finally spilled, hot and blinding, blurring the oncoming traffic into smears of red and yellow. I slammed my foot onto the gas, the engine roaring as I tore out of Zara’s neighborhood.

“It isn't real. It isn't real.”

But the image of his fingers dug into her waist stayed burned behind my eyelids.

“I’m not going anywhere, Em.” Michael’s voice echoed in my head, clear as a bell, from the night we got the results of our second failed IVF cycle. He had knelt by the side of our bed, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles while I sobbed into the pillows. “The Stanford name doesn’t mean a damn thing if you aren’t the one carrying it. We will keep trying. Just you and me. I swear it. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll forever still love you the same.”

He had sworn it. On his knees.

A sob tore from my throat, raw and choking. I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, nearly swerving into the shoulder of the road. My heart felt like it had been violently ripped from my chest, leaving a hollow, burning cavity.

By the time I pulled into the driveway of our home, my face was stiff from dried tears. I killed the engine and sat there, staring at the perfectly manicured lawn. The garage door was shut. Michael wasn’t home yet. Of course he wasn’t.

I grabbed my purse, shoved the keys inside, and hurried up the front steps.

I unlocked the door and burst inside, only to freeze.

Sitting on the high backed armchair in the living room, a teacup balanced perfectly on her knee, was Helen Stanford. She wore a tailored gray suit, every hair in her stiff silver bob perfectly in place.

“You’re late,” Helen said, not even looking up as she set the teacup down on the glass side table. “I have been sitting here for forty minutes. I suppose punctuality is another trait your middle class upbringing failed to instill.”

“Helen,” I choked out, gripping the strap of my purse tightly against my ribs. “I can’t do this today. You need to leave.”

Helen stood up, smoothing the front of her skirt. Her eyes swept over my tear stained face, my disheveled hair, and the tremor in my hands. A small, cruel smirk touched the corners of her mouth.

“Look at you. A hysterical mess,” she said, her voice dropping into that smooth, aristocratic drawl that always made me feel like an insect under a microscope. “Michael is out there running a billion dollar empire, and you are wandering the streets, weeping like a dramatic schoolgirl. It is exhausting, Emma. A barren woman is heavy luggage, but a fragile one is simply useless.”

The word ‘barren’ sliced through me, but this time, it was followed by a sharp, electric jolt of reality. I wasn't barren. I had the photo. I had the… I checked my pocket. Empty. I must have shoved it into my purse when I fled Zara's house.

“I said leave, Helen,” I said, turning on my heel toward the grand curved staircase. “Get out of my house.”

“We are not finished,” Helen snapped.

I took two fast steps up the stairs, my eyes fixed on the bedroom door at the top of the landing. I just needed to lock myself inside.

Before my foot could plant on the third step, a hand clamped around my upper arm. Helen jerked me backward. The sudden force spun me around, my heel catching on the edge of the step. I stumbled, my purse flying open as I flailed for the banister.

The contents of my bag rained down onto the floor below… lip balm, keys, loose change, and a crumpled, folded slip of white thermal paper.

It fluttered right onto the toe of Helen’s expensive leather pumps.

Helen’s eyes dropped to the paper. Her brow furrowed. Before I could lung for it, she bent down with surprising quickness and snatched it up.

“Give that back,” I gasped, reaching out, but she stepped back, flattening the paper out between her manicured fingers.

She stared at the black and white smudge. She read the printed text at the top from the clinic. ‘Emma Stanford. Positive. 3 weeks.’

For a second, shock flashed across her face. Then, it hardened into utter disgust.

“What is this pathetic attempt?” Helen hissed, holding the paper up. “A fake ultrasound? How desperate are you, Emma? Do you honestly think fabricating a pregnancy will stop Michael from realizing what a mistake you are?”

I didn’t reply. I was simply too exhausted to engage her.

With a vicious twist of her wrists, Helen ripped the thermal paper in half.

“No!” I screamed, reaching for the pieces.

She ripped them again, tearing the ultrasound photo into tiny, unrecognizable shreds, and threw them into my face. The white pieces rained down on my shoulders like static.

“You are a fraud,” Helen snarled, stepping up onto the first step, blocking my path, her face inches from mine. “And I will personally ensure Michael casts you out of this family with absolutely nothing.”

“I don’t care about your family!” I yelled, the anger finally breaking through the grief. I tried to push past her, to force my way up the stairs. “I don’t care about anything right now, so please let me be!”

I shoved my shoulder against hers to clear a path.

Helen’s hand shot out. Her fingers tangled violently into the hair at the crown of my head, yanking my head back with a force that made my scalp scream.

“You disrespectful little bitch,” she hissed. “Where did you get the nerve today? Oh you’re talking back now because of the fake pregnancy, right?”

With a brutal, downward sweep of her arm, she shoved me away from her.

My foot found nothing but empty air.

The world tilted violently. The banister flashed past my eyes. My shoulder struck the wooden edge of a step with a sickening crack, sending a jolt of agony radiating through my neck. I rolled, out of control, hitting the stairs again and again, the edge of each step digging brutally into my ribs, my hips, my stomach.

A sharp, blinding white pain exploded in my abdomen… a localized, tearing sensation that felt vastly different from the bruises forming on my skin.

I hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs with a heavy, hollow thud.

The breath was knocked completely out of my lungs. I lay flat on my back, staring up at the chandelier spinning wildly above me. At the top of the stairs, Helen stood, clutching the railing, her face pale but her eyes wide with cold detachment.

I tried to roll over. I tried to pull my knees up to protect my stomach, but a wave of deep, agonizing heat bloomed in my lower belly, radiating down my thighs. It felt like an anchor dragging me straight into the floorboards.

The light in the foyer began to dim at the edges, the shadows stretching inward like black fingers.

My hand trembled as I slid it down my stomach, pressing against the fabric of my jeans, terrified of what I would feel.

The dark closed in.