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.

There's something about the way Nolan looks at her.


It's not obvious—not the kind of thing you could point at and say, see, that's it. No. It's quieter. A little too long. A little too still.


Like he's watching her breathe. Like he's imagining something he shouldn't.


I hated Nolan since I was a kid. He was always around. My dad's "best friend." He used to bring me gifts on my birthday and try to pat my head like I was some golden retriever.


Even back then, I knew something was off.


He shows up at our place more often. With excuses. Dropping by for business, or just "checking in." Brings her flowers. Lavender roses last time.


I wanted to throw them into the fireplace.


Mom doesn't see it. Or she won't. She's tired, quieter lately. Jumpy. She makes jokes and laughs too loudly when he's around. She clings to me more, like my presence keeps something at bay. And I let her. Because I know what it feels like when she's gone cold with fear, even if she never says it.


Last night, I heard her crying in the hallway. Again.


This morning, she was all smiles, making waffles like nothing happened. Hugging me from behind like I hadn't slammed my door in her face twelve hours ago.


And Nolan was there. Sitting at the kitchen counter. Drinking coffee like he lives here.


He watched us the whole time she filled my plate. His fingers tapping against the porcelain mug in perfect rhythm. I saw him watching the way she poured syrup, the way her hair fell over her shoulder.


And when she leaned down to kiss my cheek?


He doesn't just like her. He wants her.


Wants her the way men like that do. The way that strips a person of their name and leaves them on a pedestal to be possessed.


I'm the one she dotes on. I'm the one she cooks for, cries for, calls her "baby." And no matter how cold I am to her—no matter how grumpy or distant—I still have what he doesn't:


I walk past him. His hand brushes my shoulder, deliberate. I stop in the hallway. My hands are shaking, but I don't let it show.


Chapter 8 - The Smile That Doesn’t Blink