GLASS WALLS
The air in the Halloway Tower penthouse didn't circulate; it merely hovered, a stagnant, expensive soup of crushed gardenias, fifty-thousand-dollar floral arrangements, and the sharp, metallic tang of chilled silver. High above the rain-slicked arteries of Manhattan, the party was a symphony of sharp suits and forced laughter—a gilded cage where the birds were too busy admiring the quality of their own plumage to notice the bars.
Ethan Cole stood behind a bar carved from a single, cold slab of white Carrara marble. To the guests, he was a ghost in a crisp white shirt—a functional piece of the furniture designed to keep the champagne flowing and the secrets muffled. But Ethan was a hunter of details. He noticed the way the diamonds on a woman’s neck trembled when she lied, and the way the men checked their gold Patek Philippes, counting the minutes until they could escape their own prestige.
His own watch—the battered silver heirloom tucked into his pocket—felt like a lead weight. Every rhythmic tick against his thigh was a reminder of his mother’s heart, failing in a sterile room on 14th Street. The insurance company had sent their final notice that morning; the debt was no longer a number, it was a countdown.
Then, the crowd parted.
Sloane Halloway moved through the room like a secret everyone was trying to keep. Her dress was a slip of pale moonlight silk, and her dark hair was swept up, exposing the elegant, vulnerable line of her throat. But it was her eyes that stopped Ethan’s breath—the color of the Atlantic before a storm, turbulent and searching. She approached the bar, ignoring the sea of hands reaching out to claim her attention.
"Something that isn't champagne," she said. Her voice was a soft, melodic friction. "Something that tastes like it wasn't made in a boardroom."
Ethan didn't offer a practiced smile. He looked at her with the raw, unfiltered exhaustion of the Bowery. "That would be a Negroni. Bitter, sharp, and honest. But a girl like you isn't supposed to like honest things, is she?"
Sloane tilted her head, her gaze locking onto his. "A girl like me doesn't get a choice in what she likes. But tonight, I’m making an exception. Make it a double."
Champagne moved constantly around her—pressed into her hand, taken before it could warm, replaced without asking. Faces blurred together in practiced elegance. People smiled with their teeth, with their eyes, with nothing at all. Compliments landed lightly and slid off just as quickly, leaving no mark.
She had been touched more times in the last hour than she could count—hands brushing her arm, her shoulder, her back—as if proximity to her was something to collect.
It was her birthday.
The word meant nothing in a room like this.
Across the glass walls, New York stretched endlessly, glittering in quiet defiance of the curated world inside. The city didn’t care about guest lists or legacy. It moved because it had to. It breathed because it was alive.
Inside, everything felt staged.
Sloane adjusted the diamond at her throat. It sat perfectly, exactly where it had been placed hours ago. Nothing shifted unless it was meant to.
Her father’s presence arrived before his voice did—subtle, controlled, inevitable. A hand at the small of her back, grounding and guiding all at once.
She didn’t turn.
She didn’t need to.
The weight of him was familiar.
Expected.
She allowed herself to be repositioned slightly, angled toward a conversation she had no interest in joining. Laughter rose around her again, timed almost too well.
For a moment, she wondered what would happen if she simply walked away.
Not excused herself.
Not smiled.
Just… left.
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
Then she moved.
Not abruptly. Not enough to draw attention. Just a slow drift through the room, her steps measured, her expression unchanged. She passed through clusters of conversation like smoke—present, but untouchable.
No one stopped her.
They never did.
Not when she played her part correctly.
The glass doors stood slightly open. Just enough for the night air to slip through in thin, cooling threads.
Sloane stepped outside.The air on the rooftop was bitingly cold, a violent contrast to the stifling, perfume-choked heat of the gala below. The city hummed beneath them, a sprawling beast of light and steel. Sloane stood by the stone parapet, her silk dress whipping like a frantic wing in the New York wind. She was shivering, her small frame vibrating with a tension that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Ethan stepped out onto the gravel, the crunch of his boots the only sound against the city’s roar. He watched her for a moment—the silhouette of a girl who had everything, looking like she had nothing at all. The wind caught his shirt, the cold biting into his skin, but he didn't feel it. He was focused on the way she gripped the stone railing until her knuckles were white.
"You should be inside," he said, his voice cutting through the howl of the wind. "People are looking for the birthday girl. They want to toast to your future."
"My future," she whispered, not turning around. "My future is a pre-written script Every line, every move, every smile is calculated for maximum shareholder value. I can't breathe in there. Every time I inhale, I feel like I’m breathing in my father’s expectations. It’s like being buried alive in gold."
She hugged her arms, her shoulders shaking. Without a word, Ethan stripped off his dark blazer—a heavy, charcoal wool that smelled of the cedar chest in his cramped apartment and the faint, lingering scent of the jazz club. He stepped behind her and draped it over her shoulders. The warmth of his body heat hit her instantly, and for a second, she leaned back, almost touching his chest. He could feel the fine, electric trembling of her spine against his sternum.
"I can't take this," she protested, even as she pulled the lapels tighter around her, burying her chin in the rough fabric. "You’ll freeze. You're just in a shirt."
"I’m from the Bowery, Miss. We’re born cold. We don't feel it the same way you do". She didnt recognise who he was. But she remembered noticing him earlier—how he didn’t quite belong, how he watched instead of performed. The bartender from earlier ago. There was something in his eyes—not judgment, not quite. Just clarity. Like he saw through the glitter and didn’t care enough to pretend otherwise.
They stood in silence for a moment.
The kind that wasn’t awkward.
Just… quiet.
“I’m Sloane,” she said eventually.
“I know”
She raised a brow.
“Your name’s been said about fifty times in the last hour,” he added. “Kind of hard to miss.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“For you or for me?”
She almost laughed.
Almost.
They talked after that—not about the party, not about the people inside. About small things. Real things. Music. The city. Places that stayed open too late and served terrible coffee.
It felt… easy.
Too easy.
And that scared her.
Another gust of wind cut through the rooftop, colder now.
She shivered.
“You should head back in,” Ethan said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I figured.”
Reluctantly, she slipped off his jacket and handed it back.
But as she did, he took it—and in the same motion, subtly let something slide deeper into the lining.
His watch.
She didn’t notice.
“Keep it,” he said.
“I’ll return it.”
“You don’t know where to find me.”
She met his gaze.
“I’ll figure it out.”
For a second, something flickered between them.
Unspoken.
Then someone called her name from inside.
The spell broke.
She turned, stepping back toward the glass doors.
“Happy birthday, Sloane.”
She paused.
Looked back.
“Thank you… whoever you are.”
“Ethan............Ethan Cole"
She nodded once. Then she disappeared into the light.
The jacket stayed with her. Draped over a chair in her room, untouched but never ignored. Days passed. She didn’t return it.
Didn’t forget it either.
The watch revealed itself later—caught in the lining, heavier than she expected. Simple. Worn. Real in a way most things in her life weren’t.
She turned it over in her palm.
Considered.
Then made a decision.
Three nights later, the Bowery was in its usual state of beautiful, gritty decay. Inside the dive bar Ethan worked.. the lighting was amber and low, the air smelling of woodsmoke and old dreams. Rhys, Ethan’s workmate—a lean, twitchy drummer who could find a rhythm in a leaking faucet—was polishing glasses with a rhythmic flick of his wrist.
The door chime rang, a high, lonely sound. Rhys froze, his rag mid-air. "Uh, Ethan? I think a literal angel just wandered into the wrong neighborhood. Or a very lost billionaire."
Behind the bar, a woman slowed, eyes sharpening with interest.
“Think you took a wrong turn,” she said.
Sloane placed the watch gently on the counter.
“I’m looking for Ethan.”
That was enough.
Recognition passed between a few faces.
The air changed.
The woman smirked slightly, leaning back.
“Well,” she muttered, “this should be interesting.”
Ethan turned slowly. Sloane was standing by the counter, clutching his dark blazer to her chest like a shield. She looked entirely out of place in her tailored wool coat, yet she walked toward the bar with a purpose that silenced the room.
"You left this," she said, laying the jacket on the wood. "And your watch was in the pocket. I didn't want to leave it to the maids."
"Funny," Ethan murmured, his eyes dancing. "I didn't even realize it was missing."
"Liar," she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips.
As the night grew late, the conversation drifted into the deep, dark waters of their lives. Sloane sat on a barstool, nursing a drink Ethan had made her "on the house."
Rhys leaned against the bar, watching openly now.
“I’m suddenly very invested in this,” he said.
Ethan didn’t look away from Sloane.
“Go away, Rhys.”
“Not a chance.”
Sloane almost smiled.The piano drew her without asking.
It sat in the corner, quiet but present.
She approached it slowly, her reflection faint in its worn surface.
“You play?” he asked."Not anymore. My mother used to play," she said suddenly, her gaze fixed on the scarred upright piano "Every morning. It was the only time the house felt alive. Since she died, the piano in our house has stayed locked. My father says the sound is a distraction."
"It’s not a distraction," Ethan said, stepping out from behind the bar. "It’s a heartbeat."
Sloane straightened , drawn to the instrument. "You’re a pianist. A real one. Why are you here, Ethan?"
"I was," Ethan said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Until my mother’s heart started failing. Now, these hands are for counting bills I can't pay. The hospital doesn't take sonatas as payment, Sloane. They want gold."
Sloane’s face softened with a sudden, sharp pain. "Ethan... I didn't know. Let me help. I have accounts... I could pay the arrears tomorrow. It wouldn't even show up on my father’s radar."
Ethan’s back stiffened. The music stopped abruptly. "No. I don't take charity, Sloane. Especially not from someone who is being sold off herself. I won't be another debt you owe your father."
From the end of the bar, Chavez, the owner, let out a dry, raspy chuckle. "Kid’s got too much pride for his own good, Princess. He’d rather starve in a suit than eat for free in a t-shirt.
She pressed a key.
The sound lingered longer than she expected.
Something in her chest shifted.
He sat beside her without comment, his hands resting lightly on the keys.
“Then don’t think about it,” he said. “Just play.”
She hesitated.
Then did.
The first notes were uneven.
Uncertain.
He followed—not leading, not correcting. Just steady enough to hold the space.
The music built slowly.
Not perfect.
But honest.
Sloane’s shoulders loosened. The tension she carried so carefully began to slip, piece by piece.
For a moment, nothing else existed.
When the last note faded, she let out a quiet breath.
“I forgot how that feels.”
“You didn’t forget,” he said softly. “You just stopped.”
She looked at him then. Really looked.
Too close now. The space between them narrowing without permission.
Something unspoken moved there—
fragile. Dangerous.
“Ahem.” Rhys again. Of course.
“Not to interrupt whatever this is,” he said, “but people still need drinks.”
The moment broke. Sloane shook her head, a quiet laugh escaping before she could stop it. Together, they began to play. It was simple at first—clumsy, hesitant—but as the melodies intertwined, the bar seemed to disappear. She looked at him, her breath hitching as their shoulders brushed.
"I'm leaving soon, Ethan," she confessed, her eyes wet. "The engagement to Caspian Redfellow is final. Switzerland is a beautiful cage, but it’s still a cage. My father is moving the flight to Friday."
She didn't know why she had said it. Not that it even mattered to tell him about her private life . Yet she had said it. But why?
Ethan turned his head. They were so close he could see the amber flecks in her dark eyes and the way her pulse jumped in the hollow of her throat. The gravity of the room pulled them together—a slow-motion collision of two different worlds. He leaned in, his gaze flickering to her lips. It was an almost-kiss that tasted of salt, rain, and the desperation of the condemned.
A floorboard creaked in the back. Sloane pulled back abruptly, the spell shattered like glass on stone.
"I should go," she whispered, her voice trembling as she stood up. "Before the sun catches me here and realizes I'm not who I'm supposed to be."
She disappeared into the morning fog, leaving Ethan alone with the ticking of his silver watch and the cold, crushing realization that the only way to save her was to become the very thing he hate
