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.

That fake, too-high laugh she always uses when she's uncomfortable. She did it a lot when Nolan was around. Laughed at jokes that weren't funny, at compliments that were too close to flirtation. Laughed like she could hide in the sound of it.


I was standing at the top of the stairs, watching them in the living room.


She had one hand on a velvet fabric swatch, the other gripping her wine glass like it was a lifeline. Nolan was sitting a little too close on the couch, leaning in when he didn't need to. He touched her wrist when she gestured toward her new design, and I saw it—the stiff way she pulled away, the smile faltering for half a second.


She stood to walk to the console, probably to escape him, but he stood up too—faster—and followed her. Said something low, something I couldn't hear. Whatever it was made her shoulders tense.


I didn't think. I ran down the stairs, socks skidding over the polished floor.


They both turned. Her eyes were wide, glassy. His hand fell to his side, slow and casual like he hadn't just crossed every line.


"I said," I growled, "don't. Touch. Her."


Nolan's smile was slow. That cold, reptilian kind of smile.


"Protective, aren't we?" he said. "Just like your father."


That name felt like a slap. Mom flinched.


"You don't belong here," I hissed. "You never did."


He stared at me for a long second, then looked at her—like she was supposed to say something. Like she'd defend him.


She just stood there. Frozen. The wine glass trembling in her hand.


He chuckled once, like it was all a game, then picked up his coat and walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned his head.


When the door shut, she finally exhaled.


"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked.


She didn't answer right away. Just sank onto the couch, looking smaller than I'd ever seen her. Her voice was barely a whisper.


And for once, she didn't call me her baby.


Chapter 9 - Don’t Touch Her