Chapter 38 House Of Glass
Mark’s POV
I should’ve known Davenport wouldn’t wait for me to breathe.
The boardroom smelled of nerves and expensive coffee.
Twelve pairs of eyes watched me from across the long glass table, some loyal, some already sharpening their knives.
I’d rehearsed this presentation for nights, building every slide like it was a lifeline to keep Simmons Group from collapsing.
“Our recovery framework,” I began, voice even, “is projected to stabilize the company’s liquidity ratio within the next quarter. The acquisition with Aster Holdings will…”
The screen flickered.
The charts blinked out, replaced by a wall of text.
Emails.
Hundreds of them.
It's subject lines filled the projector like gunfire:
From: Mark Simmons
To: Davenport Holdings
“They’ll never see it coming. We just have to bury the old contracts.”
From: Mark Simmons
To: Internal Board
“We can manipulate the stock long enough to make it look clean.”
Murmurs exploded around the table.
Cameras clicked. The reporters in the back who were supposed to cover the recovery announcement stood, recording.
“What the hell is this?” I snapped. My laptop wasn’t even connected to the screen anymore.
Someone had hijacked the feed.
Collins moved fast, disconnecting the cables. “It’s live, someone’s streaming it,” he hissed.
“Kill it!”
“I’m trying, sir!”
But the damage was done. The journalists were already pushing forward, shouting questions over the chaos.
“Mr. Simmons, are these authentic?”
“Did you falsify reports?”
“Was Davenport right about your financial misconduct?”
The name Davenport hit like a bullet.
I felt it, fury twisting up my spine, the bitter taste of betrayal I’d swallowed too many times.
The board members shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting anywhere but toward me.
One of them, Mr. Hale, coughed softly. “Mark… this looks bad. The shareholders—”
“Enough.” My voice came out cold, unfamiliar. “We all know what this is. A setup.”
But I could feel it, the foundation cracking beneath me. Davenport was always one step ahead, and this time she’d chosen the perfect theater.
The perfect humiliation.
By the time I stepped outside, the air was thick with cameras and flashbulbs. Reporters crowded the steps, screaming questions, fighting to shove their mics close.
Then I heard it.
A smooth, measured voice, too familiar to be a stranger.
“Let’s not judge my brother too harshly.”
Brother.
My blood turned to ice.
There he was, Daniel Simmons.
Standing on the marble steps like he’d never vanished, his smile polished for the press, his tone dripping with fake grace.
“It’s been too long, Mark,” he said, turning toward the cameras. “I’ve been overseas, rebuilding myself after… certain family misunderstandings.”
Cameras went wild.
My pulse was hammered. The deal had been clear, he was paid to disappear. I’d made sure of it years ago, when his addiction almost ruined our father’s legacy.
And now he was here, playing the saint.
“Daniel,” I said through clenched teeth.
“This isn’t your stage.”
He smiled wider, voice carrying for the cameras. “Oh, but it is. Family always has a role to play. Maybe it’s time people saw the full Simmons picture. After all,” he leaned closer, his breath reeking faintly of mint and satisfaction
“...another drug addict’s name can rule too.”
He hugged me suddenly. Cameras flashed like lightning. I stood frozen, my fists clenched at my sides.
“Let me help you, brother,” he whispered against my ear. “I’ll be your salvation or your ruin. You get to choose.”
Then he turned back to the crowd, basking in the noise.
The reporter nearest to us, a woman with a honeyed smile and predator’s eyes, raised her mic.
“Mr. Simmons, do you confirm these emails are real? Would you agree to a DNA test to prove you’re related?”
Daniel laughed, the sound smooth as glass. “Why not? Family should never hide from family.”
He knew exactly what he was doing, painting me into a corner. Every headline tomorrow would read:
MARK SIMMONS EXPOSED – BROTHER RETURNS AMID SCANDAL.
My chest burned. I turned to Collins, who had just shoved through the press. His face was pale. “Mark, we traced the emails. They came from Becca’s old system.”
I froze. “What?”
“Same encryption. Same sender ID. The one linked to her name.”
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
Of course it couldn’t be her. Becca had risked everything to protect me. She was fragile, yes, but she wasn’t…
A flash of movement cut my thoughts short.
Becca.
She was running up the steps, Danielle beside her. The look on her face, worried, desperate, it made the world tilt.
“Mark, I came as soon as I saw the news…”
“Don’t.” My voice came out harsher than I intended. “Not another word.”
She stopped mid-step, confusion flickering in her eyes.
Collins moved closer, whispering, “Sir, she’s the only one with access to that system.”
Becca’s gaze darted between us. “What system?”
My anger surged, fed by the humiliation, the betrayal, the cameras still flashing in the background.
“Don’t play innocent,” I snapped. “The leaks…the emails..everything came from you.”
Her eyes widened. “From me?”
“From your address!” I shouted. “From your account, Becca! You think I wouldn’t find out?”
The reporters had turned their cameras toward us now.
“I came here to support you,” she said quietly.
Her voice was trembling, but her eyesstill held something fierce. “And this is what you think of me?”
“Tell me it’s not true,” I demanded. “Tell me Davenport didn’t use you!”
She stepped closer, her voice breaking. “Mark, listen to yourself. You’re blaming everyone except the person who’s been destroying you from the start.”
“Becca”
The slap came before I saw it coming.
It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t even loud. But it stopped everything, the noise, the crowd, the world.
Her hand trembled slightly as she lowered it.
“You really don’t know who your enemies are, do you?” she whispered, eyes shining with something beyond hurt. “You just know how to push away the ones who would’ve stayed.”
Then she turned and walked away. Danielle followed, throwing one last glare in my direction that burned.
I stood there, jaw tight, feeling the weight of a thousand lenses pointed at me. Every instinct screamed to chase her, but I couldn’t. Pride had its claws in me too deep.
When the reporters finally dispersed and Collins cleared the way to the car, I noticed something glinting on the marble floor.
A hairpin.
Delicate, gold, with a tiny cracked pearl in the center.
Becca’s.
I crouched, picking it up slowly, turning it over in my hand.
It smelled faintly like her shampoo, wild cherry and something softer underneath. I slipped it into my pocket without thinking.
A fragment of her. A reminder of everything I couldn’t protect.
As the car door shut behind me, I looked out at the glass building of Simmons Tower, its windows reflecting the city like a thousand watchful eyes.
For the first time, I realized how fragile everything I’d built truly was.
One strike, one leak, one betrayal,
and even a house made of glass can shatter without warning.