Chapter Two
Serena
Glass shatters.
The sound slices through the house like a blade, and my mother’s cries ricochet off the walls. Her voice is sharp, raw, almost inhuman in its desperation.
“You’re fucking her again?”
Her words are like poison spilling into the room, venom wrapped in grief.
I freeze in the hallway, my back pressed against the cold wall, breath caught in my throat. I’m transported back to being ten years old again, the little girl who always listened through closed doors, who learned early on that love, in my family, comes with shattered glass and whispered betrayals.
My heart pounds against my ribs, a dull ache forming behind my eyes.
Not again. Please, not again.
Inside the kitchen, my father’s voice is calm, so calm it chills my bones.
“Keep your voice down. There’s no point in this scene.”
His indifference is a slap harder than any raised hand.
My mother doesn’t listen. She never does when she’s like this, when her carefully painted facade crumbles and the real woman underneath claws her way out. Her words hit harder this time, sharper, more bitter.
“Is it because she looks better than me? Is that it?” Her voice cracks.
Oh God, stop.
“Guess what, Thomas?” she spits his name like it’s a curse. “I had the child you fucking wanted! My body changed, asshole. That’s what happens when you grow life inside you!”
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me.
She means me.
This isn’t the first time she’s said it, that I ruined her body, that my existence left scars she never wanted.
But hearing it again now, in the dead of morning, under the sterile kitchen light, makes my stomach turn.
I press my palm against the wall to steady myself. The old ache blooms in my chest.
Maybe she regrets me. Maybe she always did.
I want to turn away, to crawl back into my room and bury myself under the sheets. But something keeps me rooted here, like some part of me needs to hear this. Maybe because, deep down, I’ve always believed it.
I hear my father sigh, and his voice comes out soft but sharp, like a scalpel.
“Enough, Lauren.” He says her name with exhaustion, not love.
“Stop the theatrics.”
Throats tighten, words stick. My mother’s breathing is ragged, like she’s choking on her own heartbreak. I know this script by heart. They do this every few months. Sometimes it’s over someone new, sometimes over nothing at all. It’s like they’ve forgotten how to love each other without war.
Or maybe they never knew.
I step into the kitchen before I hear something I can’t un-hear.
Before I find out just how deep the regret runs.
The room falls silent when I enter.
My father straightens his tie like nothing happened, as if the chaos is just background noise. His expression switches, like flicking on a mask.
“Hi, honey,” he says, casual, like he’s greeting me at breakfast. He presses a cold kiss to my cheek. His cologne clings to me, suffocating.
“Did we wake you?” He smiles, but his eyes are dead. “Your mother was clumsy and shattered one of the glasses. A shame. It was a nice pair.”
Gosh.
My mother is still standing there, her eyes locked onto his, seething. Her hands are shaking, but she holds her head high. She doesn’t even glance at me. No “good morning,” no “I’m sorry you heard this.” Just a scoff, sharp as a knife, and she turns her back on both of us.
I watch her walk away, her silhouette stiff, her steps echoing down the hallway.
The pain in my chest presses harder. My throat closes.
She doesn’t look at me. She never really does.
And somehow, that hurts more than all the shattered glass on the floor.
“Don’t mind her, honey,” my father says, his voice smooth, detached, as if my mother’s breakdown was just another Monday morning inconvenience.
He pours himself a glass of wine, at 9 a.m. The irony burns in my throat, but I don’t say a word.
“She’s probably having one of her episodes.
I’ll call her doctor to adjust her meds. ”
Her meds.
That’s how they always explain her away. Meds. Mental health. Postpartum. PTSD. Whatever label makes it easier for him to wash his hands of her. Of us.
Once upon a time, my mother was someone.
When she lived in London, she was the Lauren Ashworth, the forensic psychologist who cracked a case that saved the Crown’s reputation.
A national hero, praised in headlines, envied by her colleagues.
But then she met my father. Or maybe I should say, he chose her.
A one-night stand, a few cocktails, and then she found out she was pregnant with me.
He asked her to move to New York, told her he’d take care of everything. And he did.
He took her life, her career, her spark.
She worked from home for a while, still chasing justice from behind her laptop, still chasing the woman she used to be. But once she gave birth to me, that woman died too. Or maybe she killed her herself, the moment she looked in the mirror and realized she couldn’t go back.
They say she had postpartum depression, PTSD from her old cases, but sometimes I wonder if I’m the real diagnosis.
Maybe I was the trauma.
I went into forensic psychology for her.
Not because I loved it, but because I loved her, or at least, I wanted her to love me.
Maybe if I became the daughter she dreamed of, I could replace what she lost. Maybe I could be the cure.
But you can’t heal someone who refuses to see you.
“I have a meeting in ten,” my father mutters, checking his Rolex, already halfway out the door. His voice is brisk, like he’s scheduling a haircut. “Family dinner at seven. John told me some good news.”
He winks at me.
My father leaves, and the house falls into its usual hollow silence. I imagine my mother is locked in her room, crying into her designer sheets. But I won’t go to her. I don’t do that anymore.
When I was ten, I tried.
I made her a painting, a stupid, childish sketch of the two of us holding hands, smiling. I was so proud of it. I thought it would fix everything, glue the cracks back together. I gave it to her like a peace offering.
She tore it into four pieces.
I counted them.
Then she looked me straight in the eyes and said:
“I hate you. You took everything from me.”
I cried so hard that night my lungs hurt.
My father wiped my tears and whispered, “She’s unwell, Serena. She didn’t mean it.”
But I know better now.
Love isn’t forced.
Not even from a mother.
Some things stay broken.
I open my laptop, the screen lighting up my face in the dim kitchen.
My inbox is filled with meaningless emails, interviews, formalities.
One of them is from the FBI. My father’s best friend “recommended” me for a position as a forensic psychologist. The job I don’t want but feel trapped into taking.
They’ll force me to work or force me to marry. Those are my options.
I hover over the file on my desktop titled “My Book.”
A draft I haven’t touched in months.
It’s my secret escape, a fantasy romance where the man burns the whole world to save the woman he loves.
That’s what I want. Not the marriage contracts, not the forced dinners. Not the cold kisses on the cheek or the therapy sessions filled with lies.
Real love. Desperate, dangerous, reckless love.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone has ever truly loved me.
My mother didn’t.
My father loves the idea of me, a Beaumont daughter, a shiny toy to parade.
You’ll smile at me, hold the door open, and my stupid brain will think you care. But no one ever stays. No one ever chooses me.
Except in my book.
In there, he would burn the world for me.
I open my laptop again, trying to silence the ache in my chest by drowning in notifications. One new email pops up. My eyes blur for a second before I blink the tears away. Olivia Backer from the FBI Human Resources Division.
I click.
Dear Serena Beaumont,
Congratulations on your successful application! We are pleased to welcome you to the team.
We were particularly impressed by your qualifications, and we appreciate Chief John Archibald’s strong recommendation on your behalf. It’s clear that you will be a valuable addition to our organization.
Your start date is confirmed for Monday. We look forward to working with you.
I stare at the screen. My fingers tighten around the laptop edges until my knuckles ache.
We appreciate John Archibald’s strong recommendation.
Of course they do.
This wasn’t about me being good enough. It never is.
I could’ve graduated top of my class, which I did. I could’ve bled for this career, studied until my eyes burned, which I did. But in the end, his name opened the door, not mine.
The Chief of Detectives made sure I got the job. Just like my father planned.
The illusion of choice is still a freaking cage.
Still, a part of me feels something, relief? Pride?
I don’t know. It’s a tiny flicker of warmth I haven’t felt in a while. I guess it’s nice to be wanted, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.
I grab my phone and call Sienna. She picks up on the first ring.
“I hate men,” she snaps without even saying hello. Her voice is sharp, but I hear the crack beneath it. “Especially ones whose names start with K.”
I almost laugh. That’s so Sienna, leading with chaos, hiding her heartbreak under a joke.
“I got the job,” I say softly, needing to say it out loud to someone who actually gives a damn.
There’s a beat of silence, and then a scream so loud I wince, my ear practically ringing.
“SERENA! Oh my God! We’re celebrating tonight! I’m coming to pick you up right now!”
I can’t help it, I smile. For the first time today, my lips curve into something that isn’t forced.
“Give me ten minutes.”
I hang up before she can protest.
I stand in front of the mirror and look at the girl staring back at me.
Mascara. A little highlighter. Gloss. That’ll do. No need for my mother’s version of beauty tonight, heels and perfect curls, lipstick sharp as a blade.
I pull on my favorite denim shorts and a T-shirt that says “Hot Girls Read Books.”
White sneakers. Ponytail. Done.
My mother would have a meltdown if she saw me walking out like this. Even for coffee, she expects me to look like I’m about to step onto the cover of Vogue. But tonight? Tonight she’s too busy crying over her broken marriage to notice what her daughter is doing. Or wearing. Or feeling.
Good. Let her stay in her world. I’ll stay in mine.
I grab my bag and head for the door. A tiny voice in the back of my head tells me I should check on her before I leave.
I don’t.
Instead, I shut the door behind me and lock it.
Sienna’s car is already outside, engine humming, windows down. She waves at me with that big, reckless smile like she’s about to steal me away from the mess I’m drowning in.