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.

Not because of the rain—it always rained. Not because of the power flickering in the hallway—that happened every storm. But because the silence felt too... precise.


Ava was humming in the bedroom, folding Adrien's uniforms. She wore one of my shirts again—God, she always did that. Said it made her feel safe. Her hair was damp from her bath, curling against her cheeks. She looked seventeen again. She looked like mine.


She smiled at me like nothing in the world could ever go wrong.


And still... something itched beneath my skin.


I poured myself a drink. Scotch, one ice cube. The way Nolan liked it.


He was here that evening. Said he came to drop off some mock-ups for the new campaign. But he didn't leave right away. He lingered. Talked to Ava too long. Looked at her too long. Like he wasn't seeing my wife—he was seeing something he believed belonged to him.


I just never thought he'd be stupid enough to act on it.


I went to check the locks that night. The doors. The windows. I'd never done that before. But something in the back of my mind was screaming, low and constant, like a violin string pulled tight.


I remember walking past Adrien's room. He was asleep, mouth slightly open, headphones in. Fourteen, quiet, brilliant, always curled away from the world. I watched him breathe. That steady rise and fall.


I went back to our room. Ava was already under the covers. She looked up when I entered, her voice soft.


I kissed her. Harder than I meant to. Like it was the last time. My hand lingered at the back of her neck.


She pulled away with a giggle. "What's gotten into you?"


At 2:47 AM, I heard something. A click. A shuffle. Then silence.


The hallway was dark. No thunder. No rain now. Just stillness.


I should have turned back. I should have held Ava tighter and ignored it.


I followed the sound toward the east wing. Past my office. Past the gallery. And that's where I saw it.


I reached to close it—when I felt it.


"I told you," Nolan whispered. "You don't deserve her."


I turned slowly. His face was calm. Almost serene.


"She was never yours," he said. "You just borrowed her."


He tilted his head, eyes shining. "No, Alex. I'm finally thinking clearly."


He pressed the barrel harder against my throat.


He didn't come to take my company. He didn't come for revenge.


And in his mind—killing me wasn't murder.


Chapter 3 - The Night Before