The Glovemaker – Steeped in Shadows, Nearing the Flame

Alistair never carried the Van Horne name. He didn’t need to. The inheritance was already inside him.

As I write this, I’m taking a rare pause from the world of The Glovemaker—a novel that has lived in my head for years, and now, finally, lives on the page in all its darkness, complexity, and unnerving clarity. We’re deep in the third act now, and I can feel the pulse of it—tightening, daring me to look away. I don’t.

The story began with a simple idea: What if evil didn’t come from the shadows… but from old money, from elegance, from the polished surface of legacy? What if the real monster wasn’t hiding in a basement, but smiling at you across a dinner table?

The Glovemaker follows the FitzGerald family—a bloodline gilded in secrecy and rot. At the center: Victor, adopted by his uncle to preserve the Van Horne dynasty, and Estelle, his sister by birth, partner by design. Their bond is unshakable, their legacy unstoppable… until Alistair—Estelle’s son by another man—proves that not all darkness follows the same rules.

Importantly, Alistair is never given the Van Horne name. He’s a FitzGerald by necessity, a Van Horne by blood, but an outsider by fate—and that exclusion becomes fuel for the storm he unleashes.

In the chapter I just finished, a girl named Carly makes a choice that lands her in Alistair’s path. But something goes wrong—and for the first time, so does the plan. What follows is a midnight encounter with another monster entirely. One that doesn’t pretend.

There’s a party coming. A rooftop. A smile. A secret overheard. And by the end of it, someone’s going to learn the hard way what it means to matter—to the wrong person.

We are within striking distance of the end. The characters are no longer whispering—they’re screaming. And I know when I finally close the final chapter, they’ll still be with me. Some stories stay. Some claw.

Thank you for walking this road with me. If you like your fiction clean and safe, this isn’t the one. But if you want to step to the edge and look down—I’ll be waiting at the bottom.

— C.W. Hime