Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE OF GLASS AND BONES
“You cooked,” Grant said. His voice was too steady. Too quiet.
Brielle blinked, adjusting her napkin. “Well, yes, Grant. It’s Thanksgiving. That’s what people do. Or did you expect us to eat takeout because your little project from the diner doesn’t know how to manage a kitchen staff?”
The silence in the dining room became absolute. Even the grandfather clock in the foyer seemed to hold its ticking.
Grant did not blink. “You told Mother you prepared this meal.”
“I coordinated it!” Brielle snapped, her cheeks flushing pink. “I oversaw the menu! I told the kitchen what standards are expected in this house! Just because she performed manual labor doesn’t mean—”
“Lydia was in the kitchen at four in the morning,” Grant interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. “Alone. Without assistance. While you slept in the west wing until noon. And then you stood up in front of twenty-one guests and accepted credit for her blisters.”
Celeste placed her wine glass down with a sharp clink. “Grant, do not make a scene in front of our associates. It is unseemly. The girl was hired to manage the household administration, part of which includes domestic duties. If she was clumsy, that is an unfortunate personal failing, not an indictment of your sister.”
Lydia wanted to disappear through the floorboards. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on her—some filled with condescending pity, others with cold amusement. This was why she had kept her mouth shut. This was why she endured the endless snide remarks about her posture, her clothes, her background. In the Holloway world, weakness was a currency used to buy humiliation.
Grant turned his head slowly toward his mother. The resemblance between them was striking—the same sharp cheekbones, the same high forehead—but where Celeste’s face radiated haughty entitlement, Grant’s expression was a steel wall.
“Mother,” Grant said softly. “Define domestic duties for me.”
“Don’t be pedantic, Grant.”
“No, define them. Does our employment contract with Lydia include third-degree burns as a mandatory performance metric?”
A corporate lawyer seated near the center coughed awkwardly into his napkin. Several guests stared intently at their wine glasses.
Lydia tugged gently on Grant’s sleeve, wincing as the torn silk scraped her raw skin. “Grant, please. Don’t. It’s fine. It was an accident. I slipped while draining the pasta stock. It’s nobody’s fault.”
Grant looked down at her. For the first time all evening, the clinical hardness in his eyes softened just a fraction—not into warmth, but into a piercing, protective focus that sent a shiver straight down her spine.
“It is not fine,” Grant said. He reached out, his large hand gently encompassing her uninjured wrist, his fingers avoiding the ruined skin with absolute precision. “Lydia, come with me.”
“Grant, the dinner isn’t finished—” Celeste began, standing up half an inch from her chair.
“The dinner is over,” Grant announced, his voice echoing off the walnut paneling. He looked around the table, meeting the eyes of every single person present—the business partners, the sycophants, the family members who lived off his trust funds and corporate generosity. “All of you. Leave.”
“Grant!” Celeste shrieked, her royal composure finally shattering. “You cannot throw us out of our own home on Thanksgiving! What will people say?”
“They will say whatever they like,” Grant replied, turning his back on his mother as he guided Lydia toward the double doors. “And if any of them ever speak to my wife again with the casual cruelty I have witnessed tonight, their contracts, their funding, and their employment with Holloway Enterprises will terminate before the clock strikes midnight. Good evening.”
The walk down the grand hallway felt like moving through a dream. Lydia’s legs felt hollow, her arms throbbed with a rhythmic, searing heat, and her mind was spinning so fast she couldn't catch a single coherent thought. Grant led her past the towering Christmas tree in the foyer, past the sweeping mahogany staircase, straight toward the private elevator that led to the master wing on the third floor.
Once the elevator doors slid shut, sealing out the murmurs of shock and outrage echoing from the dining room, Lydia finally let out a ragged breath.
“You shouldn't have done that,” she whispered, leaning her head against the wood-paneled wall. “Your mother... your family... they’ll never let you hear the end of it.”
Grant pressed the button for the third floor. He didn't look at her immediately; he stared at the glowing floor numbers above the door.
“Let them try,” he said quietly.
The elevator chimed, opening directly into the expansive, minimalist foyer of Grant’s private residence. Without a word, he led her down the hall to the en-suite master bathroom, a sprawling sanctuary of white marble, glass, and chrome.
May you like
He pushed open the door, stepped inside, and turned to face her. The contract had been clear: no romance, no shared spaces, no expectations. But as Grant reached for the first aid cabinet, Lydia realized that the man who had bought her debts wasn't just a cold-hearted pragmatist executing a business transaction.
He was about to see what she had been hiding behind closed doors for six long months.
