Glass Library Series Novels & Stories

He turned his gaze back to the holographic screen before Hazel noticed his gaze. 'We can get in here, but not by this secret route. But through this,' Hazel pointed at the library window. 'See? It said the material uses 80 per cent recycled plastic. Means it's not pure glass. I have several tools I can use to destroy this thing without arousing suspicion and restore it to its original form.' 'Interesting. Then the second one?'

“Don’t pin this on me. And what’s with you peeking outside my room? I saw you, Alex. Care to explain?” For a moment, he didn’t respond. A seconds later, he replied. “You’re too noisy. Just drop it, Julia.” I opened my mouth to press further, but we pulled into the parking lot of Ceramic Haven Studio, a quaint little shop with colorful signs advertising their wonderfully hand made crafted cups. Alex packed the car and got out without another word, leaving me to follow. And then we made our way to the glass section. In the entrance, it has Aurora Haven Glass Works name as its name, shown at the upper side of the entrance door.

It was heavy, wrapped in obsidian-black paper with no insignia, no logo, and no indication of the designer. I didn't open it immediately. I paced the perimeter of the living area, the floor-to-ceiling windows showing a Seattle that felt different tonight—sharper, colder, more dangerous. In less than twenty-four hours, I would be walking into the Glass Pavilion. I would be walking into the center of a spiderweb, designed by Garrison Vance specifically to trap me and, by extension, Peter.

I stood in front of it for a long time. "The new series is here," Sera said from behind me. I turned. The right wall. Six new canvases, still wet at the edges, not yet ready for display. Not hands this time. Light. Morning light falling through the slats of a wooden shop wall. Afternoon light filtered through coffee steam. Evening light on a wet sidewalk between two open doors. The gold-white blaze of a gap in Seattle's cloud cover. The thin gray glow of a hospital corridor. And the last one, still unfinished: the light that comes through a nursery window at dawn, catching the edge of a crib rail, turning the ordinary geometry of a room into something that looked like a promise.

Vivienne Laurent had learned long ago how to disappear in plain sight. She stood at the far end of the ballroom, beneath a crystal chandelier that glittered like a frozen constellation, holding a champagne flute she had no intention of drinking. The glass tower of Laurent International loomed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, its mirrored surface reflecting the city lights below. From a distance, she looked like exactly what she was supposed to be: a poised billionaire heiress, draped in silk, her dark hair swept into an elegant twist.