The Glass Is Already Broken Novels & Stories

"Then what happens to this glass may very well be your tomorrow." The moment his words ended, Hugh loosened his fingers. Crash--! The flawless crystal glass slipped from his hand and slammed onto the polished hardwood floor, shattering instantly. Sharp fragments scattered in every direction. A few landed right by Broderick's shoes. Broderick's breathing stalled. He stared at the wreckage at his feet, his expression shifting again and again. "When I choose to hold you up," Hugh continued coldly, all trace of warmth gone, "you might pass as something worth displaying. But the moment I let go, you become nothing--just broken glass that needs to be swept away."

Something unreadable. “Already there, darling.” And then— The window shattered.

Just a sudden urge to look inside. At first, everything looks normal to me. Towels made of paper. Ground coffee. A serviette that is folded. After that, the light changes. It gets caught in the glass. My breath leaves me in a sharp rush. Broken pieces are wrapped in a towel. The jagged edges are dull from care but still very clear. A glass of wine. Or what's left of one. The stem broke in half. The bowl broke into pieces that weren't even. My stomach hurts.

He saw the glass slip from my numb fingers and shatter against the marble. The sound of the breaking glass was like a startling pistol. I tried to call his name, but my throat was closed. I was drowning on dry land. These vultures were closing in, their faces blurred into a single mask of judgment. The ‘malfunction’ was happening. The South Side trash was finally breaking. Don’t fall. Not here. Not in front of them. My knees gave way. The floor rushed up to meet me; a cold, unforgiving sea of marble stone. I closed my eyes, waiting for the impact, waiting for the darkness to be permanent finally.

“Anna, that’s enough.” But it wasn’t. Because they were still there. Still trying. Still reaching. Still a threat. “They’ll keep coming,” I said. “Then we deal with it—” “This is dealing with it.” My hand lifted slightly. And the pressure increased. The first crack echoed. Loud. Sharp. One of them Broke. Not fell. Not stumbled. Broke. Like glass under too much force. The other two reacted instantly. Trying to move. To escape. But they couldn’t.

One of total possession. His nostrils were flared, his eyes illuminated sensually by the light over the stove and his luscious lips somehow redder in color. I swallowed hard, running my fingers through my disheveled hair before grabbing the cracked glass from the floor, marveling at the number of fissures that had been created. Much like this toxic and crazy contract we'd entered into. Only I knew that once cracked, the fragile piece would eventually break. After grabbing another glass, I refilled his wine, sliding the plates back into their original positions as I tried to rationalize what had just happened.

Something broken, fragile. Something I had ruined.

Matteo’s POV The sound of glass shattering echoed through the room, sharp and shrill like a scream, before falling into the suffocating silence that wrapped itself around me. I stood there for a long moment, my chest heaving, staring at the broken tumbler scattered across the tiled floor. Amber liquid—whiskey—seeped into the cracks, and I found myself muttering inwardly, waste of good liquor, Matteo… But the frustration boiling inside me was more than any drink could soothe. I had thrown that glass not because of the taste, but because of the same cursed name that had been dancing on my mind like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

My eyes burned with unshed tears. “Broken people are not fragile.” Alexei stilled at my dead voice. “Even the world is scared of broken shards of glass.” He let out a deep chuckle matching the darkness of the night. I stayed still even when he pulled away, his warmth stripping away leaving me standing small in front of him.

It tipped over, shattering into a thousand glinting shards. “Fucking hell,” I muttered. The sharp pain registered too late. I looked down, my palm smeared red, glass embedded in the flesh. The pain barely registered. It was nothing compared to the firestorm inside me. I sank back, the weight of fatigue and anger pulling me down. My vision hazed a little, a mix of alcohol and sleep deprivation. The broken glass twinkled on the floor like a sick mosaic of my life—sharp, perilous, and waiting to cut anyone who drew near.