The Glass House
Bettina Wolfe
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
A Note from Bettina
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Glass House
Copyright © 2020 Bettina Wolfe
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.
ISBN-13: 9780578735641 (paperback)
Cover design by Stuart Bache
Created with Vellum
To my mom, with love.
The cruelest lies are often told in silence.
—Robert Louis Stevenson
Prologue
I gaze at your body lying twisted on the ground. It wasn't supposed to end this way. I promised you a life of love, not pain—a life of happiness, not sorrow.
Your suffering is over and has now shifted to me.
I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I don’t know if I will ever forgive myself—this house or this place.
We were meant to be together forever.
1
Valerie
I had never believed in love at first sight until the day that mysterious stranger walked into my life.
We met when I worked as a cocktail server in Vegas, the absolute worst job on the planet for someone like me, but I needed money, and the money was good. I don’t know how I tolerated the nonsense that went along with it… the drunkards, the serial cheaters, and the married old geezers who thought they could buy you with a wad of hundreds or a stack of chips. At times it was too much to handle.
Then one night, David appeared. Not only was he handsome, but there was also something different about him. He was unlike the others who visited the lounge. He wasn’t your typical obnoxious drunk, slurring his words while snapping his fingers in the air, demanding service. I guessed him to be in his late forties, give or take, judging from the flecks of gray in his thick head of hair. And I didn't notice a gold band or the telltale white line around his ring finger.
I remember him sitting there through the haze of cigarette and cigar smoke, dressed casually in dark jeans and a black polo shirt. He kept to himself while sipping an almost empty glass of Merlot. The moment I approached him, he smiled genuinely, deep lines wrinkling around dark brown, almond-shaped eyes.
“Care for another?” I asked, returning a slight smile of my own.
“Sure, thanks,” he replied, swirling the last of the wine in his glass.
As I walked away, I could feel his eyes on me watching my every move. Typically when men stared, it would creep me out, especially the way they would leer at me up and down. Of course, the ridiculous uniforms we had to wear didn't help either, too short, too tight, and way too revealing for my taste. It was the most uncomfortable piece of polyester I ever wore that didn’t breathe in the desert heat. I was a hot, sweaty mess in that costumed get-up. But it was only for a year—at least that's what I had told myself.
I first started working at the Sky Royal Hotel as a front desk representative. That uniform, a navy blue pantsuit—another polyester garment, better matched my personality—buttoned-up and conservative. But Cindy, my roommate, had been a cocktail server for two years and made triple my salary. While she collected tips, hundreds a day for slinging cocktails, I checked guests in and out of their rooms for a few hundred a week.
“Just apply for the darn job before someone else fills the last opening,” Cindy had said, shaking a bottle of crimson nail polish. “Do you know how many girls are vying for the position? Besides, I’m tired of hearing you complain about never having enough money,” she quipped. She quickly finished painting her long pointy nails as she prepared for her shift.
“Okay, okay,” I groaned, “I’ll apply.”
Pursing her lips, she blew short breaths of air onto each of her fingernails. After waving her hands in the air, she strategically grabbed her keys and handbag, rushing out the door.
Two weeks later, thanks to Cindy, I was the newest yet one of the oldest cocktail servers in the Crystal Lounge. While I was thirty-two, I was thankful I could pass for twenty-five. Cindy had warned me about the ‘secret rules’ of the server girls. First rule—no one over thirty ever qualified for the job. Second rule—no fraternizing with the hotel guests. If you did, you had better keep it to yourself, and if it went any further, never kiss and tell. It was grounds for immediate termination.
Thank goodness those days are behind me. I’ve traded toe-pinching high heels and itchy uniforms for a wardrobe of flip-flops, T-shirts, and shorts.
When I had brought David his second glass of Merlot that night, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a business card.
“I hope this doesn't sound too forward, but I’d like to take you out for dinner sometime,” he said, gazing up at me.
I stood there, balancing the tray in my hand, contemplating a reply as he stared at my chest.
“I'm here for the week, so you only have five days to choose from.” Squinting his eyes, he flashed me a half smile. “Sorry, I don’t have my reading glasses with me. Is it Valerie?”
I realized he was trying to read my name tag pinned slightly above my left breast.
“Yes, it is,” I replied, inching my free hand to my chest. “But my friends call me Val.”
As I leaned over, setting the glass on the table, he reached up and placed his card on my tray.
“Nice to meet you, Val.” Another
