Chapter 5: The Glass House
"Let them write whatever they want," I said, stopping ten feet away from her.
Rebecca’s chest rose and fell beneath the intricate lace of her gown. She took a step forward, her manicured hands curling into tight fists at her sides. For the first time since I had met her at a charity gala in Manhattan two years ago, the polite, polished socialite was completely gone. In her place was a woman whose carefully constructed world was slipping through her fingers, and she hated the architect of her failure more than she loved the facade itself.
"You are embarrassing me," Rebecca whispered, her voice trembling with restrained fury. "After everything I’ve built for us—after the society board placements, the gala sponsorships, the house renovation—you’re going to throw it all away over a brat who isn't even your biological—"
She stopped. The word hung in the humid garden air, sharp and poisonous, refusing to go back down her throat.
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the string quartet, realizing something was deeply wrong inside the venue, had finally stopped playing.
I didn't flinch. I didn't shout. I simply looked at her—really looked at her—taking in the expensive veil, the designer dress, the flawless makeup, and the cold, calculating void underneath.
"Say it again, Rebecca," I said quietly.
Rebecca’s face lost every trace of color. The illusion of perfection cracked all the way down the center, leaving jagged edges exposed to the sunlight. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the distant gates where the first of our bewildered guests were starting to walk toward their cars.
"Mark, listen to me," she said, her voice dropping into a desperate, honeyed register as she took a tentative step forward, reaching out a slender hand. "I didn't mean... the stress of the day is getting to us both. We’re exhausted. Let’s go inside, have a glass of wine, and talk about this like adults."
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"There is nothing to talk about," I said, turning my back on her and walking toward my car. "The locks on the house were changed ten minutes ago by the digital service. Your bags are in the guest lodge by the gate. Don't come home, Rebecca."
I got into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and looked in the rear-view mirror. Emily was watching a cartoon on the screen, her thumb lightly touching the corner of her flower crown. Through the front windshield, Rebecca stood alone on the stone paving under the white floral arch, watching our tail-lights kick up dust as we drove away from the wedding of the year.
