Three years ago, Alex Langford—darling of Wall Street, devoted husband, and perfect father—vanished without a trace. No note. No body. Just a half-empty closet, a crimson stain beneath the nursery rug, and the distinct, echoing sense that something was terribly wrong.

Now, the Langford estate sits like a glass coffin on the hill—pristine, polished, and rotting from the inside.

Ava Langford still lives there.

Wrapped in designer silk and sprayed with perfume that never fades, Ava drifts through the house like a dream that refuses to end. She laughs too sweetly. Cries when no one’s watching. And smothers her only remaining lifeline—her 17-year-old son Adrien—with love so intense it feels like a noose.

She kisses his forehead six times before bed. Waits outside his school in a Rolls-Royce every day. Tucks him in. Feeds him dinner like he’s still a child.

Adrien—tall, cold, adored—is unraveling.
The school calls him brilliant. His mother calls him “my baby.”
He doesn’t call her anything at all.

But the glass is cracking.

Someone walks the halls at night. Doors open when no one touches them. There’s a man in the security footage—one with Alex’s eyes, but not his smile. A forgotten journal turns up in Adrien’s room, scrawled with ink and obsession. And beneath the floorboards, something is ticking.

Everyone says Alex left. But Ava remembers that night.
She remembers the knock at the glass.
The way the lights went out.
The man in love with her who should never have been let in.

Too long. Too still. Like he was memorizing something no one else could see.


We were only a year into the marriage. Adrien was still a sleepy bundle of cotton-soft whimpers, and Alex had just closed a deal worth millions. We threw a small celebration—just friends, a few clients, champagne glinting under chandeliers in the Langford estate's great hall.


I wore silver that night. Alex's choice. He liked me in soft things. "You look untouchable," he whispered against my neck as he clasped the diamond necklace. "Like art."


He was in the corner near the drinks table. Smiling. Always smiling.


"Alex," I said at one point, glass in hand. "Nolan's staring again."


Alex glanced over, relaxed. "He always does that. He zones out. Ignore him."


He followed me with his eyes the entire evening. I'd look away and then back—and he'd still be watching. Not with lust. Not exactly. Something colder. Possessive.


Like he wanted to dissect me. Own me. Wear me like a secret.


Later that night, after the guests left and Adrien was asleep upstairs, I went to the kitchen to grab water.


The light from the fridge lit half his face in sterile blue.


"Couldn't sleep?" I asked, trying to stay polite.


"I liked the silver," he said quietly. "You looked… unreal."


The kitchen suddenly felt too big, too empty.


"You know, I saw you first," he said, smiling that flat smile.


"At the gallery. You were looking at the Klimt piece. I told Alex you were out of his league." He chuckled. "Guess I was right. You're in no one's league."


I took a step back. "Nolan, you're drunk."


Then quieter, almost a whisper: "He doesn't deserve you. He never did."


I opened my mouth to speak, but he shook his head and turned away.


"Forget I said anything," he muttered, already walking out. "Tell Alex I left."


Just vanished into the hall like a shadow that had overstayed its welcome.


Maybe because I didn't want to ruin something perfect. Maybe because I thought I imagined it. Maybe because deep down, something told me that whatever Nolan wanted—it wasn't me.


And he was waiting for it all to fall apart.


Chapter 6 - The Way He Looked at You