**The Gilded Cage**
Emily slipped into the flat, quietly toeing off her shoes, wincing as the new heels peeled raw skin from her blistered feet.
“Back so soon? Run away? Didn’t fancy the wedding?” Her mum peeked out from the living room.
“Why aren’t you asleep? Waiting up to interrogate me?” Emily snapped.
Her mum pursed her lips and retreated. Guilt pricked at her. She’d been rude—her mum just wanted to hear about the night. Sighing, Emily followed her in, sinking onto the sofa and wrapping an arm around her.
“Don’t butter me up. If you don’t want to talk, fine. I’ll get the gossip from Charlotte’s mum anyway.”
“Mum, sorry. I’m exhausted, my feet are killing me. The venue was posh—fifty guests, maybe more. Loud, fun. Charlotte looked stunning in her white dress. The groom’s fit too…”
“Then why’d you leave early?” her mum cut in.
“They were all so… *pompous*. Like strutting peacocks. Not my crowd. Plus, I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
“Where? It’s Sunday,” her mum frowned.
“Exactly. I’ll explain in the morning. Right, I’m off for a shower.” She kissed her mum’s cheek and ducked into her room.
She ripped off the dress—cheap next to the others’ designer gowns—and scrubbed her skin raw in the shower, desperate to erase the memory of the sweaty bloke who’d dragged her onto the dance floor. He’d ignored her protests, clamped her against his belly, his damp palms sliding over her back. Her shoes bit into her heels. She’d barely endured the song.
Later, he’d trapped her at a table, refilling her wine. No one noticed. Charlotte, her only friend there, was busy playing hostess. Only once had she caught another man’s gaze—interested, but he’d done nothing to rescue her.
Eventually, she’d bolted. Taxi home. No, she didn’t want a wedding like that—scripted, performative. She’d felt like an extra in someone else’s show.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Music, clinking glasses, laughter still echoed in her skull. That man’s eyes flickered in her mind. *Wish he’d asked me to dance instead.* She rolled over, scowling.
———
Warm September bled into a damp, grey October. Charlotte returned from her honeymoon and invited Emily over.
Emily wanted to see how the other half lived but refused to arrive empty-handed. After class, she ducked into a bakery for Charlotte’s favourite cupcakes. As she stepped out, she collided with a man. He moved aside with a chuckle.
“It *is* you,” he said.
Emily looked up—*him*. The one from the wedding. Shock rooted her to the spot.
“Come on, you’re blocking the door,” he laughed, tugging her aside. “You vanished like Cinderella. I didn’t even catch your name.”
“No glass slipper left behind,” she managed.
“Need a lift? I’ve got the car.”
“I’m visiting Charlotte—the bride. You’re not shopping?” She eyed his empty hands.
“After bumping into you? Worth skipping cupcakes.” He nodded at her bakery box. “Come on.” He guided her to his Range Rover.
She’d never ridden in anything so plush. He drove smoothly, not asking for directions. Her pulse spiked.
“I know where Charlotte lives. Her husband and I are business partners.” He glanced at her. “Relax.”
As they drove, he introduced himself: James, divorced, owned a golden retriever…
*Rich, handsome, successful. Polite. Exactly what Mum wants.*
———
“You’re late,” her mum fretted when she returned.
“Stopped by Charlotte’s. You should see her place—” She indulged her mum’s curiosity, describing the mansion, Charlotte’s tan in peak autumn.
“How’d you get there? It’s miles!”
“A friend drove me.” She braced for the interrogation.
“From the wedding? One of *them*, I hope? Did you give him your number?”
“Yes, *Mum*, I *forced* it on him,” she deadpanned.
“Don’t sass. A proper man notices you, and you—”
“I gave him my number. Happy? Can the inquisition end?”
“Why the attitude?”
“I’m sick of your *questions*. D’you *want* me married off?”
“Don’t be daft. I want you set up right, like Charlotte. Not scraping by with some broke student.”
“When have we ever ‘scraped by’?”
Her mum deflated. “Alright, I exaggerated. But… you don’t fancy him at all?”
“Stop. I’m not ready.”
Her phone rang—James. Saved by the bell.
“Not waiting till Sunday,” he said. “Fancy horse riding? Never tried? I’ll pick you up at eleven.”
She agreed, only later realising they’d switched to first names.
———
The ride was magical. James eased her into his world—effortless charm, doors opened by his smile. She basked in his attention.
Next weekend, he appeared at their flat with flowers and cake. She cringed at their shabby carpets, peeling wallpaper. He didn’t blink. Joked, listened, said his childhood home felt just as cosy. Her mum swooned.
“A dream man,” she gushed later. “If he proposes, you’ll say yes?”
“Mum! We’ve barely met!”
Yet by New Year’s, James proposed—diamond ring and all.
“Thank God,” her mum wept. “I can die happy.” Emily rolled her eyes.
They married in March—sunny, melting icicles, spring’s promise in the air. She’d insisted on simplicity. He obliged.
———
After, she moved into his world.
“Finally, someone to *talk* to,” Charlotte laughed. “The other wives only care about spas and shopping.” They lived close again—Charlotte heavily pregnant.
But James *controlled* her. His driver ferried her to uni, fetched her after. Once, when lectures ended early, she walked home. Sunshine, budding trees.
A classmate, Alex, caught up. They grabbed coffee. She missed this—easy chatter. Lately, her peers avoided her.
“What’s wrong?” Alex asked.
“I should go.”
“He monitors you?”
“No, just… time.” She stood.
James was waiting.
“Where were you?” Cold.
“Uni.”
“Liar. Lecture was cancelled. Why no call? Meeting a *lover*?”
“Alex is in my class! We just had coffee—”
His eyes turned to ice. “You’re my *wife*. I’ve got rivals, enemies waiting for missteps. You *risk* me.”
“How?”
“Are you *stupid*?” He lunged.
“Don’t—” She stepped back.
“You *disobey* me—” His grip bruised her wrist.
She didn’t see the hit—just ringing silence. Blood filled her mouth. His lips moved, soundless. His next blow dropped her.
———
She woke alone. The bedroom door locked. Her phone gone.
Morning: swollen face, split lip. James finally returned.
“Learnt your lesson?”
“I *hate* you! Let me out!” The wound reopened.
Another strike. Another lock.
By lunch, the cleaner arrived. Emily begged her. “Say I tricked you. Please.”
The woman gasped at her face. “He’ll *kill* me—”
“Wear this.” She handed Emily a mask.
Emily walked home in a daze, dodging stares.
Her mum screamed. “He seemed *perfect*! What if he comes here?”
“Don’t be daft.”
She called Alex. He documented her injuries, texted James: *Touch her again, and these go viral.*
James vanished.
———
Divorce came fast. Summer after graduation, she and Alex sat in a café. James passed by, arm around a new girl.
While he was in the loo, Emily approached her.
“Run. He beat me. He’ll hurt you too.”
“Who *are* you?”
“His ex-wife. Don’t tell him.” She fled.
Through the window, she saw him return. The girl shrugged. *She didn’t tell.*
“Why risk it?” Alex hissed outside.
“No one warned *me*,” Emily said. They moved away. He became a surgeon; she, a cardiologist. A son, Matthew, arrived. Her mum never meddled again.
Years later, in a salon, Emily flipped through a magazine: *Businessman James Whitmore Brutally Murders Wife.*
*Silly girl. Should’ve listened.*
Outside, Alex pushed a pram past the window.
She smiledAs the door chimed behind her, Emily watched the sunlight catch Matthew’s delighted giggles and knew—no gilded cage would ever hold her again.
