The Glass Room

The walls were made of glass.

Not literally, of course. But that’s how it felt every time Calla walked into the penthouse—like everything in her life could shatter at any second.

She should have never come back.

The view from the 47th floor was breathtaking. City lights shimmered like constellations scattered across the concrete sky. And yet, in that moment, all Calla could see was him—leaning against the counter, whiskey in hand, and secrets buried in his eyes.

“Calla.”
Her name sounded like smoke in his mouth.

“Laz,” she said, keeping her voice firm. “You shouldn’t have called me.”

“You answered.”

She hated that he was right.

It had been two years. Two years since she left him. Two years since the deal that nearly got them both killed. She had walked away with her life, and barely—barely—with her heart intact.

But now he looked the same. Worse, he looked familiar.

Same black shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Same scar under his left eye, from the night she pulled him out of a backroom deal gone wrong. Same smirk that meant danger was close.

She dropped her bag on the chair and stepped inside.

“I need ten minutes. Say what you need to say and I’m gone.”

Laz’s lips curled into something unreadable. “What if what I need takes longer?”

Ten minutes turned into thirty.

Calla stared at the folder he had slid across the table. Inside were photos—grainy, surveillance-type. A woman in a red coat. A man Calla recognized immediately: Viktor Roche.

Her stomach twisted.

“He’s alive?” she whispered.

“He never died. Faked it. Disappeared. Now he’s moving again—and he’s asking about you.”

Calla’s breath caught. Two years ago, Viktor had put a bounty on her head. She stole something he shouldn’t have had in the first place. A drive with enough evidence to bring down half the city’s underworld. She gave it to the Feds. Or thought she did.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“Help me stop him.”

She laughed, bitter and short. “You want me to trust you again? After you lied? After you disappeared when I needed you most?”

Laz stepped closer. “I did it to protect you. You don’t know what they—”

“Don’t you dare,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare pretend this was about me.”

The glass around them reflected twin images—her fury, his guilt. It was like watching ghosts argue in another life.

“I’m not that girl anymore, Laz.”

“I know. That’s why I came to you.”

The silence between them cracked like ice. In it, there was history. There was betrayal. And there was something else—something that hadn’t died, no matter how long it had been buried.

Calla picked up the photo of the red-coated woman.

“Who is she?”

Laz hesitated. “His daughter.”

Her heart thudded. “He’s using her?”

“She’s using him.”

“Even better,” she muttered.

They worked through the night.

Maps. Routes. Names. They cross-referenced timelines and activity spikes, following a thread that led straight into the city’s elite—a charity gala scheduled for tomorrow night. The red coat would be there. So would Viktor.

“We have one shot,” Laz said. “We go in, find the girl, get the drive, and end this.”

Calla hesitated. “You sure she has it?”

He nodded. “And she doesn’t know what it really contains.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Calla whispered. “Because none of us ever do.”

The next night was made of tension and velvet.

Calla descended the marble staircase in a black dress that made her feel like a weapon. Her hair was swept to the side, her lipstick like blood. She scanned the crowd, ears sharp beneath the music.

Then she saw her—the woman in the red coat, laughing beside a silver-haired man in a tailored suit.

Viktor Roche.

Time slowed.

Laz touched her back lightly. “We go now.”

They slipped through the crowd, weaving through art collectors and politicians. No one looked twice.

They cornered her near the rooftop terrace.

“Miss Roche,” Calla said smoothly. “Mind if we talk?”

The young woman turned, eyes sharp despite her age. “Who are you?”

“Someone trying to stop you from making a very expensive mistake.”

The scene turned quickly.

The girl reached into her coat—too fast.

Calla moved faster. Disarmed her. Pinned her against the wall.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t lie to me,” Calla hissed.

“She’s not lying,” came a voice.

Viktor stood behind them, gun drawn, smile razor-sharp. “But I am.”

Before Calla could move, Laz lunged.

A shot rang out.

Screams erupted inside the building.

Viktor dropped, clutching his arm. The girl ran. Laz followed.

Calla stared at Viktor. “Why?”

He grinned, even bleeding. “Because I knew you’d come back for it. Because I knew you couldn’t resist the game.”

“You destroyed people.”

“So did you.”

He wasn’t wrong. She hated how right he was.

By the time the authorities arrived, Viktor had passed out. The drive was recovered from the daughter’s coat—hidden inside the lining. And Laz…

Laz was waiting for her on the roof, jacket slung over one shoulder.

“Well,” he said. “Not quite ten minutes.”

She shook her head. “I should hate you.”

“You probably do.”

“Probably.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

Then she said: “Now what?”

Laz looked over the city. “Now we burn the glass room. And build something that doesn’t break so easily.”

She gave a small, tired smile. “Good luck with that.”

He turned to her, serious now. “Not without you.”

Calla closed her eyes.

The storm was over.

But the story had just begun.